NEXT!

It's been almost a week since my last entry. Did you miss me? I just got home from a quick jaunt to Boston. It's the second time I've lugged a suitcase with two-weeks worth of business attire only to have the story fall through at the eleventh hour.

Never satisfied with just part of my life sucking, I've opted to take the drama up a notch by adding a few blind dates to the mix of boredom and pointless travel. For weeks, months, what am I saying? YEARS. For years my parents have been trying to get me married off. They act as if the weight of my dowry is killing them. In truth, having an old maid as a daughter reflects poorly on their matchmaking skills. And last night was more evidence why.

This guy is an IT architect. "What's that?" you ask. I don't fucking know even though I asked him twice. But every time he would start to talk about his job, my mind would go to a happy place I like to call, the mall. As he droned on about authoring software for business solutions, I recalled a cashmere cardigan I saw when I had just ducked into Anthropologie to apply mascara before my blind date. We had decided to meet on Newbury Street in Boston as that's where he lives and I wanted an excuse to flee Danvers for the night. I don't know if the trade-off was worth it.

He was a nice guy. Well-dressed, TALL,straight teeth although he could probably use a dose of brite smile. But, God love him, he was so boring. I was charming as usual and grateful that he insisted on picking up the tab because paying for a bad date only makes you feel worse about it. Tonight I met up with Yale. Yale was a foreseeable mistake. Upon seeing his picture, my roommate declared that he was a serial killer. But I was pulled in by his British accent. He told me before he met that he looked just like Allan Cummings and I should do an image search if I wanted to see more pics of him. Cummings is gay. I suspect this guy is, too. It wasn't just the way he gesticulated but his long-winded explanation about the dietary restrictions imposed by his recently acquired acid reflux that really sealed the deal. As in NO DEAL. Then he insisted on walking me home. I relented and he asked if there was a gym in my building. I proudly answered in the affirmative and he informed me that this was good because he needed to pee. Shit. "It's closed," I said. He did something strange that resembled a bad dance move and told me he would hold it until he got home. I was nice and suggested he use my bathroom.

Thank God my roommate was home although I could see she was having difficulty maintaining her composure upon seeing Yale. He, like his predecessors, had lied about his height and I was taller than him in my 3" heels. He introduced himself and quickly disappeared into my bathroom. TEN MINUTES LATER, he emerges red-faced. "Umm, your toilet is backed up. I had a Seinfeld moment in there," he confessed.

Poor chap. I called building maintenance but an hour later they're still en route. As is my date, no doubt headed back to Queens still in search of his own Queen.

Lipstick Lesbians and Other RANDOM thoughts

I wrote the most entertaining post but a gremlin or poltergeist attacked my computer in midstream. Seriously, the screen started flashing and there was all this frenetic activity as the blogger page danced all over the screen while my laptop groaned in agony. Very scary. So I opted to stop writing about the incompetent jackasses who suggested I use a garbage bag after my Duane Reade shopping spree as they had run out of shopping bags. It was a VERY funny story...now. Then, it was incendiary. Now, amusing. Moving on...

Yesterday was one of the top 40 most boring days of my life. I choose 40 because I know there have been many and it was up there but not worthy of top ten. Top 10 would probably include visiting distant relatives in the homeland with no access to TV, AC or any other acronyms describing modern amenities. But I digress. The purpose of this post is to immortalize HPG yet again. In an email exchange, I lamented my bad luck with men and he had the surprising insight that I was in fact the rejector. It was refreshing for him to actually volunteer information that portrayed me in a more positive light as opposed to a more pathetic one. I was touched. But he also told me something that in a screenplay would be called "foreshadowing."

As I lay paralyzed by boredom on my bed where my laptop was tethered to the fucking modem because Time Warner's techs- all three of the geniuses who had held me hostage on three separate days as I waited for their "expertise"- had still failed to establish a wireless connection in my apartment which is on the 10th floor. Hello? We're not searching for a signal in a cave. Anyhoo, I was feeling very unproductive and complained to anyone who was online. HPG suggested I blog about it. I said that, too, was boring for both me and the reader. Then he said I should write not about my boredom but lesbians. I dismissed him.

