Sticky Fingers

I started relatively small. Just a little here and there. But then it got to be all the time. I've slowed down in the past year, but the temptation is always there.

I steal pint glasses from bars. I can't help it. It's a compulsion.

It started at a bar in Bingo-town. We would sit at the bar, and the glasses were just there. Right at my level. I didn't even have to reach over, just had to wait until the bartender turned his back. So it was a shot glass here, a brandy snifter there. It was better in the winter, when we all had our big coats on. Deep pockets are perfect for a pint glass or two.

Pint glasses are fun. They're like souvenirs, or a five-finger gift with purchase. I had a great Genesee one that I got from some total dive bar in Bingo. Bill and Chris had to carry the contents of my purse so I could fit the one from the Red Chair in my little black bag. I couldn't drink my Smithwick's fast enough to get the cobalt blue Labatt's glass in my work bag. And I pulled my over the bar reach to snag a PBR one from Moe's & Joe's. While I was on a date. (It wasn't going that well anyway. Burn the bad date bridge, right Nancy!)

But bars are getting wise to me. They're using plain glasses. What fun is that? Don't get me wrong, I'm not hanging up my my sticky fingers just yet. That shelf in my cupboard still has some space to fill. Sorry Jamar, but I just can't help myself.

Save the Ta-Tas!

My doctor in Atlanta told me to do it twice. And I put it off. Then my new doctor here in Florida told me to do it, and printing out a prescription for it.

Fine. I'll do it. So I made the appointment for my very first mammogram. What a drag it is getting old. Yay!

I went on Wednesday. Everyone was very nice. They give you special stickers. I felt like a dancer at the Cheetah! It was over quick. I am not going to say it wasn't uncomfortable. And I never knew one could maneuver boobies in such a fashion. But it was done, and it went well.

So well if fact that they want me to come back again for another one. They just can't get enough of my boobs. Well, just the left one. There is apparently a asymmetric density in there that they want a better look at. So I get to have an ultrasound, too. Good times.

It's going to be OK. But please, if you get a chance, send out a positive thought for me. I'd hate for anything to happen to my left boob. It's one of my favorites.

Since 1920! Sisters unite!!

I just watched Hillary Clinton give a fabulous speech, urging Democrats and Americans to vote for change, vote for what's right and vote for Barack Obama. She's the first female candidate for president that almost made it. I find that sad, since it's 2008. But we've come a long way, baby.

88 years today in fact!

Night of the Iguana

Or, really, the minute of the lizard.

I live in the land of lizards. They are all over. They are the unseen rustling in the bushes as you walk down the sidewalk. Or they just sit there, almost daring you to step on them before scuttling off. Some are so little, you don't even notice them until they rush away from your oncoming feet. Some are so big, I think they are more closely related to alligators than they are.

But they don't bother me. They scuttle away, or sit there on the sidewalk, watching me pull into a parking spot. The only thing that scares me about them is that one of them will somehow get into the apartment, and I'll have to clean up the remnants of the food chain.

I was leaving my complex on the way to work one recent morning. I was actually dropping off the car at the shop, and getting a ride from there with a coworker. I was right on time. And then, waiting at the stop sign behind a couple other cars, waiting to pull out on to the main drag, I saw it. Right in the middle of my hood was a lizard, staring back at me. He looked puzzled as to why the "ground" beneath him was moving.

I think I might have yelped. It was almost my turn to pull out onto the road where I would go at speeds up to 60 miles an hour (OK, fine. 70). I couldn't, with a clean conscious, let that lizard go flying off my hood, probably into the windshield of the car behind me. We locked eyes. I knew what I had to do.

I rolled out on to Northlake, much slower than I usually do, and eased over to the right lane, so I could pull into the first U-turn area of the median. That 200 feet was probably the longest of that lizard's life. He flattened himself on the hood as I accelerated to 30. Finally, I could pull over.

I jumped out of my car with an old parking lot ticket in my hand. I reached out to scoot the lizard toward the ground and safety. He jumped to the headlight. I scooted him with the card again.

AND THEN HE JUMPED ON ME.

I tried to scoot him off my leg, and he jumped higher. The dance I performed on the side of the road was probably quite entertaining to passersby. He got as high as my boob. My goal was to keep him out of my hair. Because if that happened, he'd be stuck in that mess all day. He finally jumped back on the car before finally leaping to the ground.

And so I was late meeting Sue at the shop. But I saved a life. And I hadn't even eaten breakfast yet.

George Michael is my God

"I won't let you down, I will not give you up."

I'd been looking forward to it for months. I joined the fan club so I could buy tickets early, my hands shaking when that day arrived, and I became the proud owner of two tickets to see the man I fell in love with when I was 15.

My friend Paige was going to come down from Atlanta for the show. I was very excited to see her, since it had been almost a year. But less than a week before the show, Paige got the trifecta of ear, nose and throat ick, and couldn't fly. Well, the doctor said she shouldn't fly. But, she really couldn't. We were sad, and she was missed.

My friend Trisha was able to step in at the last minute, thankfully, and it was off to the show!

As a little nod to our teenage years, when George's face stared out at me from my bedroom wall, I thought, what could be more perfect to toast the occasion than what we used to drink then! I couldn't believe they still sold them. Yep. Exotic Berry wine coolers from Bartles & Jaymes (Oh, if only they had had the original flavor). Well, we forgot the cooler, naturally, so we had to swing by Publix and settle for Seagram's Berry. Warm. Good times. (On a side note, those things only have 4% alcohol. I think Nyquil might have more. Do you even need to be 21 to buy them?)

Once inside, the people watching began. (well, it started in the parking lot, it just got better inside.) People's idea of concert attire is almost as good as what they consider airplane travel attire.

And then the room went dark, and the crowd started screaming. A light display on stage started, looking like falling rain and stars while George sang "Waiting" from the Listen Without Prejudice album. Then he got to the line, "Here I am!" The stage lit up red, and the man himself appeared.



We all leaped to our feet and didn't sit down for the rest of the show. After a not so brief moment where he enjoyed the adulation from the crowd, he went right in to "Fast Love" and "I'm Your Man." And then, he made my night complete by singing "Father Figure," my favorite George Michael song. EVER.

This was the last show of the tour, so George said we got the party show. And it certainly lived up to the hype. The show was full of old and new favorites, from WHAM! hit "Everything She Wants," songs from Faith like "Hard Day" and, well, you've got to have "Faith." His new songs were met with the same enthusiasm as the old favorites. I love "Amazing," and "An Easier Affair." When he sang "Outside," somehow he was suddenly dressed like a cop. He must have been wearing stripper rip-away clothes over that get-up. It's a little blurry, but it looked like this.



At one point, George apologized for his voice, as he had caught some sinus thing (hmm... and he had just been in Atlanta. Conisidense, Paige?) But did he lip sync? No he certainly did not! He belted out those songs, and showed off his moves, working the crowd into a screaming mass. At a few points, he held up the mike and let us sing a verse, since everyone was already singing along with him. I know I was.

He finished up with two encores. The first was a flawless "Careless Whisper," and then he came back out and asked what we wanted to hear. We all screamed "Freedom!" And that was how it ended. He didn't let us down, and he didn't give us up. This tour was a thank you to his fans for 25 years of support. It was the best "thank you" card I've ever gotten.

This made me bawl

For anyone who loves animals, this is a beautiful story.

Thank you for being a friend

Actually, she was my top "friend."
Godspeed Estelle Getty. You were one funny old broad.

We will rock you

July 13, 1985. I was riding in the car back from vacation in Cape Cod. And the greatest musical event of all time was taking place in London and Philadelphia. But we had to listen to baseball on the radio. Thankfully, we got home in time to catch the tail end of London and the rest of the Philadelphia sets. It was glorious.

