Sammy's Summer 'Do

Poor Sammy. Sammy is one of our family's golden retrievers (shown here at a flower shop in 2006), and he's lived through a lot in his 10 years as a dog. Once, he ran away for two months with one of our other dogs, Frankie. We thought they were gone for good, but then they were found. Once, Sammy came to visit me in Chicago for seven months and got a taste of life as a city canine. Like many dogs, he has particular likes (car rides, wide open spaces, fishing) and dislikes (hardwood floors, sidewalk grates, other dogs). For a while, a few years ago, he was addicted to MySpace. But never has Sammy weathered such a storm as the one he's facing now. He has received, at the hands of my mother, an Unfortunate Haircut.

Me: Mom! OMG, what happened to him?
Mom: I know. It's bad.
Me: Oh Sammy, come here. Poor thing, I can see your skin. In some places.
Mom: You should have seen the pile of hair! It was about four feet tall.
Me: Well, this is the worst he's ever looked. I hate to say it, but I might be embarrassed to take him to the park. He's a sunburn risk.
Mom (sighs): It was dark when I was shaving him. I couldn't get the guard to stay on the clippers, so I went without. Should try to touch him up a little? On his legs and maybe around his neck?
Me: NO. One hundred percent no. Sammy, you look diseased.

Still, a dog's gotta walk, so to the park we went. Sammy perked up and pranced along in the shade (we tried to provide him with as much natural SPF as possible). He ignored, for the most part, the stares. But I couldn't help overhearing two well-meaning busybodies who passed as Sammy lapped up a bottled water and leaped into the car.

Lady 1: Well, I'll be darned. Look at that.
Lady 2: For heaven's sake! He's lost all his hair!
Lady 1: He shure has.

P.S. In other news, at the bus stop last week, someone appreciated the combined effect of my most recent home pedicure and sensible but stylish Sigerson Morrison sandals:

Unidentified man: Woo hoo! Those feet look sweet enough to eat!
Me: Oh! Thank you.
Man: Mmm hmm. I do love me a woman with some pretty feet.
Me (looking down at toes): Thanks.

Brows, Balls & Cartoon Boyfriends

Pardon me for shamelessly quoting Sex and the City as a 30-year-old, but they say that in New York, you're always looking for three things: a job, a boyfriend and an apartment. If you've got at least two of those covered, you're doing pretty well. Hmm. Hmmmmmmm.

It's pretty much the same deal in Chicago, except apartments are easier to come by. An alarming review of my current status in the three categories:

1. Last week, I submitted my resume to a major media conglomerate with the following line in my list-format cover letter (devised to avoid the utter boredom of actual paragraphs): "Gets along well with others!" In the same e-mail, I also name-dropped Mary Poppins the musical, a topic which I cannot cease referencing.
2. I can't go into detail about topic #2 without exercising my signature eye roll to the point of retina fatigue, except to say that lately, Match.com has been attempting to lure me back into its soul-shriveling fold with the following e-mail subject line: "Love is on sale! 25% off!" Is that a bargain? The offer is accompanied by a rendering of a possible future love interest (above), who, as you can see, might not have a face but comes complete with a full head of hair and confidently slouchy stance.
3. When my upstairs neighbor strides around his living room preparing for his shift at the shoe store, it's like the cast of Riverdance is rehearsing inside my skull. When my next-door neighbor dries her hair at 5:26AM with her low-wattage, non-salon-quality tool, I might as well insert my eardrum into a trash compactor. And when another neighbor lets her XXL tabby cat into the courtyard while my porch door is ajar, he creeps into my kitchen and startles my pants off with his baleful meows. How much, I wonder, am I currently willing to tolerate in exchange for the ease of accessible street parking in the 142 residential zone?

P.S. An open letter to the makers of Brach's malted milk balls, once my favorite mass-market candy:

Dear Farley's & Sathers Candy Company, Inc.,

I have recently learned, via Internet research, that you acquired the Brach's candy company in November 2007. While one would hope you'd keep their time-tested recipes intact, I can see (and taste) that you've implemented some cost-cutting measures to the one candy I regularly purchase at grocery and drug stores: Brach's Malted Milk Balls.

Based on my evaluation of a bag of said balls obtained yesterday at my neighborhood Treasure Island, I would like to submit the following observations:

Packaging (THEN): Lustrous pink bag with superior plastic thickness and tempting photo of malt balls beneath Brach's logo.
Packaging (NOW): Noticeably flimsier plastic in more garish pink hue; dull, grainy picture of unidentifiable brown mass.