Fast forward to my spin class later that evening. I finally found a spin studio (indoor cycling) in Manhattan. Surprisingly, there were NONE until this one opened in my neighborhood. The studio makes you wear these shoes designed specifically for the stationary bikes that lock you into the pedal. Then they light some candles, turn off the lights and start this whole visualization technique that results in an intense cardio workout. The only reason I participate is because you burn more calories in 45 minutes than any other form of exercise... that I know of. So I'm minding my own business, sort of, and the instructor has us do push-ups while we're in a downhill slope. And I'm looking at her thinking, "She's a lesbian. Definitely gay. Nice arms. I want arms like that." Harmless thoughts. Then out of nowhere it occurs to me that if I were to be with a woman, I would choose this spin instructor. Two reasons. One- she's not a lipstick lesbian and not a dyke either. She's self-assured and even keel. Then, I'm alarmed at even considering such random, disassociated thoughts and start cursing HPG for poisoning my mind. As I attempt to clear my head, she says, "Be careful what you think in here because you never know who's listening." Cue twilight zone music. Right now, I'm thinking, I've shared too much. Yeah, definitely TMI. But I'm not changing teams. I'll convert to Catholicism and get thee to a nunnery before that happens.

Out of Line!

Good. God. I'm home for one last night before I head back to New York. Bored out of my mind. My roommate said boredom is evil in disguise. Clearly. I have literally checked my online dating profile no less than ten times today and been dismayed at every suitor who has had the courage to contact me. Somebody kill me.

To make matters worse, my pathetic existence has been tortured further with the most unseemly of discoveries. Before I explain, allow me this one disclaimer: I'm nosy. It's why I'm a reporter. If anything catches my eye or piques my interest, I'm in like Flynn, reading, opening, scavenging, you get the picture. And speaking of picture, let's talk about the ones I just found due to my curiosity.

I saw a folder on the desktop of the computer in our family's study. And my little brother, who is 22 and has unrealistic aspirations to be the next Jay Z had been visiting just last week. Now the file is labeled "pr." I see it and think, "What are they doing that's PR-related?" So I open it. Lord have mercy if it wasn't nude pictures of skanky ho's my brother found on the internet. Fine. He's young and eww.. But why, WHY does he think it's kosher to save them onto our family's computer?! The one my poor mother uses everyday to check email, forward me online profiles and play solitaire.

I was so disturbed, I stormed into my parent's room while they were watching a man from India offer 2007 horoscopes in a really thick accent. ("Follow your family tradition. Don't go wild way.")
ME: What is wrong with your son?!
Mom: Shhh, your horoscope is next.
TV: "Be miserly when it come to home decoration.."
ME: I just found porn on the desktop
Mom: Who's desk?
ME: The COMPUTER!!
Mom: Delete it.
Dad: He's sick.
ME: I did delete it but why does he think it's OK to save it in a file?
Mom: You're so nosy, if you hadn't gone snooping into files that weren't you--
ME: Oh my God. You're blaming me? I can't even talk to you right now. The file was marked "PR", hello? Freelance media consultant.
Mom: He didn't think anyone would see it.

Are you seeing this? Is it obvious that my mother has more issues when it comes to denial than Bush? And speaking of bush, don't need to know what my baby brother is into these days. Gross. I need a shower. (Btw, the picture posted here is the tamest one of them all.)

Sleep Deprivation Breeds Stupidity

I still can't sleep. Except in the morning. Then I sleep like the dead. In the absence of any external prodding, I could sleep all day if I'm dreaming. My dreams are fascinating. Imagine Tom Clancy meets Sidney Sheldon with an all-star cast in a Hollywood Blockbuster. The plot is always engrossing minus one blatantly obvious absurdity that throws any desire to pen a screenplay out the window. This morning it was something about the paparazzi chasing a family in the mountains. They were so focused on the target ahead they didn't bother to see the spaceship hovering above. Morons! I think the mountains were a byproduct of just having seen Brokeback Mountain on HBO, and the paparazzi? Either my trip to LA or the back to back episodes of Dirt I watched the other night. In any case, I was riveted until I realized that the fleeing family had absolutely no claim to fame and the whole crescendo was me helping the dad buy back to school clothes at Goodwill. That last part may have been because I watched an old episode of The Simple Life when Paris and Nicole go to Goodwill to buy a mattress for some kid who slept on the floor. Paris should have just given him the one on her back. OH! SNAP!