I got the DVD set from Live Aid when it came out, so I could relive all the moments. U2 with Bono rocking a wicked mullet (still a God). Madonna singing "Holiday," Mick Jaggar and Tina Turner belting out "It's Only Rock and Roll," Phil Collins playing London, boarding the Concord and playing again in Philly.

Amazing that Bob Geldof hadn't wanted it recorded at all. Thank God MTV and other outlets didn't follow the rules. If they had, we wouldn't have this. Arguably the best set of the entire show. Freddie Mercury commanded the attention of every person in the audience, and Queen's set still gives me goosebumps!

Me look pretty one day

The package arrived while I was out of town. When I finally got my hands on it, I giggled with delight. Pulling at the tape of the box, anxious to see the treasures inside. I finally got it open and there they were. Three beautiful new compacts.

Call me crazy, but I think one of my simple little pleasures is the first time I use new makeup. The white sponge of the applicator sweeps across the virgin color. Yes, I am a girly girl. I love makeup. Love it.

I still remember discovering my mother's makeup in the bathroom. It was a pink Mary Kay compact, full of different colored eye shadows. There was something about the color, the smell of the makeup that just had me hooked. I itched to try it out. I've been hooked ever since. My first eye shadow of my very own was from Maybelline. There were three colors, all shades of purple. I had seen it in Young Miss magazine (when YM was still called Young Miss).

There were some definite lows in the late 80s, when bright colors were in. For some reason, I thought the brightest blue eyeliner was a perfect match for electric blue mascara. Then again, I thought I looked good with blond hair. Another lesson learned.

Today I have a drawer filled with powders and shadows. Tuges of lipstick and bottles of nail polish or toe polish, as I call it, since I don't paint my finger nails.

I don't know what it is about makeup that makes it a borderline addiction, but it probably has something to do with a need to be pretty. Growing up, I never felt like I was pretty enough. I always thought the other girls I went to school with were so much prettier. The boys liked them better. I wore glasses and had braces and unruly hair. I felt awkward standing next to them. Like an ugly, invisible duckling.

The braces came off, and I got contacts. (The hair, however, remained unruly.) Using makeup became a way for me to try and level the playing field. To try and turn a sow's ear into some sort of purse, even if it wasn't necessarily a silk one. I felt better about the way I looked. I still felt invisible and not necessarily good enough, but at least I had pretty blue eyelashes.

(as a side note, I would just like to say that I have known some beautiful girls who were absolutely hideous people. I know beauty is only skin deep. I like to think of myself as a good person on the inside, I just want the outside to look nice too)

Don't get me wrong. I am far from Tammy Faye in my love of makeup. Sensitive skin and super sensitive eyes have greatly limited what I can and can't use. I remember the day Mr. Louie, who used to cut my hair (until he butchered it!!!), dragged me over to a makeup table and put under-eye concealer on me. I stared at myself in the mirror. I was actually pretty! "I'll take whatever it was you just used." I said slowly, praying quietly I wouldn't leave there looking like I had smoked at least two bongs.

New products are always approached with longing and hope that they won't cause my eyes to freak out or my face to get blotchy (wow, I sound more attractive by the minute, don't I?!). I love to experiment with colors. In spite of what Almay thinks (damn my sensitive eyes), not all people with blue eyes wear the same colors. When I find something that doesn't cause a skin/eye emergency, I have a little mini celebration in my head. New products! Oh the joy of it! Call me vain, but I feel like that little girl looking at her mother's Mary Kay eye shadows all over again. But prettier.

God, I miss Deadwood

Seven dirty words you can't say on television:
Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker and Tits.

Godspeed George Carlin.

My Kind of Town

We ran a story about 5-star restaurants in Chicago.

One of my new Domino magazines featured a story on adorable shops in different neighborhoods of Chicago.

Our IT guy is on vacation this week. In Chicago.

Last night at the gym, the TV was on ESPN, which was showing the Cubs home game. In Chicago.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

It was a year ago that I declared Chicago dead to me. I had just returned from a trip there to visit an old friend that turned out to be less than I expected (the trip and the friend). It actually didn't hit me until after I got back and was telling people about it, trying to play it up because even as I was describing it, it dawned on me how incredibly lame it was. I didn't see any sites. I didn't shop. I certainly didn't have any 5-star cuisine.

So I declared Chicago dead to me. And it has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't Chicago's fault. The city put its best foot forward. The weather was great. It should have been the perfect summer weekend. It wasn't Chicago's fault that it didn't turn out that way.

It's not Chicago's fault that even though I was asked what I liked to eat for breakfast (a bagel or an English muffin, I'm not picky), I had to root around a cupboard for an old box of crackers to sustain me until we got to a great sports bar in Wisconsin.

It's not Chicago's fault that I can't watch Groundhog Day anymore, because my tour of the town where it was filmed turned into a tour of every bar in town. And everyone who worked at every bar knew my host by name. He said it was like he was the mayor. Well, if Otis Campbell was the mayor then sure, why not. And, by coincidence, the Cubs were on the road in Atlanta, where I was living at the time. So the game was on the TVs in every bar. He took great pleasure in announcing to anyone who would listen what a huge Braves fan I was (I don't even like baseball). Because nothing makes a guest feel comfortable like riling up the home team.

It's not Chicago's fault I didn't go on a tour of Wrigley Field. I mean, why would I want to tour one of the most historic ball parks in the world when we could go sit at "world famous" Cubby Bear's across the street. Because bars in Wrigleyville on a Sunday afternoon when the Cubs are out of town are just an experience not to be missed! But, I guess as long as it serves Old Style, it counts as a tourist attraction.

It's not Chicago's fault that I didn't go to the top of the John Hancock Building. Why would I want to do that on a clear summer day, when we could search for a bar so world famous that five people he stopped in the street had no clue what he was talking about. I don't even remember the name of it.

But I do remember that right then, in the middle of the sidewalk on that beautiful summer day, was when my resentment started to grow. I suggested to my host that it might be possible that he had a drinking problem. I wasn't even half kidding, but he laughed it off and dragged me off toward a waitress mailing a letter, which led us to—you guessed it—the bar where she worked.

BUT, it's not Chicago's fault that he develops oddly personal relationships with anyone standing behind a bar.

By the time we left Chicago to drive back to his house, I was so ready to go home, I would have asked him to swing by the airport and drop me off if some of my favorite things weren't at his house, and some new things bought just for the trip. Although I was wearing my Keens at the time. Love those shoes. Yep, in my suitcase, up on a table, so hopefully the cats wouldn't pee on my stuff.

By the time I got home to Atlanta and described my trip to friends, I realized that I had taken time off work and gone out of town just to keep someone company on a two state pub crawl. That was apparently the whole plan, but I didn't find out until I had gotten there. All of the fun got sucked out in a haze of beer. If I had known, I would have stayed home. I could have done a pub crawl in Atlanta. At least then I could have slept in my own bed instead of one in a room that smelled like cat box.

But that isn't Chicago's fault. It was partly my fault. I had expectations of having a great time with someone I've known since Kindergarten. But, when I came home, I realized that I don't think that friend even exists anymore. He's been replaced by someone I call Drunky McFratboy, living life like every day is Spring Break and he just turned 21. Or maybe he's always been that person. When you only see someone once every two years, and talk sporadically on the phone, do you really know them? I am here to say no, probably not. We're two different people on two separate paths.

I guess I have Chicago to thank for figuring that out.

MAIL CALL

It was a good mail day today. I got my latest (and last, I need to renew) issue of InStyle AND my new Obama bumper sticker and button!

The button is going right on my work bag, and the sticker is going right in the back window of my car.

GO OBAMA!!!!

I speak for my trees!

So here is the other side of the picture I posted on Mother's Day, this time with my mom cropped out. Because today is all about my dad. (But aren't I still adorable?)

You can't tell from this picture, but that skinny little guy is quite the outdoors man. He likes to hunt and fish and just watch nature in all its glory. Until it infringes on his space.

