Damn you, Hooters. October 4, 2007

I don’t know if I’ve told you because, you know, I’m not very vocal about these things (snicker, snort) but I’ve been working a lot lately.
 
To be specific, I’ve worked 40 hours in the past three days.
 
Can I give a little shout out to Starbucks? Because Starbucks has held my hand the entire time, guiding me through on a wing and an espresso. Starbucks, I think I’ve officially forgiven you for that time I figured out that an iced lemon loaf slice has something like 1,500 calories (also, crack). You and I? We made it through. The end is in sight and I couldn’t have done it without you. Props, Starbucks. Props, indeed.
 
The only thing (other than, you know, a shitload of coffee) getting me through yesterday’s 12 hour workday, which came on the heels of a 16 hour workday, was the knowledge that I’d be going to Hooters. Yeah, yeah, wings, boobs, friends, whatever. In my mind, Hooters = grilled cheese sandwiches. And grilled cheese sandwiches = reason for living. (Seriously, hi, have you tried their grilled cheese sandwich? And have you ever thought of maybe dipping it in the hot sauce they keep on the tables? You can thank me later. Cash is preferred but baked goods will do.)
 
So a few of my old co-workers and I showed up at Hooters with huge smiles and huge appetites and huge “we’re hotter than any of the girls in here anyway, whatEVAH” attitudes.
 
Tangent: Have I told you my theory about New York City Hooters? I can’t recall, so I will just repeat it. Essentially, if you’re a beautiful, well-endowed (by nature or doctor, I don’t judge) woman in Manhattan looking to make a living off of your looks alone, you are a stripper at an elite club. Or an actress/model. Or at the very least, a waitress at a high class establishment. The beautiful cream rises to the top here, just like any other city, except the top far exceeds Hooters, leaving the Hooters waitresses in Manhattan to be relatively average looking(’relative’ being the operative word here.) However, in Smalltown, USA, Hooters may be the only place for beautiful women to make decent money off their good looks so the waitresses there are probably more beautiful than the ones in Hooters NYC. Omigod, does that theory even make sense? Don’t throw stones at me. It makes sense in my head, but my head is a very jumbled mess at the moment.
 
So what was I saying? Oh, right. Grilled cheese. So we rolled up to Hooters all “yay!” and then we walked in the door and WHADDYA KNOW. It was Calendar Girl Night. And there were exactly no women (other than said calendar girls) in sight. Also, it didn’t appear that they were serving very much food because WHO NEEDS FOOD WHEN THERE ARE CALENDAR GIRLS? Also, it was crowded. And we felt like shit about ourselves because the freaking calendar girls? They are freaking hot.
 
And what do women do when they feel like shit about themselves? Why, they eat pizza. And drink lots of wine. And maybe get a chocolate souffle with nutella and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
 
So even though there was no grilled cheese (*shakes fist at Hooters), it was the perfect way to cap off a hellish three days.
 
And then I got to crawl into bed with M and choose from a vast array of DVR deliciousness (Gossip Girl? Fashionista Diaries? ANTM? Top Chef? Biggest Loser?) I went with the Top Chef finale and I won’t spoil it here for anyone who hasn’t seen it but I was actually very pleased with the outcome.
 
Even if the episode didn’t feature my crush, Anthony Bourdain. Shut up, there’s something about him. Something I LURV.
 
Ok, I need some more coffee. And I probably need to stop writing (You: Um, yeah.)Also, I need Friday. Friday needs to get here immediately.

Update, courtesy of Julybug: Gawker was apparently at Hooter’s last night.
 

Doozy. I just like that word, doozy. Doozy. September 20, 2007

Oh crap, y’all. I am tired. Also, tired. Maybe even tired.

We’re only three days into this week but already it has been a doozy.