Clearly, the sleep deprivation is taking its toll. Today was my mom's birthday. I gave her a Gucci bag. She always gives me grief on "wasting my money" on obscenely "overpriced" bags but it was interesting to see her change her tune. I heard her brag to my cousin that "It has a certificate and everything" in reference to the inventory control card. Then my older brother had to one up me by giving her a Rolex. My brother is rich. We lead very separate lives. One example may be the fact that his idea of traveling with friends is going abroad with Presidential hopeful John Edwards while mine is going to the outlet mall in Woodsbury. Or his idea of a bargain: "I bought a plane."
ME: WHAT?! Why? Was it on sale??
His answer, "Yes, it was a good deal."

He's a year older than me and has his own law firm. But here's where the scales tip in my favor: his wife is a bitch. She is the laziest, nastiest, most pretentious, cold-hearted, I could go on but it just makes me look bad. Anyway, I think I've made my point. Unfortunately I have to suffer through her company in order to see my adorable nephews. But her presence is taxing as proven by my inability to employ a filter when having a conversation with my 4-year-old nephew.

Nephew: Want to watch Bambi?
ME: Have you seen it?
Nephew: Yes, have you?
ME: Yeah. So you know what happens...
Nephew: To Bambi?
ME: No, his mom.
Nephew: She gets stuck in a trap.
ME: No, she DIES.
I know. I'm not always the sharpest tool in the shed. In my defense, I'll say he's so smart, I forget he's four. Here's the part that really makes me a bad aunt. At first I thought maybe someone had shielded him from that part of the movie but as it turns out, he hasn't seen the original. He was referring to the sequel. There's a fucking sequel?! Apparently, Bambi reunites with his dad and it's a forest version of The Pursuit of Happyness. His little brows furrowed while he pondered the plot twist I had just introduced but I think I salvaged the damage by adding, "Oh, I was talking about a different Bambi. Sorry, I don't know what I'm talking about." He seemed to accept that explanation with certainty which doesn't really say a lot about his opinion of me.

Sleep Is Playing Hard To Get

It's bad enough the parade of vertically-challenged, emotionally-stunted men in my life suddenly become elusive when I express an interest in a relationship but now my best friend, SLEEP, is playing hard to get!

Last night should have been an exception because my flight from New York to Houston was really delayed and I was all riled up about the inconsiderate asshole sitting next to me. May I? One flight had been canceled, another oversold and consequently, my flight was packed with pissed-off business travelers. When they called for the Elite and First Class passengers, everyone bum rushed the line. "Suddenly, I don't feel elite anymore," one guy remarked when it was evident that 75 percent of the flight consisted of frequent fliers. Needless to say, I wasn't getting a first class upgrade.

Mercifully, I had a window seat in an exit row. So this guy gets on and he's probably in his mid to late twenties, average build. He plops down and as he's getting situated, he elbows me pretty hard but not hard enough for me to say ouch. However, the absence of an apology makes me stare at him incredulously. He rolls his eyes in an exasperated manner as if my presence is to blame for the collision. Then he commandeers the whole row. You may wonder how. I'll tell you. It's clear that he feels constricted in the middle seat so I give him the armrest even though it's mine. He's still unsatisfied. He takes his big fat cumbersome overcoat and drapes it over himself as a fucking BLANKET. But the sleeves, the big, wool (maybe cashmere) sleeve is on yours truly. Then he leans back pressing his left arm against me, pinning my shoulder. Hi, remember me? I'm halfway buried underneath his self-absorbed comfort zone. I wiggle out, turn to him and say, "Do you mind?"
"There's not a lot of space!" he huffs.
"Look, I gave you my armrest. All I ask is you respect my space," I suggest. He takes his sleeve off of me and five minutes later, readjusts his coat and we're back to square one. I lean forward and glare at him. "Do you have a problem?" he asks. I'm so annoyed, I'm having trouble formulating words much less conveying them.
"I mean, if you have a problem, you could politely ask me to move," he says.
Here she blows.
"I know the person who slammed into me and didn't apologize is NOT giving me a lesson in manners!" I yelled. He looks at me warily. This is before the fucking plane even took off. I felt like I was on a long road trip with my older brother who used to play that stupid, my side, your side game. The whole four hour flight, he kept leaning on me. Not because he was fat. Because he was selfish. Jackass.