They are up at the lake for the summer, and my dad has planted his little garden with I am sure tomatoes, zucchini, green beans and maybe cucumbers. He also has a something called a flower patch, where he has tossed wild flower seeds around to bloom. He spends his time tending his garden, mowing, fishing and generally driving my mom crazy because he can't sit still. The joys of retirement. All is well in Dickie's world, again, until nature infringes on his space. I called him last week, and he was particularly chatty, and then something caught his eye...

OH there’s a ... Hold on a minute....
(Silence.)
There was a little bunny that just hopped across my yard!
And you had to go watch it?
Well, I had to make sure it wasn’t another creature heading to my garden. It’s planted all nice and neat.
Like what? A rat?
I don’t know. But it hopped, so I knew it wasn’t a beaver.
I thought you had the beaver removed. (He did. It involved cages and game control.)
That was three years ago. I think another one has come in its place. I don’t want it eating my trees!
Well, that’s what beavers do.
I am looking out my window right now at millions of trees. Why does he eat mine?
Maybe you have tasty trees.
No, he eats the one that is right by the water, so he can have a nibble and then take a little swim while leisurely chewing on a branch.
That’s what beavers do. It’s just doing its beaver thing.
If it comes back again, I’m going to shoot it.
I really don’t think you are allowed to do that...
Well if I miss it and it turns me in, then I’ll worry about it.
I am quite sure that if you go out and shoot at a beaver, someone will call the police and say Dick Havich is out with a shot gun shooting at shit.
I wouldn’t use a shot gun.
(pause)
I would use a rifle.
Yes, well, whatever, I am sure there is some sort of rule about shooting things in non-designated hunting areas.
I put chicken wire around the bottoms of my trees. Hopefully that will deter him. I don’t want him eating my trees.

And that turned into a story about a thrush that has made a nest on the ground and a robin that made a nest on top of his step ladder while he was at Home Depot. He moved the nest back to his woodpile, and they rebuilt it up on a beam. He is concerned for the safety of all birds involved, as there have been cats around.

While I am, of course, touched by his concern for baby birds, the only thing running through my head is "He's going to shoot at a beaver and end up in jail."

My mom assured me she would not let this happen (the shooting part), and Jenny said not to worry, he'll be out there with pie plates and empty butter tubs to rig up something to protect the birds. He's "clever" that way.

It's Dickie v. Nature, and I think Nature is winning. At least it's succeeding in keeping him occupied, and the rest of us entertained.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!
I LOVE YOU!

Let's Hear it for the Girls

Like countless other women, this weekend I saw Sex and the City. I was lucky enough to be invited to a special screening on Friday night, complete with cosmos and nibbles and gift bags!

I can sum it up in one word—Champagne!

From the moment the glittering title flashed on the screen until the last cosmo was downed, it was a delicious bubbly glass of great Champagne. (If you don't want to know anymore about what happens, stop reading.)

It stayed true to the characters we have come to know like they were are own best girlfriends. There were even moments when I broke out of my SATC excitement to say "What the fuck is she wearing?" about some of Carrie's outfits, just like when I watched the show. I will say, more winners than losers on her fashion dance card this time around.

There were some sad moments. In true Mr. Big style, he was a cowardly dick at the worst possible moment. When Carrie beat him with her bouquet, she was doing it for all of us. There was loud cheering in my theater as lilies and roses exploded on his stupid head.

And, of course, she had her girlfriends to rally around her; to pick her up and help her realize that it would get better. And it did. To the screaming delight of every girl in the theater (and the bawling hysterics of some drunk girl at the end of our row. At least I hope she was drunk....)

I really hope I look as good as Samantha when I am 50 (You rock, Kim!) Stamford and Anthony??? Woo hoo! That was a fun shock! And I totally felt for Charlotte. When I was in Mexico, I kept my mouth shut tight in the shower for just that reason. Her confrontation with Big was hilarious. Although my big line would have been a bit different than her "I curse the day you were born." My line would go along the lines of "Fuck you, you fuckity fuck." But Charlotte is a lady, and I am not.

The only part that I didn't really like was the whole Miranda/Steve thing. I don't like Steve anyway. He's a weird, twitchy dork. I didn't like how the series ended for Miranda. She wasn't herself anymore, the Miranda we'd known through the course of the show. She had changed her whole personality and moved to Brooklyn for him. So in the movie, Steve admitting he slept with someone else kind of came out of left field.

And it was a little long, at more than two hours, but it felt like every scene was needed to move the plot along. Nothing had me thinking "why are we watching this happen."

All in all, it was a wonderful way to say a final good-bye to our favorite fictional girlfriends, and a way to make us appreciate the girlfriends we really have (and in my case, to miss them terribly, but Kara and I dished on Saturday after she saw it, so that felt better.) I loved the delicious Champagne that was this movie. I might have to go back for another glass!

Here's to an Idol-free Today

That will hopefully come next week.

Every morning, I watch Today. I am obviously not looking for hard news to go along with my morning coffee, but it gets me a little informed and entertained.

Except for every Wednesday and Thursday morning, when they would do a 10 minute "commercial" for a show on a totally different network. Meredith would get all excited talking about American Idol. I always wondered how the brass at NBC would allow it. They didn't talk about who got kicked off any of the other shows on other networks. They didn't even talk about the first woman to ever win The Biggest Loser, an actual NBC show.

I don't watch American Idol. Because I like music. Watching a dozen tweens butcher classic songs week after week in a "karaoke from hell" kind of way makes me die a little inside.

But it's Meredith's reason for living. Or so you would think, judging from the daily giddiness when talking about it. "Did you watch?" she would ask Matt. "Um, no," was his standard reply. And oh the drama when the father of one of the "singers" was "banned" from back stage.

Isn't there a war on? An election coming up? A dog that can do tricks? Because the only way I would consider American Idol "news" is if when one of the "singers" got voted off, they whipped out a gun and went postal, with Ryan Gaycrest getting caught in the crossfire. I might actually watch that episode!

It all came to a head today on Today when the "winner" and the runner up appeared on the show. Meredith was so giddy, Matt had to sit in on the interview. I swear all she did was sit there and giggle. As a journalist, I died a little inside watching it.

So I switched over to Angel on TNT. If I am not going to be informed, at least I can be entertained.

Oh Skinny Cows, how I have missed you

Woo hoo! I went to my Weight Watchers meeting tonight, and I lost 3 1/2 pounds! Now I am sure that was just water, but what the hell, I'll take it!

I am "rewarding" myself with a glass of wine. OK, two.

I made some good changes this week. I switched to raw veggies with my hummus, instead of crackers. I got a food scale to measure out proper portions. I've been writing everything that goes in my mouth down on my journal pages. And I danced around the kitchen while preparing a Memorial Day batch of Manhattan Clam Chowder.

And, as an allowed treat, I have reintroduced myself to the most wonderful of 2-point ice cream treats, the Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich. They are heaven! And, since chocolate is my "trigger food," I got little 1-point chocolate Zingers and these 2-point chocolate mint bars for that after lunch fix (not all at once. Just one a day!). Take THAT bowl of peanut M&Ms up at the front desk. You can not defeat me!

I can do this. I am determined! This week comes some walking and more work with my hand weights. I'll be strutting that pink skirt by Labor Day!!!

The bejesus

Once upon a time, quite some time ago, before Turner Classic movies or even TBS and TNT, The Wizard of Oz was shown on TV only once a year, on a Sunday. I think it was around Easter time. One week was Oz, the next Sunday was The Ten Commandments. One thing was guaranteed on Oz night. Either Jan or Dick had to come calm down their screaming child, who awoke in the middle of the night after being chased by winged monkeys and green-faced witches.

That screaming child was me.

They probably drew straws before putting us to bed, knowing that in a few hours, I would be howling. It was as annual an event as the showing of the movie itself. And yet, I watched it every single time.

