Why Exaggerate When Stuff Like This Happens?

I opened my front door this morning and found that someone had left me a Valentine treat on my doorstep! Getting presents, in whatever fashion they arrive, is my favorite. But getting them mysteriously dropped on the doorstep is even MORE my favorite.

Except, perhaps, when that present is a partially used 20lb bag of cat litter.

At first I thought it was a gift from the Ghost of Valentine's Day Future come to give me a wake up call. But the note attached explained that one of my neighbors (the one that stole my iron, incidentally) is moving out and thought that I might be able to make use of the litter.

This is a nice thought, except for that I don't have a cat. And I'm not really keen on pets in general. And it's VALENTINE'S DAY. And presents given on Valentine's Day should be of the chocolate or candy heart or diamond variety. Not of the turd receivership variety.

Take it from me, if you're a single girl in your 30s and let's just say you're a librarian and maybe you have a slight phobia about being destined to become a crazy cat lady, the last thing - and I do mean the VERY LAST THING - you want to see on your front step on Valentine's morning is a 20 lb bag of cat litter. That's just cruel. Ironic and cruel.

Dear Job, Stop Fighting It and Be My Valentine

This year I am asking my Job to be my Valentine. On the surface this sounds really pathetic. But believe me, we used to be seriously in love with each other. But I don't know ... somehow the magic just faded.

I said some things ("Why do you suck so bad?") and it said some things ("You act like you don't even care anymore!") and then I said some more things ("I would care if you gave me anything to care about. But you don't! You're so distant!"). And well, it wasn't too long before we were talking about divorce. It was a dark, dark, boring time.

But no matter how many other suitors I entertained, the fates kept us together. You just can't fight destiny. Believe me, I tried and I failed. Oh how I failed!

But now, I'm happy to say, we are working really hard at being there for one another and really making our time together count. So far, it's been great! Sure, we've still got a long way to go before we get back to that honeymooning stage of our relationship. But I really think we're going to make it. I really do. I, for one, am already feeling loved and I hope it feels loved right back.

You hear that, Job? I said I love you! So, what do you say? Will you be my Valentine?

Charlie and Lola

I'm not saying that I am, but if I were the kind of full grown adult that liked to spend their Saturday morning watching cartoons and eating Cocoa Puffs then I would not be the kind that watches lame-o cartoons like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (because at my house the penalty for saying "Kowabunga Dude" is death). I'd be the kind of full grown adult that watches Charlie and Lola.

Charlie is 7, and he has a little sister, Lola, who is very small and also very funny (as he says at the beginning of every episode). I'm not going to evangelize about how great this show is, or how charming Lola is because I'm a full grown adult. And I don't watch cartoons.

But it is. And she is. And Charlie is the nicest older brother any little cartoon girl ever had. Not that I know any of this, though, because thirty-something single women just don't watch children's cartoons unless there is a child in the vicinity. Right? Right.

But when I have kids ... I'm going to let them watch only this show so they can learn to be nice to their brothers and sisters and more importantly to speak with a British accent. I think I could handle them narrating along to the video constantly (as children do) if they were saying in their little British accents things like, "I feel really, really, terribly, ever-so not well. " and "Don't worry, Charlie, I'm going to be here for every minute of all day until you're completely absolutely better." I'm sure that my children's life expectancy will go through the roof if I can somehow get them to have British accents. With regular American-accented whining, it will be touch and go until they are about 29. So Charlie and Lola won't just be entertaining child care, it will double as life insurance. I love it when things are multipurpose.

To get the flavor of Charlie and Lola, check out this tiny little clip. It sums it up pretty well.



Wee, indeed.

My New Addiction

Just FYI, I'm not your casual mag-flipper. When I read a magazine, I READ a magazine. Every page, every article. I study the advertisements (applying all of my photo/model knowledge picked up from constant America's Next Top Model marathons). I take my magazines very seriously.

But because it takes me so long to go through a magazine, I only have one subscription (to Lucky - love it!), but I'm seriously considering picking up another one to Shape Magazine. I've never been very interested in health or fitness magazines because, well, I'm not very interested in health or fitness. It's so BORING. I get bored doing it; I don't want to be bored reading about it. I don't want to read about body builders and see the latest fashions for their spangley show bathing suits, or see advertisements for protein shakes, or learn that I should be eating more leafy green vegetables. Boooooring.

But I was at Camie's house a couple of weeks ago, and she had a copy of Shape that she'd "borrowed" from Ruth, and I started flipping through it. And then the weirdest thing happened. We went to go get dinner and I said, "Hey, let's not go to Wendy's, let's go to the grocery store instead and get some fresh veggies and steam some shrimp." Excuse me? LET'S NOT GO TO WENDY'S??? Was I stoned? Those words have NEVER come out of my mouth before. Especially not to be replaced with the words "fresh veggies." I can only shake my head at the recollection. I don't know what came over me.

So anyway, I thought I'd buy a copy of the mag for myself, because I sort of liked it (despite the Wendy's incident) and they have this part where they suggest playlists for your workouts ... and I'm a SUCKER for playlists. So I bought one when I was at the grocery store last week. You know, just to check it out.