So once I finally got in, I was tired but too wired to sleep. I ended up watching this infomercial about a new workout gimmick called Fluidity. It's a collapsible ballet bar that is supposed to give you a "dancer's body." I was intrigued. The ballerinas who used it swore by it. Never mind that they were getting paid, the proof is in the pudding or in this case the hot bodies. It was only $40 and I was seriously thinking about picking up the phone until I was reminded about cheat containers dot com. My housekeeper had stacked them for me and I boasted to my roommate that it was the concept not the craftsmanship I had purchased. She went to my closet and pulled out a box at the bottom of the stack. "See? It slides in and out," I beamed on the phone during my delayed flight as she inspected the sucker-magnet. But she just laughed her stupid, self-righteous laugh and told me the whole stack had collapsed.

Now that I've finally reached a point where I can update you on why I'm still awake a second night in a row, I'm suddenly too tired. I'm thinking you probably are, too. Go to sleep, my sweet, there's always tomorrow to read about my meaningless trials and tribulations.

Buyer Beware

Today I got the shoe boxes from neatcontainers.com. Before I tell you what I found, let me explain their significance. These clear, plastic shoe boxes were a manifestation of my New Year's Resolution. I thought by organizing my closet, I would be able to enjoy my life in an unprecedented way. Surely, the panic that ensued when I was trying to find those cute Miu Miu sling backs to wear with my black pull-over would be a thing of the past. By banishing chaos, I was embracing the new feng shui that would lead to a more peaceful existence, at least in my bedroom.

As usual, my grandiose plans for personal happiness were thwarted by reality. My roommate put the tall rectangular box next to my door and asked with a puzzled look, "What the hell is that?"
"Something that will change my life," I gushed. She rolled her eyes at me clearly unconvinced that in this cardboard box was the key to my happiness. I'm leaving for Houston tomorrow so I thought I would surprise our housekeeper by organizing my shoes. I anxiously opened the box and instantly knew I had been had. These so-called shoe boxes are in fact the equivalent of take-out containers. I shit you not. They are clear and fold closed like the Styrofoam boxes you get at some restaurants. Only they're in the shape of a shoebox. On the website they're billed as "stackable containers." My roommate laughed so hard at me, she cried. I want to shed some tears, too. Not because it's funny. Because I'm a sucker who just spent $60 on empty take-out boxes.

Mistaken Identity

You'd think someone who bragged about star sightings would know who the hell they were stalking. Think again! After sending some of my LA pics to my friends, one of them alerted me to the fact that my Peter Krause (below) sighting was a fraudulent one. It was actually some guy name Geoff Stults (above) of Seventh Heaven. I never watched that show but with his beard it was a relatively easy error. No one else who claimed to be a fan of his and saw the pics in my camera corrected me either. Nonetheless, it's embarrassing.

So the chiropractor came in from Chicago this weekend. He flew in Saturday and out on Sunday. I did something I never do. I went to the airport upon his arrival and with him for his departure. The first trip was because I couldn't wait the one hour it would have taken him to arrive at his hotel. The second because he was in town so briefly and I wanted to maximize our time together. I wasn't pleasantly surprised when I met him. It was more of a "Is that you?" kind of thing. And it was awkward. Here, we had forged this bond over the past few weeks, going as far as naming our unborn children and now I was face to face with the man I had prematurely described as "The One!" I mean talk about build-up. One astute observer had reminded me that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions in the hopes of a different outcome. I mean really. If that doesn't describe me to a T, I don't know what does.

So we had a nice time. He is really funny. I know I said that about Boston but this guy really is funny. I'd give some examples but every time I do, there's that awkward pause or fake laugh that signals a "guess you had to be there" response. But I didn't hear from him all day as I did prior to the big reveal. So I was feeling anxious. But rather than going on a texting spree or anything else self-destructive, I did something against my usual instincts. I exercised restraint.

I met up with my friend Dave who is my "scary movie buddy." Dave is a drummer by night, works in corporate America by day and quite charming. A couple of years ago we decided to enter a relationship that consists only of reunions centered around the latest horror flick. This is usually accompanied by dinner. Almost all of our selections have been underwhelming. "Saw" left us scratching our heads, "Lady in the Water" was just annoying and tonight's selection, "Pan's Labyrinth" wasn't even part of the correct genre. But it was a good one.