I thought about that last night while I was watching Dexter on my newly acquired Showtime (in all of its TV-M glory). As I watched Dexter slice the cheek of his restrained captive, I thought, "I really should not be watching this so close to my bedtime."

But I couldn't change the channel. For some sick reason, I can't stop scaring the bejesus out of myself. If there is a suspenseful movie on, I am compelled to watch, knowing full well it will haunt my dreams.

It's just a movie, blah, blah, blah. Well, I have been "blessed" with a very vivid and active imagination that will sometimes not be quiet. I have laid in bed, terrified a guillotine blade was going to drop from the ceiling after watching a special on Nostradamus. I did not get one second of sleep the night we watched Copycat, as every creek of the house, every rustle of branches outside was a crazed killer trying to break in. And, my sister was a heartbeat away from a face full of Lysol when she came home late the night I had watched the original Helter Skelter.

I still remember the look of dread on my mother's face when I told her I had watched Psycho at my friend Jennifer's house. I knew she was imagining me waking up screaming in the middle of the night. Nope, I just made sure to bolt the bathroom doors when I was in the shower. Which I did until I went to college.

Don't even get me started on Jaws. The first time I saw it, I was terrified to stick my toe in the lake, let alone the ocean. Now, it's one of my favorite movies, and I watch it every time it's TV. It was on last Thursday, and I kept flipping back to it during the season finale of Grey's Anatomy.

Which is a whole other thing. I can't watch the gore stuff. Can't stand the sight of blood. So there are times where I can't watch ER or Grey's. But give me a 10 p.m. airing of Psycho, and I'm all over it. Maybe I'm not as scared of it because I know what's going to happen. But I still jump when that shower curtain whips open. And the ending is still unnerving (on a side note, I am referring to the original Hitchcock movie, NOT the remake).

And while I watch Jaws all the time, and appreciate it for the genius piece of film making that it is, the idea of it still freaks me out. When I am in the ocean, I make sure there are people out farther than I am, so they will get eaten first, and I'll have time to get out of the water. I don't use a raft or a float, because that makes you look like a seal underwater, and I don't want to end up like that little Kintner boy. And if something touches me underwater, I will climb on the head of the person next to me to get out of the water.

I may like to scare myself when I'm on the sofa, but out in the big ocean, why take chances that my imagination is actually real.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate

Form of:
Someone thinner with better hair.

Well, there's not much I can do about the hair. It's big and curly/frizzy. Any shorter and it would look like a mushroom cap. Longer and the curl gets pulled out. It's got a mind of it's own. I do control the color, since it's leaning toward silver and gray when left to its own devices. So now, thanks to Performing Preference, it's Medium Amber Copper Brown.

Now the thinner part, I can control. And need to control. I went to my first Weight Watchers meeting tonight. Well, not really my first. I joined eight years ago and lost almost 30 pounds.

That is hard to fathom for me. I've always been the thin one. I've been 5'7" since probably about the first grade. For as long as I can remember, when we had to line up by height in grade school, it was always me in the back with the boys. And I was thin. In high school, I probably topped out at 119. My friend Charlie recently told me, "Yeah, we thought you were sick, you were so fucking thin."

My first response was, "Who the hell was 'we??' Was that the royal 'we?'"

My second thought was that even then, I always felt fat. I knew I was thin, but I always felt like I could be thinner. That didn't stop me from eating what I wanted. Oh, the metabolism of a 17 year old.

There was even a point when my dad thought I was bulimic because of how the end of meal time and my trips to the bathroom always seemed to be pretty close. I don't know why that was, but I don't like to throw up when I am sick and really have to, so I certainly wouldn't make myself on purpose. And, as I told him, if I were bulimic, I'm obviously not very good at it, since I'm still fat.

I was never fat. And I'm not fat now. I'm just bigger than I would like to be.

149.

That is what the scale said tonight. That is 6 pounds lighter than what I was when I first walked through the doors of Weight Watchers. It took from January to June, but I got down to 127. 128 is the lowest healthy weight for my height. So I grew up being about 10 pounds lighter than I should have been, still thinking I was fat. And, it's hilarious that even with ridiculously low blood pressure (to the point where a nurse actually asked me if I was still alive), I still passed every sports physical, and my doctor was never concerned that I was 10 pounds thinner than I should have been.

I want to lose 15 pounds. I'm not insane or unrealistic. I'm 37, and I doubt my body will get back down to 128. And to be honest, even when I was 30 and lost all that weight, it was so hard to keep it there. Like salad all the time, chicken with no skin and veggies all the time hard. I like my steak, and I like my wine. And I sometimes like to lean toward reality. So if I can get it down to 135, and fit into my pink Anthropologie skirt, and my paisley Banana Republic skirt again, well then that is all the reward I need.

(oh, and my 20 year reunion is next summer, and I want to show up looking AWESOME, and not sick)

The New Door

Actually, it's not new. It was here when I moved in. Right there by the bathroom. The door stays closed, because behind it is the water heater and air conditioning. Not attractive things to have on display.

I call it the new door, because ever since Sunday night, Daphne the cat is suddenly obsessed with it. Like she's never seen it before. Closed doors often give her stress. I can't be in the bathroom without her paws coming under the door, trying to open it. But the attention she is paying to this door is kind of freaking me out.

She lays in front of it. She tries to open it from the bottom. She gets on her back paws and reaches up for the knob, desperate to discover what this door is hiding.

I am not so sure I want to know.

I've whipped that door open to show her that nothing is in there (God, I hope there is nothing in there.). I've taken my flashlight and shined it around, hoping something of the small mammal/reptile persuasion didn't come shooting out. I don't really want to see the food chain in action.

The search came up empty. Or, at least, the flashlight didn't flush out any game. The door was shut, and she walked away. For a little while anyway, until the pull of the newly discovered door draws her back.

I really hope there is nothing in there.

Hooray for Mom

This is one of the first pictures of me and my mom. My dad is there too, but I cropped him off. Today is not about him (his day is in June). It's about my mom. Doesn't she look fabulous?! And me, well, how cute am I?!?

We're in the driveway of my grandparent's house in Syracuse. You can make out Grandpa's back in the picture. In the whole shot, you can see that he's grilling up a batch of what we call Jack Chicken. My grandfather loved to cook. Maybe it was the French in him, I don't know.

I do know that that love of cooking was not passed on to my mom. Nope, Jan doesn't like to cook. At all.

But that's OK. She worked as a teacher, and then came home and took care of us. That taught my sister and me that women can be successful and have careers, and still keep it together at home. We didn't always see eye to eye when I was growing up. She told me once that she was not my friend, she was my mother. I think that kept me on the right path. And now that we are both adults, I can honestly say that we are friends, too. She is the first person I want to share news with, whether it's good or bad, important or silly.

Speaking of silly, I must say that we certainly were not raised eating fast food every day. She did cook for us, and had quite a few "go to" recipes that were always crowd pleasers. (And, because we're French, there was always salad.)

I made my favorite mom recipe today, in honor of Mother's Day. It was called No Peek Beef Casserole in the cookbook that came with her Crockpot, but we've just always called it Crockpot Stuff. I put it in a family cookbook I put together, and my cousin's husband said he would eat it every day. It's super easy, as most Crockpot meals are, and yummy.

Crockpot Stuff (or No Peek Beef Casserole)
1 1/2 lbs stew beef (1 inch pieces) (You can go up to 2 lbs. of beef)
1 pkg. onion soup mix (I use Beefy Onion flavor)
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 4-oz. can mushroom stems and pieces (I don't drain them, but you could)
1/2 cup red wine (and a little for the chef)

Combine all ingredients in Crockpot. Stir together well. Cover and cook on low for 8-12 hours (high, 5-6 hours). Serve over noodles or rice. (We always had it over rice, but some people like it with noodles. It's a personal call.)