On Tuesday night I was laying on my couch feeling really unmotivated, and totally wanting to just veg out and watch some telly or lick the inside of a Ben & Jerry's carton or something. I'd already canceled my plans to go to institute and the gym, and I was set for a night of pure lethargy. But there wasn't anything on TV, so I picked up Shape and started reading. Next thing I know I'm downstairs in the gym working my ass off on the elliptical. And then I was doing all kinds of mad sit ups and push ups. And then I came back upstairs and cleaned my house. And then made my lunch for the next day. It was as if Richard Simmons and June Cleaver had simultaneously taken over my body and instilled in me their love for exercise and homemaking. It was spectacularly awesome.

And you know what? Tonight, the SAME THING HAPPENED!

With this kind of consistent reaction, I think it's clear that this magazine is not just glossy paper and ink. Oh no. This shit is legalized good-behavior inducing CRACK. And I'm addicted, and am gonna get me a regular supplier.

Not Sure What To Write About

I've written four draft posts tonight. I just can't settle on what pointless drivel I want to share with you today. Here are your choices ... what's catching your fancy?

Would you rather hear about the Fire Sale I'm holding in my new work cubicle? (Anyone need Gregorian Chant records to play on their Victrola? But one of the rare finds available.)

Or perhaps you'd rather get the low-down on the mustard festival happening in California. Mustard is dying to go.

It's Lent tomorrow. What am I gonna do about that? Hmmm??

Oh wait, what am I thinking, I'm sure what you REALLY want to know is which 'Britney Spears Are You?' (choices: Mouseketeer, Wild Child, Sexpot, Mommy. Anyone wanna place a bet?)

It's hard to choose, isn't it? Welcome to my world.

Rock That Coogi White Boy

"Ladies, don't startle the Coogi."

This is a Coogi Sweater (pronounced Koo-Gee, yo). The most interesting thing about a Coogi Sweater, and this my stylish coworker can attest to, is that Coogis are only appreciated by African-American people. He has received exactly 3 compliments on this sweater, all from black folks. (Let it be noted that he has received in excess of 3 cries of horror, all from me.) Whitey has no love for the Coogi, it seems.

This is a true phenomenon. Even as this picture was being taken and I was in the middle of giving him crap about how horrible it was, and how it could only be more horrible if he'd coupled it with a mock turtleneck and brown braided belt (aka The Trifecta), when one of our black co-workers happened by and said in all seriousness, "Man, That is a NICE sweater!" (They said some more stuff, like "lord, chile" but it sounds way too racist to actually type out. Even though it's the truth.) I was glad to be there in person when the Coogi was complimented, because frankly I thought he was lying that anyone had taken time out of their day to bestow a kind word about this sweater. I had the distinct feeling that I was witnessing a once in a lifetime experience like Haley's Comet, or a spiral perm that turned out good.

So you know, if you want to look all Fly a Coogi is a good place to start. But since real Coogi Sweaters can be pretty expensive I suggest just making your own. It's easy! First collect the dryer lint from all of the dryers in a high rise ghetto apartment building for a month or so. Once you have a sizeable wad, wrap the dryer lint strategically with fishing line. Then set it below a heat lap until it fuses together into a giant pelt. Then you will have the material from which a Coogi Sweater can be constructed. Once you've cut out the pieces and stitched it together, you'll be ready to roll in style, yo.

Just be prepared for an onslaught of compliments from all the brothas from another motha.

Some Thoughts On My Hotel

I mentioned before that the hotel I stayed in in Las Vegas was AH-Mazing. If I may, let me expound.

This was my bed:


"Hello, MOST COMFORTABLE bed I have ever slept in. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

King-sized, soft, at least 500 count sheets, and perfect pillows. The first night I was there I had a little trouble setting the alarm properly, and when it went off at 4Am, I had to crawl across the vast expanse of the bed to turn it off. Annoying as this could have been, it was really the best thing for me, because up until that point I had not been taking full advantage of The Bed. One thought made it to the surface of my conscious mind: "Oh man, I've gotta DIVE INTO THIS!" and then I did about fifty snow angels and rolled around for a bit, before falling back asleep. The rest of the trip was spent sleeping diagonally with a perma-grin.

Second only to The Bed was The Bath. And more particularly the flat screen TV at the foot of The Bath.
I'm not a huge bath person ... I get bored. After about three minutes of sweeping the bubbles from one side of the tub to the other or arranging them strategically, I'm ready to get out. I can usually entertain myself for another two minutes sticking my big toe into the faucet and trying to turn the knobs with my feet. But really, that's about as far as I can stretch it. It hardly seems worth the effort to fill the tub. But introduce a flat screen TV to the mix, and suddenly problem solved!

(AND! The tub was so deep I wished my butt had some traction strips glued to it so I wouldn't slip down too far and drown. How often is tub drowning even an issue? Like never.)

While we're on the subject of flat screen TVs, well lookee here! It's ANOTHER one!


I don't usually get all Guy about TVs but this one was pretty killer. Plus I could watch it from The Bed, which for me, is the main thing when it comes to TVs.

As far as hotel rooms go this one was tops in my book. It only got better when I returned late one night to see that my neighbor had left his necktie on the door. (One more thing to check off the list of things I've heard about but never actually seen with my own eyeballs. Leave it to Vegas to educate a girl!) That's what this hotel is all about: style, comfort, and respect for your roommate.