Do you want to know how crazed I am? I will tell you how crazed I am. In fact, I have the perfect example:

I worked a 14 hour day, a 14 hour day spent mostly on my feet, operating a camera and searching deep into my soul for reservoirs of sunshine and light because when you interview talent, you have to give them energy to feed off of and good lord did those fuckers suck me dry.

Needless to say I was exhausted when I got home. Exhausted and not even hungry for the pico de gallo I made yesterday or the cupcake I got at work and OMIGOD, A FIRST. Exhausted and and not hungry and DENIM-LESS, lest we all forget. In other words, a mess.

I collapsed on the couch to watch the premieres of America’s Next Top Model (shut up) and Gossip Girl (shutupshutupshutup).

About an hour later, M came home from the library. He opened the door and I heard him say my name very tentatively.

“I’m in here!” I called from the living room.

He entered, a bewildered look on his face, holding my keys. My keys, which I left in the front door.

Hi, I’m Clink and I live in New York City and I LEFT MY DAMN KEYS IN THE DAMN DOOR. (M thought that something happened to me when he saw my keys and he later pointed out five gray hairs that he believes sprouted at that exact moment.)

So, I’ve lost it. All for real and official-like.

And now it’s almost midnight and it’s time to read a few articles in the new Sports Illustrated and half-watch an episode of Family Guy that I have seen a zillion times and then pass out but I just wanted to say hi because sometimes I feel like my blog is my child and when I don’t post, it’s akin to it not have eaten all day and WHAT KIND OF MOTHER AM I, I WOULD STARVE MY OWN CHILD?

Being work busy is so not interesting, I know, and I apologize. Being wedding busy is so much better and I’m wedding busy too! I mean, we found a photographer. And she is all about the photojournalism which, HEART, because there is nothing more vomit-inducing for this future bride than a plethora of posed photos. So there’s that at least, the promise of candid, spontaneous pictures to capture a day I am paying a shitload of money for but probably will not remember much of.

It’s almost the weekend right? RIGHT? I seem to have forgotten what day it is but I can sense the weekend coming soon. Hallelujah, y’all.

Sunday: A photo essay September 16, 2007

I’m writing this on Sunday, because I won’t be in the office tomorrow, because I’ll be out doing something all important-like for my job and please take a moment to say a little prayer that I don’t royally fuck it up and expose myself for the fraud that I am. (Does anyone else feel like a fraud at their jobs? I keep waiting for them to expose me, because I can’t clearly be deserving of the money they are paying me and the title they have bestowed upon me…can I?)

No, they’re not from the Hooters next door because Hooters has many things but good wings is, sadly, not one of them. That Hooters has good wings is a tragic popular misconception:

 

 

 

“Oh, I’ll just have one.” One or, you know, seventy bajillion. Also: Coke Zero is the nectar of the gods, and that bowl came from Ikea, and I heart it with the heat of a thousand suns:

 

 

 

At least there were wings to bring me joy because the Giants certainly didn’t bring me any after getting crushed by the damn Packers:

 

 

Oh! And the living/dining area is starting to come together. You’ll notice that there are no more boxes in this picture, only M’s couches that I am learning to live with and M himself, reading the paper in his beloved lazyboy. Yukka plant Huey makes a cameo in the corner:

 

 

 

 

Yes, we still need a table. Yes, I am very picky. Yes, I arranged the chairs around a fake table. Yes, I am crazy.

 

 

 

I got the urge to bake. (Not shown: the other two trays.) The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies. My mouth is happy even if my thighs and my ass are all “fuck this bitch with her fucking cookies.”

 

 

 

 

Oh and my toe! Remember? From the other night? When the god damn toilet paper holder fell on it? It’s healing quite nicely:

Things I can’t imagine my life without. And other stuff. Because it’s Friday. September 14, 2007

Hi there Friday. Welcome. I’ve missed you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you all week.
 
We have no plans this weekend. I just checked my planner to make certain because I have a habit of sometimes thinking my schedule is free and clear and then, oops, um, shit, we have a wedding to attend. Five states away.
 