Enjoy, and have a very Happy Mother's Day.
I LOVE YOU MOM!

Divided We Fall

This morning's CNN.com poll question scared me. Well, the question itself didn't scare me, but the results chilled me to the bone. The question read, "Democrats, if your choice is not the nominee, what will you do?" The choices were: Won't vote, will vote for the nominee, and will vote for John McCain. When I checked the little dot to say I will vote for the nominee, 45% agreed with me, and 41% said they would vote for John McCain.

WHAT?!?!

At the risk of sounding offensive, that is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard. I don't understand how someone could abandon their belief system and ideals like that. Why? Because you don't like his former pastor or the situation with her husband? No wonder we, as a party, can't get our shit together. We don't stand together. And we are easily distracted by non-issues.

I don't want to tell people how to vote, but I would think, at the very least, you should vote for the person who believes in what you believe in.

If you marched on Washington for pro-choice, why would you vote for a man who is pro-life, and who just today vowed to nominate the most conservative judges he can to federal positions, which almost guarantees Roe v. Wade would be in jeopardy?

If you're against the war, why would you vote for a man who said we could be in Iraq for 100 more years?

If you think the last 8 years have been hell and can't wait for the nightmare to be over, why would you vote for the man drinking W's Kool-Aid?

If the economy is hitting you hard (and who isn't being hit hard, oh, that's right, the rich), why would you vote for the man who 1. is married to a woman worth more money than I can count and 2. has admitted that he knows nothing about economics?

I am supporting Obama. But if Hillary ends up being the nominee, I will gladly vote for her. (If my vote counts. I do live in Florida after all.) They are really not that much different. They do have different ideas on things, but they have the same ultimate goal, and that is reclaim this country and help the people that live in it, and to make it great again. Make it a country to be admired around the world. Because, news flash, the rest of the world doesn't think we're all that great anymore.

USAToday put together a little match game that asks basic questions about where you stand on the issues, and matches you with the candidates that stand with you or not. Here is the link. Check it out, and really look into your heart and mind and see where your ideals and beliefs are. And vote them.

This is a historic election. We have a chance to do something great. We have the chance to stand up and say, "No more!" to the war-mongering, money-grubbing, Bible-thumping (hello, separation of church and state) Republican party. But we can't do it separately. We can only do it together. We have to stand together as a party and as a people. It's the only way we can actually make a stand and make a change.

You say it's your birthday

Well it's George's birthday, too. And, more importantly, my sister Jenny's.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JENNY.

Summer is coming!

Well, I live in South Florida, so it's coming sooner for us. Either way, here is a tasty salsa recipe to enjoy!

Watermelon Salsa

3 cups finely diced watermelon
1/2 cup diced green pepper
2 Tbsp. lime juice
2 Tbsp. chopped cilantro
1 Tbsp. chopped onion
1 Tbsp. chopped jalapeno pepper (seeds in if you like it hot, seeds out if you like it medium)
1/2 tsp. garlic salt OR 1 1/2 tsp. fresh pressed garlic

Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Cover. Chill.

Eat with tortilla chips.

Oh, and it's Cinco de Mayo too

What I am

I went to the doctor today. Not for anything wrong, just a checkup. But any trip to the doctor brings something to the forefront of my mind that is, usually, way in the back. Something I don't even think about for weeks at a time. It comes shooting forward when I am filling out the paperwork, and they ask about family history and whether or not my mom or my grandmother has had cancer or diabetes or heart disease.

I have no idea.

I really don't. And not just because Jan and Dick are tight-lipped. I am adopted.

It's not something I put on my business cards, but it's obviously not a secret. (And before you ask, I was an infant, and my sister was not adopted.)

So I wrote what I usually do on my paperwork. "I am adopted, so I have no idea." This was a new doctor, so we sat in her office while she looked through my "novel." She held up that paper and said that she actually sees that a lot. There was an option to get a series of blood tests and genetic testing. But my insurance won't cover it, and, as a rule, I don't volunteer for things that have to do with needles and blood.

I have no access to my medical history. By New York State law, those records are sealed. I did register with the state in order to maybe get non-identifying medical information. But I only get anything IF my birth parents or a sibling registers as well. IF. I did get the information that New York did have on file. It's a bit out of date, since it's 37 years old, but now I know where I get my allergies and big, curly hair.

I asked for non-identifying medical information, because I don't really want to know who they are. I am not looking for parents. I have parents. And a sister, and a whole family that is awesome and that I love very much. And I know they feel the same about me. Plus, I don't want to intrude on any one's life. And I don't want my life to turn into some crazy episode of Oprah.

There actually is a bill in the NYS Assembly and in the NYS Senate that, if passed, will allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificate. Another IF. So, there would be a way I can find out my medical history. But I'd have to find out who they are, and I don't think I want to do that.

But I do want to know who I am. Or, at the very least, know what I should check off on all that paperwork.

The sound of silence

Well, more like the sound of the gentle hum of the dryer.

It's the sound of clean clothes, but it's also the sound of company gone. Everyone used to come to our house for Labor Day weekend. My aunts and uncles and cousins. We would cook a big pot of my Grandpa's clam chowder, laugh, argue. It was great. Everyone had fun spending time together.

Then, on Monday, everyone would leave in the early afternoon. And the house was a weird sort of quiet. Nothing but the sound of towels and sheets in the washer and dryer. No more loud voices and kids playing. Just laundry, and the tail end of the Jerry Lewis Telethon.

I've had three guests since I moved to Florida that stayed with me. (Jan & Dick came too, but they stayed at a hotel.) And each time, we had a a lot of fun. But then they went home, and there was the weird silence again, just the sound of laundry instead of laughing. Then I let out the air in the air mattress, and folded all the sheets and towels, and emptied the dishwasher, and it's almost like they were never here at all. But in that weird silence, I remember that they were, and that it was fun while it lasted. I can't wait until the next visitor, whoever it might be.

At least they know I have clean sheets and towels.

Blind Luck

Well I didn't win, but I came in a quite respectable THIRD PLACE!!! That's $85 for not knowing/caring anything about the NCAA other than you get to bet on it.

What more in the name of love

Early morning, April 4
Shot rings out in the Memphis sky
Free at last, they took your life
They could not take your pride

— "Pride (In the Name of Love)," U2

But I get the milk for free

My high school reunion is coming up next summer. And since I moved recently, I wanted to make sure I was not on a "missing" list in case any information had come out. So I went to my school's web page and clicked on the handy Alumni tab, only to be greeted with this message:

Visitors to the alumni section: Due to chronic abuse, we have discontinued the guestbook feature of our website. While most people were respectful and used the guestbook for its intended purpose, several individuals saw the guestbook feature not as a way to reconnect with former classmates, but to post immature, inappropriate and objectionable material. We encourage you to use sites like Classmates.com, MySpace.com and Facebook.com to connect with your fellow SV alumni.

Now, I am going to bet that the people in my class were not responsible for the kind of tomfoolery that would force the school to take down a section of their site dedicated to supposed responsible adults. I can't see anyone in my class actually caring enough to take the time. I could be wrong, but I would lay money on generations X, Y and/or Z as the douche bags that make the rest of us look like we can't be mature. Thanks.

I have a myspace page already, and I've been hesitant about getting a Facebook one simply because I don't have the energy to keep up with it all, and worry about making it fancy or interesting. That's what this page is for. How'm I doing??

There is nothing on myspace that would resemble a group for the class of 1989, so I went to classmates.com. There are a lot of my classmates there. So I filled out the free profile thing, and even went so far as to pick a picture different than my myspace one. Variety and spice you know. I looked around at some of my former classmates' pages. Chuckled at how cool they think they (still?) are. (As a side note here, I own the fact that I was an apple-polishing geek in high school. You could probably tell that by my continuing love of George Michael, but I just thought I'd acknowledge it.)