Afterwards, we ducked into a French restaurant in the East Village. I filled Dave in on the latest in the man department and after listening to the saga of Boston and now the angst rising up with Chicago, he asked, "Are you panicking?" This is usually where I get defensive but with Dave I didn't feel judged. "I'm going to be 35 this year," I said. He said I was a walking contradiction in terms of being professionally grounded and stable but a spastic idiot as a singleton. I had berated Larry when things fell apart with Boston because he told me to stop "looking so hard for a man." I just didn't feel like I was "looking." I mean I didn't troll bars or the internet (well, not like before) and was coming out of a two month dating drought when I happened to meet Boston. But with Dave looking at me earnestly and making an objective assessment of the sense of desperation that had so clearly snuck into my consciousness, I was suddenly aware. I keep saying that letting Mo go is an example of my refusal to settle. If I was really so desperate to get married and have the whole kit and caboodle, would I have walked away from a dentist poised to propose? Yes because scrambling for sanctity of marriage doesn't absolve me from the sins of scintilla, as in recognizing the minute particles, aka "quirks", that make up a person's, well persona. Just because I didn't want mediocrity then doesn't mean I'm not willing to capitulate when presented with a less offensive, tho equally questionable prospect now.

And it's not that there's anything about Chicago that's a deal-breaker. He's witty and smart and I'm attracted to him but I can't seem to get out of fifth gear. The advice Dave offered was twofold. "Chill out" which is in order. And "if you start getting all crazy, get out because that means something's off." OK, that something is most likely me. My roommate concurred and when Chicago finally called tonight and I missed his call, she encouraged me not to play games. But I was irritated that he went from calling me on his way to work in the morning to not calling all day then leaving me a perfunctory message, "I guess I'll talk to you later." What the fuck? I was also feeling a bit sick to my stomach because the perception that a guy is pulling away usually sends me into a neurotic tailspin as evidenced by the recent mayhem that ensued with Boston. I was fighting the urge to be me, to call and lay my cards prematurely on the table with inappropriate comments like, "So are you in or out?" My mom suggested perhaps I not begin my future conversations with disclaimers such as, "This is where I board the crazy train." How about I not get on this time?! Let's see what happens when the Love Pariah actually takes a more traditionally feminine role, i.e., not chasing the male prospect like a hunter his prey. Perhaps allowing the suitor a chance to wear the pants? Hrrmph! OK, I'll try.

Going Ga Ga in La La Land

Taming my demons is a tall order but I think I deserve a pat on the back. On Saturday night, I went to the "it" club in Los Angeles, stood in the midst of countless B-list celebrities and managed to keep my cool. My date was my friend Ursula whose parents prophetically named her after the first Bond girl(Ursula Andress). In other words, she's gorgeous. While other lesser mortals clamor for access to clubs, Ursula gets emails inviting her to grace them with her presence. Needless to say, it can be a humbling experience accompanying her on such outings.

Saturday was once such night and we arrived in Hollywood for the Stuff Magazine party. There was a red carpet and lots of stalkarazzi. We didn't pause in front of the backdrop for pictures (as if..) but were led through the velvet rope while skanky ho's and starlets wondered who the hell we were. Once inside, we downed a couple of shots and started checking the place out. We were intercepted by a guido and would have kept walking were it not for his offer to partake in the bottle service he and his equally greasy friends had purchased in order to get in. (They must have done this fairly early because a group of guys ahead of us in the VIP line were denied after making a similar proposal to the bouncer.)Instantly, he started chatting up my Bond girl as I made myself comfortable on the couch. The big, ugly, hairy one parked himself beside me and so began the assault on my vanity. "You're friend is hot," he observed. Yes, I agreed, she's a pretty girl. "Do you get that a lot?" he asked. At this point, I had seen countless heads turn in her direction as we made our way through the club but was still hopeful that Vinny Barbarino was referring to my looks. "Do I get what a lot?" I unwittingly prompted.
"That your friends are hot," he said ogling. Suddenly, my head was pounding. Was it possible that this exercise in humility had given me an instant migraine? When I shared the contents of our conversation with Ursula, she took me by the arm, told Guido #1 that his friend lacked class and led me to the other side of the establishment.