But no weddings this weekend. No anything, except for the Interpol concert tonight. Excuse me while I do a little dance at my desk because think of the possibilities: the cleaning, the gym going, the cooking an elaborate and healthy meal while wearing an apron and heels.
 
Or, um, the lounging around in my underwear until five in the afternoon while watching an America’s Next Top Model marathon. That too.
 
Last night, M and I went out for a kick ass dinner that cost about half of our rent but good lordy sometimes it’s nice to have perfectly cooked steak and expensive wine and your napkin folded for you the minute you get up from the table to go to the bathroom. I almost had a heart attack when the bill came (entrees started – STARTED – at $45), but M paid for the entire thing because he rocks. And also, I haven’t gotten paid at my new job yet.
 
Afterwards I watched Big Brother. Rather, I watched most of Big Brother on fast forward because I couldn’t bear to listen to the gloating and I won’t tell you whose gloating it was just in case you haven’t watched it but let’s just say that they suck. Especially her, with the whining and the waifness and the WHINING.
 
Somehow – through my anger and yes I get very angry at television and yes I should probably see someone about it – I remarked to M that the DVR is probably the one thing I would grab in a fire, for that is how much I love it so and we don’t have any pets so it’s not like I’d have to worry about saving a living thing’s life or anything.
 
I seriously cannot live without my DVR. I can’t imagine a world without DVR. I can’t imagine a world with commercials or being tied to a schedule. DVR has changed my life.
 
It got me thinking about just what else I can’t imagine life without and so – since it’s Friday and the creative part of my brain has a big Gone Fishin’ sign up – I’ve compiled a list. The list only includes material things because, um, it pretty much goes without saying that I can’t live without M or my family or my friends.
 
-Curling iron: I know, it sounds ridiculous, but my curling iron has changed my life. Okay, okay it’s changed my hair but if you’ve ever had a bad hair day you know just how much your hair can affect your life. My hair is not the kind of hair that dries perfectly straight or perfectly wavy or perfectly curly right out of the shower. It needs to be prompted in a direction and the direction I am most fond of is soft waves. The curling iron helps me achieve that look on a daily basis and if it weren’t so covered in product, I would kiss it.
 
-Fine point Sharpies: Yes, I have a favorite type of pen. And no, I will not write with anything else. My handwriting has always been good but there’s something about my handwriting via a Sharpie that makes me so very happy.
 
-MAC Refined Golden bronzer: I haven’t been to the beach this summer. Please reread that last sentence again if paralyzed by shock. My toes? They have not felt sand. Or the ocean. Or a melted popsicle I accidentally stepped in on the boardwalk. This makes me sad. It also makes me pale. So it’s – dun dun da da – Mac to the rescue, as usual. Just a touch of refined golden on my cheeks and the tip of my nose and my forehead and yes, my chin makes me look like a normal human being with a slightly faded tan as opposed to a pale hermit who hasn’t left her apartment in decades because the government!Is out to get me! I know it! I should put another bolt on the door.
 
-My navy blue hoodie: Putting it on is like getting a warm hug from an old friend. No matter how much my weight fluxuates, it always fits perfectly. No matter what I’m doing during the day on a weekend, it’s perfect to throw on. I heart it and will probably wear it until I’m 102 and it has so many holes that it looks like swiss cheese and M will think I’m insane but he probably thinks that anyway.
 
-Chef’s knife: I watch a lot of cooking/chef shows. I also recently read Anthony Bourdain’s book and he said that the only knife one really needs is a chef’s knife. And since I equate Anthony Bourdain fairly closely with God Himself, I do as I’m told lest I incur the wrath of the tall, skinny, silver-haired bad boy of chef-dom. I use the knife for everything – seriously everything. Even when a less sharp, less large knife will do. It also serves double-duty as a security blanket when M’s away. I can sleep with it on my nightstand and in the event of an intruder, it will jump to life and defend my honor and then dispose of the body. Because it is magic.
 