You get to tell a little story about yourself and what you've been up to since high school. And then you get to take a little quiz. Kind of like those Internet quizzes we do, but it's all Q&A. There is no room to expand or make your own comments. They ask what your favorite outdoor activity is, and there is no box for "none of the above," or "why in the world would I camp when there are perfectly good hotels," or "why should I fish when you can buy it at the store." So my creativity was a bit stifled. As an added bonus on your profile, under Interests, it randomly chooses some of your answers to the Q&A. So there are times when my interests are cats, disco and reading. Could I possibly be more fascinating?

Now comes the kicker. In this day and age of myspace and facebook and all the other social pages there are, Classmates.com actually wants you to pay money to email/contact anyone with a profile. Huh? Pay money to talk to people that if I actually wanted to talk to them I probably would be doing that all on my own anyway? Seriously? I chuckled at that. And they are so wise, too. They won't "let" you put your myspace page or blog or email address in your story, to tip people off as to where they can reach you for free. You can get around that though, so they aren't THAT smart. Do people actually pay to be on classmates, when myspace et al are free? Because I certainly will not be. I mean, why buy the cow...

My boy, George

I feel I should explain my back-to-back George Michael tribute. As some of you know, I love me some 80s music. And I love going to concerts. Growing up, I didn't get to see my favorite bands, because they all went to legitimate venues in Syracuse and NYC. We residents of Bingo-town got to choose from Ratt, Poison, Great White, Motley Crue. It was hair band central. Oh, and Cinderella, because the drummer is from there (my mom was his math teacher). AND, being that my mom was a teacher, or because she was over protective or was just a great big buzz kill (sorry Jan, but...), I didn't get to see my favorite bands in their heyday. I saw no Madonna. I saw no Duran Duran or Prince. And I didn't see Wham!. I did get to see Night Ranger and Starship, but only after Jan did her research to see if Night Ranger was a "drug" band. Funny how her research didn't lead her to the conclusion that Starship used to be Jefferson Starship, which used to be Jefferson Airplane and that song wasn't really about Alice in Wonderland.

But I digress.

I was lucky enough to move to a big city that welcomed all kinds of bands, especially those of the retro variety (I even got to see Night Ranger a couple more times). I got to see Madonna finally (TWICE), and my friend Paige and I were present for the true and complete five-member reunion tour of Duran Duran. I hung my Duran Duran poster up behind my desk at work for a week before the show (Yeah, I still have it). It was at the Tabernacle, which is tiny, and filled to capacity with screaming 30-something women. My ears rang for days and I loved every second of it! And then we saw his Royal Purpleness. In a word, it was incredible. Every hair on my whole body was standing up. For a short, skinny little man, he is a sexy mother fucker. It's all in the attitude.

And now, my 80s circle will be complete, because George Michael is touring this summer! And I bought my tickets to the show! I am going to see George Michael! Laugh if you want, but I was not the only one who squealed like a teenager when the tour was announced (Paige. Amy. Maybe Chris.). Now if only I still had THAT poster... (JAN!)

Here's another one

Just because I am so giddy.

You gotta have Faith

If you wish hard enough for something, sometimes your wishes come true.

Thank God I was good during Lent

Because my soul got a little dirty today. One stiff, 7 points. Godspeed Richard Widmark.

Who's that Girl?

She's the latest inductee into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame! Rock on, Madonna!!
(Duran Duran next year! Fingers crossed!)

Please Sir (or Madam), Can I have a vote?

How can you resist that face?? Please vote for Daphne!

http://www.spaydayusa.org/bin/Rate?image_id=1003136727

Do you believe in miracles?

YES!
Today is another one of those anniversaries I talked about before, only a really good one. Today marks the 28th anniversary of the "Miracle on Ice," when the original Dream Team, the U.S. Hockey team, defeated the world-champion team from the Soviet Union in the 1980 Winter Olympics, 4-3.

I still get tears in my eyes when I think about it, and hear Al Michaels ask that famous question. They showed the movie, Miracle on ABC last weekend, with Kurt Russell starring as coach Herb Brooks. It's a terrific movie that didn't get the attention at awards time like it should of. (Come on, it's not hard to win a Golden Globe!) The camera work during the game sequence is excellent and exciting. I saw it in the theater twice, and even though we all knew the outcome, everyone in the theater reacted like we were watching a live game.

And, of course, I bought the DVD the day it came out.

They weren't supposed to win that game. Hell, the same Soviet team had humiliated them only a couple weeks earlier, 10-3. They were just a bunch of college kids and amateurs, and the powerhouse Soviet team had been playing together for years. But with the hard-handed coaching style of Brooks, the U.S. team grew stronger physically and mentally and became a true team. And having the American people behind them, rooting for them at the Olympics, was the last push they needed to conquer their Goliath.

I highly recommend Miracle, if you haven't seen it. And if you have, watch it again. I defy anyone not to get teary eyed listening to Al Michaels' excitement, which echoed the excitement of the nation.

I do believe.

Happy President's Day

I like to mix it up and celebrate a president other than Lincoln and Washington. This year, I am honoring Thomas Jefferson, our third president. So while you are enjoying the annual White Sales and other discount shopping, here is something to chew on.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men. We...solemnly publish and declare, that these colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent states...And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." —Thomas Jefferson

Powerful stuff.

Run up the flag, the Princess is in residence

There was an article today on CNN.com about the dogs rescued from Michael Vick's home. They were at a rehab center in Utah, being socialized with the hopes that someday they would be able to be adopted. And while some of them will never leave the rehab center, they will have a true home there. One where they are cared for and loved. Where they never have to fight again, or live in fear of the monster known as Michael Vick.

It made me think of our pets, and how much we love them. And that's all they want. They want to be loved and to feel safe and happy. Just like people do, really.

I met the furry love of my life at the Atlanta Humane Society. She was in the cage with another cat, a feisty orange one that kept climbing on the door. A tiny gray kitten with funky cream markings just sat there, quietly licking her paw like she was too cool for it all. It was love at first sight, and Daphne came home in a cardboard pet carrier. (Although she didn't have a name for the first couple weeks. I had to figure out her personality.)

Adopting a pet is a learning experience. The food I bought before I went to pick her up was unacceptable for her royal highness. No, she did not care for the Eukanuba kitten formula. It was Purina Kitten Chow for her, thank you very much. I have learned a lot of other things, living with the Princess Daphne Marie. Here are just a few of them:

1. She is so excited for me to come home from work that she is always waiting right by the door. It's either that or she really wants to go OUT the front door.

2. She can read. I know this because whenever I am reading something, she has to crawl in between my face and my book, so she can follow along.

3. Changing sheets is a fun game not to be missed. She can be in a deep sleep on the other side of the apartment, and the minute I start changing the bed sheets, she is right there, laying across the mattress. I have fully made the bed with her under the fitted sheet. It's not really that fun for her after that.

4. She looks forward to the weekends, too. She gets wet food on Saturday and Sunday, and she knows when it is Saturday or Sunday. From the moment I get up to the second I say, "Who wants some stuff?" I get no peace. She's in my lap, she's in my face and she's underfoot crying to get my attention. Sometimes, I just need my coffee first.

5. I could put perfectly chilled bottled water in her bowl, and she'd still rather drink out of the faucet or the toilet.

6. Through some twist of physics, any new article of clothing I buy is covered in cat hair before I even take it out of the bag.

7. The whole bed could be cleared off, except for a pair of black pants. She will curl up in a ball on those pants.

8. I don't buy her toys. She prefers the plastic rings that come on gallon milk jugs. She bats them around and carries them from room to room. Every day when I come home from work, they are piled in her food dish. If she runs out of them, she'll swipe one of my hair ties.

9. No matter what the commercials say, scoopable/clumping cat litter does not work. It's "sticky," but no where near the hockey puck of easily scooped whatever that they would lead you to believe.