Here, we were enjoying each other's company when I made the first of my star sightings. Ian Ziering of 90210 fame. Nonplussed, I pointed him out and Ursula nodded, carefully surveying the scene. Then I saw Jon Kelly, the weekend co-host of "Extra!" I felt comfortable approaching him because as a journalist (and I use that term loosely), he was a colleague. I introduced myself and he claimed that I looked familiar. I was doubtful but he was nice. Also, before he sold out to Extra he was a bona fide reporter in Chicago and other respectable local news markets. We quickly established a friend in common and then I introduced him to Ursula and he introduced us to his friend. This friend subsequently informed me that he was an "actor in the adult entertainment industry." Unfazed, I replied, "I thought you looked familiar." He laughed and made a point of telling Jon that I frequented the back of the video store. Just then, I looked behind my girlfriend and saw a swarm, a SWARM of random celebrities. As Ursula would later describe it, I temporarily lost the ability to form coherent sentences which she found more annoying than amusing.

But here is where you can be slightly impressed. Remember my previous accounts of obsequious behavior in the presence of celebrity? No evidence of that here! First I saw Brody Jenner (The Princes of Malibu). We made eye contact and I panicked but quietly reported the sighting. Then Stacy Keibler (Dancing With the Stars) who seemed really sweet but not enough to become my BFF for the evening. Then, Peter Krause (Six Feet Under)and the star who was two feet in front of me, Gina Gershon. Seeing her really got to me because I'm a huge Lenny Kravitz fan and they're really good friends. She was even in one of his videos so I was just thinking, OMG, one degree of separation. That's when my eyes grew wide causing Urs to ask, "What? Who?!" without turning around. "It's, umm, that girl..," I couldn't remember her name. "She's famous," I concluded soliciting an agitated huff and eye roll from Urs. But, I kept it together. Eventually, I consumed enough alcohol to warrant asking a really, really hot soap star to take a picture of me and my new found friends. I told Peter Krause that I was ridiculous but he should oblige anyway by posing with us. He laughed and I reminded him that it was rude to laugh at someone to their face. He agreed and then kept laughing. Then he came over and posed with us for a picture. Ahh, good times.

Currently, I'm in beautiful Dana Point, California. Today it was 88 degrees here while New Yorkers dealt with a pseudo gas leak. The news that threw the cable networks into a flurry of speculation about the root of the stench had most New Yorkers completely... oblivious. Even the live reporters had to concede that the majority of passers-by were "taking it in a stride." Umm, is it any surprise that people who are accustomed to being serenaded by heroin-addicted homeless people on the subway daily remained unaffected by a suspicious smell?

Define "Success"

Today I was invited to speak on a panel about freelancing as a television reporter. It wasn't the first time I was asked to pontificate about my chosen profession in that capacity but it was the first time anyone paid me for it. It's one thing to give up your time, possibly even pass up an assignment, to speak to budding journalists but to be financially compensated for it adds a lot of pressure. Even though I'm often accused of being self-absorbed (hello, I have a blog about myself), it felt so self-aggrandizing to talk about being a "successful freelancer." The dean of the graduate school of journalism where I spoke told me afterwards that the students were "riveted" but I think they were actually staring at my fabulous new Gucci bag sitting next to me.

I felt like a big fraud next to the print journalists who were on the panel. All of them were published authors who wrote for The New Yorker, Vanity Fair and Vogue to name a few. But for some reason they kept deferring questions to me with, "How does it work in the broadcast world?" or "How did you pitch that story to CNN?" Don't get me wrong, I was totally flattered but it was a bit disconcerting to have a Pulitzer-caliber journalist listen earnestly to my musings about broadcast news. At one point a fellow panelist had the following observation, "It's a lot easier to get freelance work after you get your first book published." Everyone nodded in agreement. Everyone except me. I just stared in awe. And if that wasn't strange enough, I was asked if I would be interested in becoming an adjunct professor. Can you imagine me teaching a class? Actually, I can imagine that. I'd have to wear my librarian glasses so that I could appear more intellectual (read: serious journalist).