-Newsies: It’s a VHS, perhaps the only one that has survived multiple moves. That’s because I just can’t part with it. Whenever I’m feeling sad or sick or just slightly bored with everything on TV, I pop in Newsies because Newsies makes me happy and I know every word and when I was younger I even made believe that I was a newsie and my name was Kit and all the other newsies were in love with me. It broke my heart recently to read that Christian Bale was kind of embarrassed about the fact that he was a part of the movie. Christian Bale is now on My List.
 
See? It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Some beauty tools, a comfortable sweatshirt, something sharp and a musical about singing newsboys.
 
I’d love to know what you can’t imagine your life without. Please share. There’s no judging here (hello, I just admitted that I watch Newsies. A lot.)

Letters. August 23, 2007

Dear The Sun, 

Hi! It’s me! I miss you! Where have you been?  

What’s that? On the west coast?  

Ok, fine, whatever, yeah there are prettier people out there but you know what? They are sun whores. They get you all the time. All we’re asking is for a brief respite from this five-day, all cloudy, all the time, could-be-November-out-there bullshit.  

Did you by chance get us confused with London?  

Come back soon. LYLAS. 

Xo,  

Clink  

*** 

Dear Interns, 

You’re lazy. Not incompetent, but lazy. I just don’t understand the entitlement of your generation.  

Yes, we work in TV. Yes, we work for a pretty cool company. Yes, it’s fairly relaxed around here. Yes, I am not that much older than you. 

That, however, does not mean you can brush me off with a “yeah, one second” as you update your Facebook page when I ask you to help me out with something.  

And yeah, I took it to the big boss. And, yeah, I was thrilled when he called you in and told you that if I ask you to do something, you should act as if GOD HIMSELF asked you to do something. And, yeah, I’m only here for another week but I’m enjoying the fact that you no longer walk around like you are the princes and princesses of this place. 

I was an intern once too. And you know what? I worked my ass off. And I did it all with a smile. That’s why I am where I am right now. You should probably take note. 

-Clink 

*** 

Dear Family, 

Welcome back from Greece! I missed you. I am jealous of your tans. I am sorry that the sun has taken a brief hiatus from this area. I can’t wait to see you this weekend.

Love,

Clink

*** 

Dear Future Husband, 

You made last night so special: the reservations at our favorite place, the stop at Cold Stone afterwards, how you said that you are so proud of me and you get so happy when someone else (as in, my future boss) realizes how much I rock.  

I love you more than you could possibly imagine. Think of how much you think I love you and then multiply that by eleventy thousand million trillion and then you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark. 

Thinking about you still gives me butterflies. 

Yours, 

Clinky 

*** 

Dear Reality Television, 

You rock. For reals. Even when you break my heart, like you did last night, when Tre got kicked off of Top Chef and I kind of wanted to cry. Ok fine, maybe I did cry but Tre! So poised, so professional, so likable. He had one bad night and he gets sent packing but Howie, Mr. I Couldn’t Get My Frog Legs Plated In The First Episode, gets to stick around? 

But Fashionista Diaries, last night? So good. And The Hills, even if I’m starting to suspect that it is, indeed, fully scripted? So good. And Big Brother? SO GOOD.  

I’m starting to think we have a bit of a unhealthy relationship but I’m clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. Fall TV is right around the corner. 

Kisses,

Clink 

*** 

Dear Readers, 

I am so sorry for this crappy excuse for a post. I’m all out of ideas and who really wants to hear me squee about my job, or bitch about how my mom thinks my registry isn’t well-rounded enough, or complain about how I have no motivation to go to the gym? No one, that’s who.

Feel free to suggest post topics. Otherwise, there might be more of this (*nods upwards*) to come.  

Also, you look really skinny today, have you lost weight? 