10. Spiders and moths are magically delicious.

11. Every apartment I've ever lived in is haunted, and 11 p.m. usually begins the "witching hour" when she will stare at nothing, and race around howling and growling like her tail is on fire.

12. (best of all) She knows when I am sick or sad. She'll follow me from the bed to the couch and back, curl up in my lap or next to me and just purr. It's a very peaceful sound.

It's getting late, and the princess is curled up at my feet. Wanna go sleeps, Daph? "meow," she whispers. I'll take that as a yes.

You Gotta Have Faith

There is a new show premiering tonight on ABC called Eli Stone. I don't know what it is about, but it features George Michael singing and dancing. It's already my favorite show, if not the greatest show on television.

Every show needs some George Michael. I think it would only make them better. He could be the musical guest on an episode of 30 Rock, or deliver a singing telegram to The Office.

The opportunities to "George" up any show are endless. All it takes is a little imagination, and a whole lot of George in tight jeans, dancing. Or just standing there. In jeans. Or pants. Pants would work, too.

Breaking News

My mother knows exactly what she was doing November 22, 1963. A first year teacher, she was leading a class when a student stuck his head in her room and said, “The president has been shot.”

“That’s not funny,” she said. It wasn’t a joke.

She also remembers it was a Friday, and the senior prom was planned for the next day. There was great debate about the prom going on as planned, and the students voted to have it. It was the week before Thanksgiving, and they closed the school the following week.

She reiterated those facts this weekend, when I called to research this. She can remember it like it was yesterday, but I am sure if I asked what she had for breakfast yesterday, she would have to think about it. What is it about tragedies that freeze us in a moment, leaving part of us stuck there forever?

I remember a substitute teacher telling us that the night before, John Lennon had been shot and killed. I was in the fourth grade then, yet I remember it as vividly as the cold November morning that Katie Couric told us George was gone, too.

I remember watching Saturday Night Live with my roommates when Brian Williams broke in to say that Princess Diana had been in a car accident in Paris. With each breaking news report, we held our breath a little more, until Brian broke in and told us that our fairy tale princess was gone. The three of us set our alarms so we could watch her funeral as it happened. The streets of London were full of people, just like they were when we all set our alarms to watch her get married not that many years before.

I remember my phone ringing before 9 on a Saturday morning. It was Timmer. “Are you bleeding or on fire,” I asked, groggy with weekend sleep. “John’s plane is missing,” he said. I sat up, suddenly wide-awake. He didn’t have to tell me who John was. I knew. We went to a pub-crawl that day, but I hardly participated. I was too busy concentrating on the TVs all the bars had on, tuned to CNN. I kept watching, unwilling to let go of that thin thread of hope for our handsome JFK. They did find his plane at last. When I went home a couple weeks later for my high school reunion, the Kennedy family quietly returned him to the sea.

And I remember that sunny Tuesday in September when Matt Lauer was interviewing Richard Hack about his book Hughes. In the middle of the interview, Matt said they had to break away. I called my friend Suzy to tell her that some dumb ass had flown his bi-plane into the World Trade Center. I saw the second plane come on screen. I saw it was a plane, but my first instinct was that it was a news helicopter. Then it turned, and with a red explosion, the world turned sideways. I don’t even think I told Suzy goodbye before I hung up the phone. It wasn't until the next day that I found out that our friend Brian Terrenzi, who had worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, had been lost.

So where is this coming from, this morbid trip through the tragedies of years past…

Twenty-two years ago today, I was in the ninth grade. We were studying China in Social Studies, so our teachers arranged a “field trip” to a nearby Chinese restaurant, because nothing says China like a restaurant in Kirkwood, N.Y., simply called Szezuan Cuisine. We had gone early, before our usual lunchtime. When we got back to school, the halls were eerily quiet. I was at my locker getting my books for French when my English teacher poked her head out of her room. “The space shuttle blew up,” she said.

“The one with the teacher on it?” I asked.

We spent our French class squeezed in with the Spanish class across the hall, because they happened to have a TV. The footage played over and over—Challenger launching, that spark of a flame, the explosion and then those two snakes of smoke that seemed to be trying to reach out for each other.

We all sat in stunned silence; twitching each time they showed Challenger’s fiery end. Maybe we hoped that the next time we saw it, the result would be different, and Christa McAuliffe and the other astronauts were still flying out into the cosmos.

They were, but not the way we hoped.

“We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth’ to ‘touch the face of God.’” —from President Reagan’s address that night, quoting the poem High Flight by John Gillespie Magee Jr.

See What I Mean?!?!

I just can't stop. Someone help me.

1. Were you smiling when you woke up this morning?
I don't know. Probably not.

2. When was the last time you felt unbearably guilty?
I'll spare the details and just say that now I live in Florida.

3. How is life going for you right now?
See my previous post. It's going pretty good.

4. When was the last time you held someones hand?
Uhhh... I don't remember

5. What made you happy today?
I finally went to the front office to pick up my new posters. I can't wait to get them framed!

6. Are you mad at anyone right now?
Gee, no.

7. Who was the last guy/girl you talked to?
The girl in the front office who gave me my posters.

8. Last words you spoke?
"I know you are not going to jump on that kitchen counter!"

9. Have you ever kissed anyone who's name started with a G?
Yes.

10. Would you get married if you could right now?
no

11. What's the best feeling you've ever had?
In recent memory, probably when I was offered my new job.

12. Who was the last person, of the opposite sex, you talked to on the phone?
Chris, last night.

13. How do you feel about gay marriage?
should be legal

14. What is the next concert you're going to?
who knows

17. Can you play guitar?
No.

18. Do you like someone?
I like a lot of people.

19. What time did you go to bed last night?
1:30 am

20. would you rather be freezing or very very very hot?
freezing, you can always add extra layers

21.Is any part of your body sore?
my right shoulder and arm

22. What do you wear more: jeans, sweatpants, or slacks?
Probably jeans. I don't own sweatpants. Slacks! ARGH! That is one of my least favorite words ever. They are pants.

23. What was the last movie you watched?
I watched part of the Da Vinci Code last night.

24. What do you currently hear right now?
The sound of silence. Not the song, just actual silence.

25. Do you fight with your parents often?
No

26. Want anything really bad?
I want a new mouse. This one is driving me crazy!

27. who was your first kiss of 2008?
I am sad to say it has not happened yet.

28. Where did you sleep last?
my bed.

29. What's your biggest regret?
I'm over it. You can't change the past

30. Where is your phone?
In the living room.

31. Coach purse or NFL game?
NFL game

32. Do you like your house?
It's an apartment, and yes.

33. Do you wear hats?
not usually. I don't think I look good in hats.

34. What do you currently smell like?
Grapefruit and pomegranate

35. How old do you think you will be when you finally have kids?
Two days older than hell freezing over.

36. Would you rather watch football or baseball?
football.

37. Missing someone right now?
yes.

38. Do you have a computer in your room?
yep

39. Are you eating anything?
no

40. What was the weather like today?
warm and sunny. Gotta love south Florida

41. Do you like dancing?
Yep.

43. Did you cry today?
Actually yes. I am writing something and it made me sad. Coming soon to a blog near you (i.e. this one)

44. What's something that bothers you?
this mouse

45. Is there someone on your mind that shouldn't be?
No.

46. How much money do you have on you?
none

47. Do you speak another language other than English?
a slight bit of French

49. What shoes are you wearing?
no shoes

50. Who were the last people you went out to dinner with?
Stephanie last night at Rocco's Tacos

I don't want to jinx it, but I love my job

When I was unhappy at previous jobs, my mom would say that no one likes their job. I thought that was such a sad thing to say. Why would you do something that takes up the majority of your time, life and energy and not enjoy it? But then again, my mom taught math to high school students for 40 years. I guess she was kind of speaking for herself more than anything. In my case, I don't think it was the job so much as where I did the job, because I have worked in pretty miserable places for the love of my craft. BUT, even working for slave drivers and sexist, bigoted insane people, I must say that the profession I have chosen pretty much rocks.