So things with the Chiropractor are moving along smoothly. Yesterday I didn't hear from him all day and I started to board the crazy train but then he IM'ed me and told me he was on his death bed. We had a short conversation during which I became preoccupied by a story on AC360 about the fallout from Saddam's botched execution. I said as much and he asked me if I thought the U.S. strategy was to "divide and conquer Iraq." This comment didn't set well with me because I thought it was ignorant and reminded me of stupid things Mo used to say. He once told me that the reasons Hindus are cremated is because the earth won't accept them. When I asked his dumb ass where he had picked up that gold nugget of wisdom he conceded that a fundamentalist Muslim told him that.

So when the chiro made the remark, it was like deja vu all over again. "They have no strategy in Iraq. That's the problem," I bristled. He made a joke but I wasn't letting it go. I reminded him that the sectarian violence was responsible for more American troops dying than the initial invasion and asked him how anyone could think that creating a civil war was a neat exit strategy. He tried to defend his premise with the European news reports he had heard but I wasn't buying it. Finally he wrote this:
"Listen..you have to be able to settle with the fact that we both do not have adequate data to make a complete argument...I am just stating what I heard on Canadian and European news..now..If I thought you would want the data I would have taken notes..."
At this point, I felt sorry for him and decided that he wasn't an ignorant dumb ass so I finally gave him a break.

I leave for the left coast on Friday. I haven't even arrived in Southern California and I'm already worried about how fat I'm going to feel around all those plastic people. I find the east coast and its clad-in-black, bohemian chic, or "I commute from Jersey/Long Island/Connecticut and don't-give-a-shit" fashion renegades so much more palatable.

Sluggish Start

Could I be more bored? Yes, I suppose I could. I could be fighting to stay awake in science class but this is almost as excruciating. I haven't worked in about a week. Such is the life of a freelancer with standards. Too bad my personal life can't mirror my professional one.

Today I'm at the broadcast PR firm. I have been sitting on my arse all day. I haven't written a single word for them. So what have I been doing? Looking for a crackberry, glancing at the copy of The Times sitting on my desk and thinking I should probably pick it up and get the latest on Darfur. I did one useful thing. I purchased these clear shoe boxes from a website called neatcontainers.com. Not the most creative name to market their product but at least I'll be able to see all the Prada and Gucci shoes that are still too painful to wear. Why is it that the more you pay for heels, the more they resemble medeival torture devices? Ooh, I should totally go online and buy that book about how to wear high heels... what's it called? "How to Walk in High Heels" me thinks. Must read that.

I had brunch with Thermos last week and his college roommate joined us. The guy's a big shot plastic surgeon. So I may be getting a few things nipped and tucked. I'm going to need you to calm down over there. It's safe, relatively speaking, and there are fat deposits some of us are genetically predisposed to having despite how much we work out. Granted, I could try working out but we live in an age of instant gratification exacerbated by text messaging and video on demand. I'm not sure I have the inclination to sit through hours upon hours of yoga to connect with my chakra's or whatever the hell they're called.

Plus, yoga stresses me out. I went to Bikram's yoga in San Francisco when I lived there. That's where they turn up the heat and you sweat your ass off during poses. I actually liked it but the instructor was Hitler's bastard stepchild. First of all, I hate it when white people try to speak Sanskrit. Please don't say "shaanti," an English translation will suffice. So he was doing that and then when he was trying to get us to relax and focus, he kept saying, "No itchy, no scratchy...no itchy, no scratchy." This was making me giggle and after a while, the power of suggestion resulted in some itching and the desire to "scratchy." But the final straw was when he tried to help me adjust a pose with his sweaty TOE! I hate feet to begin with but to have a virtual stranger extend his toe on my ankle was really too much. I thought my boyfriend was going to collapse in his downward dog pose when he saw the experession of sheer disgust on my face. Needless to say, that was my last yoga class.

I've been talking to the chiropractor. He's actually considering flying out to L.A. from Chicago next week while I'm there. Ironically, Boston will be there, too, but that ship has sailed. This guy is 5'10" and ready to settle down like yesterday. I'm trying to learn from my recent mistakes. Most importantly, to stay grounded and act sane. Note, I said "act sane." We all know the Love Pariah didn't change overnight. My boss has a script for me to write. Yippee- life has meaning.