Best, 

Your Clink

Research, I tell you. RESEARCH! August 10, 2007

If I weren’t in the industry, some might call my relationship with television an addiction. However, since I’m in the industry, I can get away with calling it research.  
 
Here’s what you should be watching, mostly because, hey, you’re missing out but also so that we can discuss. Since I cannot persuade anyone I know to season pass Big Brother 8, for instance, I will try to brainwash the Internets so as to have an army of like-minded TV watchers at my disposal. Muahahaha!
 
Big Brother 8: A confession: I’ve never watched a season of Big Brother before. Yet now, about midway through the current season, I find myself wondering if all seven previous seasons are available on DVD because holy god, this show is so much better than you think it is. No, really. You may think “it’s too late to start watching” or “I don’t know what’s going on” but that’s the beauty of Big Brother: it’s edited for idiots. There’s seriously a five minute long recap at the start of each episode, and there are three episodes a week, so really there’s no excuse for not being up to speed. And, yes, you read that right – there are THREE episodes a week. Summer programming at its finest. I usually save all of mine for Sunday afternoon so that I can watch them in quick succession and then contemplate what’s going to go down in the house for the next six days. I am way, way, way too attached to this show.
 
The Fashionista Diaries: At first I was all SoapNet? Really? And, true, it is a very unlikely place to find a docu-soap that would be right at home airing after The Hills. In fact, the Fashionista Diaries is pretty much Whitney and Lauren’s internship, made into a television show, with a few handfuls of bitchiness and cattiness thrown in. It’s seriously great, y’all. Join me, will you, in hating skank-ass Bridget and loving Jane intern Rachel (but what will happen when Jane folds? Stay tuned…) and wondering if Nicole is an actress because a closer real-life Ugly Betty you could not find (seriously! She’s even from Queens!)
 
Kimora Lee Simmons: Life in the Fab Lane: To be perfectly honest, I never really thought about Kimora Lee Simmons before this show. Like, at all. And if she knew that about me she’d probably storm into my office and slap me around a few times because HOW DARE I NOT THINK OF HER AT LEAST A FEW HOURS A DAY? This lady, she is high on herself. And it is a fucking blast to watch, especially when her assistants cower in fear because bitch is like six feet and SCARY. Also, is it bad that I kind of relate to her semi-eating disorder? The “I can’t eat!” and the “this salad sucks!” What I can’t relate to, however, is having an assistant re-order your salad without the lettuce because you are just picking around the lettuce anyway. Kimora is TV gold, I can’t believe no one gave her a reality show earlier.
 
Rock of Love: There are no words. If you’re not watching this, you are dead to me. (But seriously, you need to watch this show. I’m sure VH1 will air a marathon this weekend. You can thank me on Monday with chocolate, sent directly to the office.)
 
Top Chef: My hatred for Padma aside, this is one of the only shows that I watch live because I can’t wait a half an hour to watch the DVR-ed version without commercials. Even this season, when there really isn’t anyone to root for (though Uniball CJ is certainly endearing and I like Brian Malarkey, if only for his last name, though I still haven’t determined whether or not he’s gay.) If anything, you can watch it for the Padma-hating, like my roommate and I do. Her outfits alone are sheer entertainment.
 
My Boys: If this were any other season but summer, I probably wouldn’t give this show the time of day. It isn’t that funny and the characters aren’t really interesting and dude, it’s not really an authentic account of a female sportswriter. Take the most recent episode, for instance: she turned down a relationship with a new Cubs pitcher because of journalistic integrity. Please excuse me while I double over in laughter because hi, YEAH RIGHT. However, I still watch the show. There’s something about it that’s kind of endearing.
 
Confessions of a Matchmaker: People in Buffalo are kinda funny. So is this show. Patty, the matchmaker, is a bitch with a heart of gold. Though none of her matchmaking (at least, in the episodes to date) has worked out, it has provided tons of entertainment. I even got M hooked on this one, and he is a very reluctant TV-watcher, especially when it comes to my shitty reality TV.