I have had the opportunity to meet and/or interview so many different people from all across the spectrum, from entertainers and sports figures to former First Lady Roslynn Carter, a woman I greatly admire. I even shook hands with Jimmy himself (and I've got the picture to prove it). I had dinner with Lou Holtz, and went to the sets of Days of Our Lives and Guiding Light for face-to-face interviews. I've talked to just about every designer on Trading Spaces plus one of the Queer Eyes. I tried not to gush like an ass when I talked to hockey star Joe Sakic and sucked up to former New York Governor Mario Cuomo by telling him I had seen him speak at my college, a SUNY school. He beamed and said, "You got a good education, didn't you?"

And then I moved to Florida.

I've said before that I think this was the job I have been looking for all along. I don't want to jinx it though. You never know what could happen tomorrow. But, it's been interesting and exciting since day one. Because on day one, my new boss asked me two things. "Do you have a passport?" Yes. "Do you want to go to Grenada?" OH, YES! I knew right then and there that things were going to be exciting and fun, but still challenging.

And then she threw me into the deep end of the pool.

"I want you to do a profile feature for the January issue on a prominent Palm Beacher." I was ready. Then the other shoe dropped.

"Donald Trump."

I can honestly say that the prospect of interviewing The Donald made me more nervous than interviewing anyone. He's very intimidating, and if it went bad and he didn't like the piece, I was petrified he'd hold up the magazine on the Today Show and curse my name for the world and my parents to see. Plus, I wanted to do a good job, obviously, for my first big assignment. I almost threw up before the interview. Thank God it was over the phone. He was actually very gracious and professional, and the interview went well. Plus, his office told me they were pleased with how it came out, so yay!

My love for the job has just bloomed from there. I've tried not to stumble like an ass while interviewing Art Garfunkel (and fight the urge to ask if he could be bought for $1 million like the Barenaked Ladies claim), and I didn't flash my boobs at Vince Neil when we shot him for the March issue (I've seen the videos, I know that's what he's used to). But, it was the day before my birthday, so I did have to get a picture with him.

Plus, I get to experience different restaurants in the area and collect fun and funky decor items to be featured. And every month, I get to plan a party. Granted it's a fictional party, but I get to plan it, and money is no object! And there isn't a sexist, bigoted insane person to be found anywhere in my new office.

And just to drive home the awesomeness, this afternoon my phone rang, and the caller ID said Jonathan Adler!

SQUEAL!! (It was actually Simon Doonan calling for a piece I am doing for April, but still, SQUEAL!!)

See Mom, people can like their jobs. They can even love them, and thoroughly enjoy the fun they have doing it, and the people they meet along the way.

(photo by Michael Price)

Getting to know you

Or getting to know your friends, check out this survey, or whatever they are calling the email quizzes, surveys and Q&As. I got three of them today alone.

I did two.

The other one, I'd already done before. A couple times. I know everyone's favorite color, what they like to drink, if they have a crush on someone or if they've ever been toilet papering.

I don't know why we continue to fill out these quizzes that are obviously aimed at younger people. One today asked who I sat next to in math. I haven't taken math since high school, so I have absolutely no idea who sat next to me. I don't even remember who some of the teachers were. It reminds me of those notes that used to get passed, "Do you like me? Yes or No? Circle one and give back."

Call it a guilty pleasure. Or it's a way to pass the time during lunch, or a break from doing work. Although it does take away from my busy lunch pastime of thesuperficial.com and wwtdd.com. Some people fill them out immediately and without fail. Some people don't do them at all, yet we keep sending them out on the off-chance that we'll catch them on a slow lunch period (Nancy).

They are silly and more than a little "high school." But it's funny to see how people answer questions in an original way, and it's nice to take a break from responsibilities and work and editing stories to catch up with friends both far and near. Even if it is just to let them know that you like to watch hockey and you first kissed a boy when you were 16.

Woulda, shoulda, coulda

I'm going to be 37 on Tuesday, and this morning I found a white hair in my eyebrow. I've been pulling white hairs out of my head for a while. Even now, there are some up there, mocking me as they bust through the dye. The eyebrow thing, however, is a relatively new thing. But it's a reminder that I am farther along on the fast track to 40, and it made me, I guess nostalgic would be the word.

40 seems so old. I don't feel like I should be three years away from it. I don't feel 37. I know that, thanks to good genes and a vampire-like aversion to laying in the sun, I don't look 37. I usually get 28 or 30.

I know, you're only as old as you feel, or whatever bullshit people like to put on cards or coffee mugs. I should only be 28 or 30. Shouldn't I have accomplished more by now? Shouldn't I have more to show for 37 years than a Honda, a rented apartment and a new sofa?

Maybe I should have gone to New York City after college. I could be a high-level editor of a national magazine, living a fabulously glamorous life. One of those editors they get on the Today Show to comment about things. Or, I could have gone there, not been able to find a job and headed back to Bingo-town with my tail between my legs, ending up working at the Press & Sun-Bulletin, writing stories about the Spiedie Fest and the Crappy Derby.

The first thing people who I haven't spoken to in a while ask me, after they ask about my health, is if I'm dating someone. When I say no, I get the sad sigh. I recognize it, because I do it so often myself. I live with a cat. That's it. I've kissed a lot of boys. I've even been in love a couple times. But at 37, I live with a cat.

The path of my "love" life is pretty flat. Some ups, downs, sunshine, rain and all those other cliches about cows, free milk and more fish in the sea. Maybe I shouldn't have kissed so many boys, or maybe kissed different ones. Maybe there was a time or two when I should have looked at who was in front of me instead of who was behind me. Or maybe I could see that they were grounded where they were, and I had other places to see.

But, if something or someone had "worked out," I probably wouldn't have been able to take the job that I have now. I had to move to a different city. A much easier choice to make when I was the only one who had to make it. And I love this new job. I am afraid to say it's the job I've been looking for this whole time.

So I've stood at forks and made choices. It's hard sometimes not to look back at roads not taken to wonder what could have been or what should have been. The roads I have taken have brought me to what is. White hairs in my eyebrows and all.

Simon says

I'm in love, and I don't care who knows it. That is, if you can be in love with a lipstick. I don't usually buy lipstick. I work at a magazine. We get that stuff for free. (Really good stuff, too.) I have a drawer full of shades and glosses, mattes and shimmers that I wear here and there. But I was inspired.

I got a review copy of book by a very witty and fabulous designer that I am interviewing soon. In it, he suggests you find your signature lipstick shade and buy enough to last the rest of your life. He, of course, said it more beautifully and affirming than that, but I don't want to plagiarize. (You can check it out yourself when Eccentric Glamour by Simon Doonan comes out in April. Get it!)

I received some gift cards for Christmas, so I headed to Macy's to take advantage of the sales. I got a couple fun skirts and tops, but still had a little left on one of my cards. Shoes were picked over, so I headed to the makeup counters. They just opened a LUSH counter. Their stuff is wonderful. (lushusa.com)

With a couple more gift dollars to burn, I thought, why not get a lipstick? I headed to Clinique, but they didn't have any colors that caught my eye, so I wandered over to Estee Lauder. I tried a couple shades on my hand. One stood out (in a good way), so I bought it. I didn't buy a lifetime supply, just the one tube.

I put it on when I got to the car—and fell in love instantly. It was the perfect shade! Not too pinky, and not orangey at all (like some colors tend to look on me). It's fabulous! So I guess I'm going to have to start hording it, because you never know when it will be discontinued.

If you're ever stuck with what to get me for Christmas or my birthday (January 15th) or just because—Estee Lauder Signature Lipstick in Black Cherry (C36). I need to build up a lifetime supply, and I plan to live a long time.

Simon says!!