Wherein I take television very seriously. May 18, 2007

This post is directed to all those who watch The Office and saw the finale last night. (To all others: seriously?! You don’t watch The Office?! I don’t know if we can be friends. No, not even Imaginary Internet friends.) 
 
For a very long time, I was pro-Pam. Because Pam and Jim were clearly meant for each other and even though Roy and a wedding and distance and an awkward kiss stood in the way, the unapologetic romantic in me still held high hopes for their reunion. 
 
Enter Karen. I didn’t like her from the start mostly because Karen is the name of M’s ex-girlfriend and no, I am not above grouping everyone who possesses a particular name into the “suck” category for that reason alone.  
 
She was exotic looking. She was funny. She wore cute clothes. How the hell was Pam - with her half-curly, half-straight hair and her dowdy wardrobe supposed to compare? I hated Karen for being a threat to all cute, fun girls everywhere.  
 
Except last night, as all things Pam-Jim-Karen-Love-Triangle came to a head, M said something that kind of tilted my universe (shut up; I get very invested in television) and made me see things from a new perspective: 
 
After (SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!) Jim drove back to the Scranton office and asked Pam on a date, M kind of shook his head (shut up; he gets very invested in television too) and said, “He’s leaving a great relationship with Karen for a maybe relationship with Pam. What sense does that make?” 
 
And in that moment, I realized I had identified with the wrong girl all along. I am Karen - the girl in a great relationship with a great guy. Karen wasn’t the threat, Pam was. Pam is the mystical “we’re just friends, no really” creature that lives in my head and stirs up The Crazy if I allow myself to obsess (which, hi, I don’t anymore. For serious).  
 
And, last night, that bitch won.  
 
The truth is, the writers made Karen very likable (despite her name; quite a feat). She and Jim did have a great relationship. They had chemistry and compatibility. I wanted to slap my forehead for being such an idiot and not rooting for them all along. 
 
Now I’m all, “Pam?! With the ill-fitting button down shirts and the grandma cardigans?! REALLY, JIM?!”  
 
(Again, a little too invested in television.) 
 
It just resonated with me, what M said and the subsequent realization that, yes, people do do that. They throw away great relationships because the “what if” is just so much more intriguing and exciting than the “lovely, but comfortable.” (I think it goes without saying that I grabbed M’s face between my hands and kissed him and very sweetly made him promise not to ever leave me for a maybe relationship. I let The Crazy have her way every so often, so long as it’s relatively harmless.) 
 
Moving on (because did I really just write an entire entry about a fictional love triangle and how it applies to my life?), there was a part in last night’s episode when Jim and Karen were doing the New York Trip Montage thing and Jim said “and then we ate at the Spotted Pig” and M and I looked at each other and burst out laughing because that’s exactly where we hung out with him (the real life version of him; just as adorable, ladies) last year. It was kind of cool. Ok, fine, maybe only to us.  Whatever. 
 
Also (unrelated! Sorry! I’m all over the place!), y’all, M is really testing the strength of my will not to cave into curiosity. Case in point: he was in the shower last night and I was at his desk, working on his computer and right there, as in, a few inches to my right was some sort of Diamond Certification SomethingOrOther. And part of me was all, “HOLY OMIGOD.” And then another (the evil, evil part) was all “if I snuck a peek…no one would know…except for me…and the Internets, of course…” Luckily I was able to tear myself away from the Sheet That May Or May Not Have Contained Important Information About What I Will Be Wearing On My Left Hand Hopefully Very Soon. I even surprised myself.  
 
And for that, I’m totally going to let myself have a burger and fries for lunch (I don’t expect you to understand my logic, just know that it makes sense in my head).

Taunting the Universe May 9, 2007

Last night, I took a spinning class for the first time. 
 
Subsequently, this morning, I could barely get out of bed. 
 
In addition to every other part of my body, my crotch is sore. I can deal with my quads being sore. Even my arms (though, really, I didn’t do much with my arms other than grip the handlebars for dear life for fear that my legs would give out and I would tumble onto the very intense girl on the next bike over—so really, arms, quit your griping). But my crotch? Really? Could this be any more painful? 
 
Also, could I be any more crude?  
 
Can anyone out there confirm that this is a typical after-effect of spinning? No? Really? It’s just me? I’m just a Spinning Failure and doomed to spend the rest of my existence slaving away on a treadmill?  
 
Moving on… 
 
Right. Yeah. Hi. Nothing to move on to. Unless you want a detailed description of all the times I cried during last night’s Work Out finale.  
 
Life has dealt me a pretty good hand lately, what with the sunshine-y weather and the new project I’m working on that has me oh so busy and the adorable wedges I got on sale yesterday and the cheap wine I drank with a friend in from out of town at Landmarc in the Time Warner Center Monday night. Yup, other than my aching crotch (and back, and ass, and hamstrings), all is right in the World O’Clink. 
 
(That’s right, Universe. I’m taunting you. I know you’re now going to dump so much shit on my life that it will take years to dig myself out. I know how you work. And I’m ready for it, so bring it.)  
 
I wish this could be longer (You: No really, Clink, it’s long enough seeing as you don’t actually SAY ANYTHING), but I have to hop into a meeting. Because I am busy. (Ha, I accidentally wrote “busty” and then laughed because, really, I’m busy AND busty.) I don’t like this being busy. I mean, I like it because it’s like “wow, six o’clock? Really? How did that happen? Also, woo hoo!” But it leaves me less time to do the things I really want my company to pay me to sit around and do: read your blog and shop online. 
 
Sigh.

Stuff. (Yeah, the “blog post title” part of my brain ain’t functioning today.) April 23, 2007

Weekend recaps are boring, especially when one’s weekend consisted mostly of shopping and lounging around in the sunshine along with millions of other sun-starved Manhattan residents. 
 
I will suggest, however, that you see Hot Fuzz. As an Anglophile, I tend to see all things British as amazingly quirky and endearing and better than anything we have on this side of the Atlantic (Crunchie bars, for example). However, this particular film will appeal to anyone–Anglophile or not–who enjoys cracking the hell up. Guaranteed, or I’ll refund the cost of your ticket. (No, no I won’t. But I’ll laugh at you for emailing me about refunding the cost of your ticket and then I’ll tell my friends about the one person who didn’t think Hot Fuzz was funny and we’ll snort condescendingly and comment about how you must not “get it” and how you should probably go see Norbit again.)  
 
I just noticed that it’s almost 4:30pm. (Or later, by the time I post this slash by the time you read this.) I’ve barely done any work today. My mind is all confused: beautiful weather + sunshine = being at the office? Does. Not. Compute. The thing is, I’ve spent a large chunk of the day (minus time spent buying sundresses online and that hour I was at Harry’s Burritos eating an avocado salad) reading a blog from start to finish. Sometimes, something catches your eye and you just dive right into the archives and when you emerge, hours later, you’ve experienced a range of emotions without even having left your desk. In this case, my emotions ran in a circle from shock to anger to frustration to heartache to sadness to shock to anger to frustration, etc etc etc.  
 
It’s not a happy read, but it sure is a riveting one: http://chew.typepad.com/jenute/  
 
I’m drawn to adoption-centric blogs, mainly because I think there is a chance that I will adopt in the future. There is a chance that I will be infertile and will have no choice. There is a chance that I will be perfectly capable of having healthy babies but will still want to give an orphaned child a loving home. I like to inundate myself with information about anything that I can vaguely sense will make an appearance in my future. A therapist would probably tell me it is all related to my Control Issues (see also: doesn’t like to fly because cannot control the plane). I like to call it “being prepared.” 
 
I don’t think a paragraph written by afternoon-slump me about the above blog could really do it justice but here is a quick summary: Jen, the author and an adoptive mother of one adorable girl, and her husband tried to adopt a second child from China. Their experience was disastrous, and that is putting it mildly. Don’t expect to be uplifted, but do expect to be shocked and angry and frustrated and heartbroken and sad and in awe of Jen’s bravery for telling her story, even though it will probably kill her chances for adopting another child from China. 
 
I don’t want to leave on such a down note so, uh, hey do you know that The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll finale (goooooooooo Chelsea!) is this week? Isn’t that like super-duper exciting? Don’t you think that Asia is kind of scary and that Melissa R. doesn’t really have a personality and that formerly-overweight-now-total-hottie Chelsea should win? Except isn’t winning, when we’re talking about a slot in the Pussycat Dolls line-up, really kind of like losing? Yeah, I thought so too.

Getaway. March 1, 2007

We’re going to wine country this weekend. No, not that wine country. Long Island wine country. Oh, you didn’t know it existed? (Confession: neither did I.)It’s a good friend’s birthday and since she loves a) wine and b) wine and c) her friends (a distant third, but still), she has coordinated a mini-getaway, which – seeing as it is March and people are feeling particularly itchy to get away, as if trying force spring’s hand – is more than welcome.M has booked us overnight at a quaint hotel. Normally I would insist on paying because my momma taught me never to rely on no man (and also, it’s my friend’s event, so I feel it should be on my dime). However, seeing as today can officially be considered the tail end of my third week at my new job and I still haven’t gotten paid, I am f-l-a-t broke. Not, of course, broke enough to curb my insanely expensive Starbucks addiction, of course. But broke enough to realize that the cost of “quaint” as opposed to “Howard Johnson’s” is far more than I can afford at the moment.

Tangent: Dear Major Huge Conglomerate Company That I Work For: Not cool. Just. NOT COOL. Love, The Employee That Actually Filled Out A “Tell Us!” Card In The Cafeteria Asking For The Chocolate Chip Cookies To Be A Bit Softer.

I’m looking forward to getting away. Mainly for the wine (4 vineyards! And a limo to take us to each one!), but also because a change of scene might do M and I some good. We seem to be falling into the trap that we always fall into when one or both of us is stressed: home, unhealthy dinner, crappy reality TV, going-through-the-motions sex, sleep.

He actually sat through an entire two hours of the America’s Next Top Model premiere (as a fellow casting producer, I tip my hat to the brave souls who courageously sift through thousands of applications and auditions to find casting gold like mail-order bride Natasha and mom with abs of steel Renee) and he didn’t complain once. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

It’s the book, of course. I know I’d be the same – in my own head, anxious, wanting anything, even my significant other’s worthless choice of television, to take my mind off it - if my first book was about to be released, especially if it was a tad controversial and could piss off some people in the industry who one may not exactly want to piss off.

So, even though he doesn’t drink and will be toting his own Diet Coke to each vineyard, wine country will be good for M. Less time to worry about that looming date in mid-March, more time trying to hold up a drunk girlfriend as she teeters around in high heeled boots.

The only negative is that while we’re out wine tasting, we’ll be missing my little brother’s championship basketball game. My father coaches the team and, as much as he loves law and loves politics even more, his heart is truly in shaping young lives through basketball. (And trying to get those young lives to play zone defense, damn it.) The team they’re up against is one of the best. They’ve beat them before, but only after 3 overtimes and about that many heart attacks for my mother, who gets a tad too involved. My father wrote me an email this morning and concluded with, regarding the game on Saturday, “In the words of Han Solo, ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’”

I don’t have a bad feeling, because I know the team and the coach and I know what they can do and I know that even though their point guard separated his shoulder in last night’s semi-final, they’ll pull through and I’ll receive a phone call while we’re at our 3rd or 4th vineyard and then I’ll have another glass of wine, in celebration of their victory. (Go (recreation league) Bulls!)