Malt Ball Appearance (THEN): Shiny chocolate brown exterior; slightly irregular ball shape with mildly undulating surface.
Malt Ball Appearance (NOW): Smaller ball size; suspiciously matte texture with waxy finish.

Taste (THEN): Initial bite through medium-thick layer of semi-real chocolate, crunching through to sweet/crisp nougat interior.
Taste (NOW): Disturbingly chewy, 100% fake chocolate non-taste followed by chalky, lackluster semi-crunch at center.

Basically, Farley's & Sathers, you're busted. Per your suggestion on the back of the bag, I shall return the unused portion in original packaging to your Minnesota mailing address. I hope you are able to replace it with a quality candy specimen.

Very Truly Yours,
A.R.D.


P.P.S. The latest installment in the Drury Sisters Eyebrow Chronicles, excerpted from a conversation on 5/20/09:

Emma: Your eyebrows are looking good. You're going to a new girl in Louisville, right?
Claire: Yeah, she's strict. She yelled at me. I'm not allowed to wait more than two weeks between appointments.
Emma: Well, are you happy with them?
Claire (pointedly arching aforementioned brow): I think they make yours look a little thin.

Once and Future Jackpots

It is one of my most frequent activities: Driving up and down I-65 from Chicago to Louisville, Louisville to Chicago, in my trusty auto, Black Beauty. If you've ever previously read this blog or have met me in person anytime between 1999 and now, you will remember that Black Beauty is not your standard semi-antique hunk of steel. In fact, the two of us have a lot in common. We're both always simmering a little under our hoods. We look younger than we really are. We have the same breakdowns over and over again. And neither of us has very good shocks, so we hit potholes hard (but at all other times we hug the road with a high level of style). You get the gist. So, I usually make that I-65 drive by myself these days, but I'm never 100% alone. A recent (as in yesterday) conversation between me and Black Beauty:

Me: Are you serious? Check engine again?
Black Beauty: If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, check my dang engine.
Me: Bogus. You always say this and it's always nothing.
Black Beauty: Well, you never know.
Me: And frankly, I could use a little input about this SRS light situation.
Black Beauty: Supplemental restraint system.
Me: I know, but is it seriously broken? Would the airbag still protect my face in a crash?
Black Beauty: That's for me to know and you to find out.
Me: N-E-WAYZ, which exit are you thinking for gas?
Black Beauty: Let's hit 240. New pumps, nice quality windshield wipes.

When my car and I run out of things to discuss, I turn to my other favorite 300-mile pastime: deciding what to do with my lottery winnings if and when I win them. I cover the usual bases (pay off people's mortgages, go on an African safari, build myself an elaborate treehouse where I'll read books and listen to birds, and (shhh!) buy a hot new M5), and yesterday I made an addition to the list:

Me: You know, all these billboards are a crying shame. Nothing but porn, preaching and patty melts for sale.
Me 2 Me: Yeah. If that lottery ticket pans out you can totally put whatever you want on these billboards.
Me: Then you can give back to the community. You know, do something to really connect with your fellow drivers.
Me 2 Me: Something pretty.
Me: Yeah, pretty. And fun! Like an art show.
Me 2 Me: Yeah! You can rent, like, seven billboards in a row and hire a famous photographer to do something large-scale and arty.
Me: But not like those nature pictures in the inspirational poster store at the mall. This is not about footprints in the sand.
Me 2 Me: I know. It would have to be non-controversial but cool.
Me: Yeah, like those back-lit Tokihiro Sato photos from the Art Institute [see below] that you got in trouble for taking pictures of because it's against the rules to take a photograph of a photograph.
Me 2 Me: And you could have just a few words at the bottom of each billboard. A greeting to all.
Me: It would be like:
1. Hello, fellow drivers!
2. Please enjoy these beautiful photos.
3. But don't get too distracted.
4. Happy trails!
5. Exit here for a free cookie.
Me 2 Me: A free cookie?
Me: Yeah, you could build a little drive-up shack at the next exit where you'd give everyone a free homemade chocolate chip cookie.
Me 2 Me: Hmm. A few logistical kinks to work out, but man oh man, that is a great idea. I sure hope this ticket is a winner.


P.S. I am anti- the new British announcer they had calling some of the races on Derby day at Churchill Downs. This is not England. This is Kentucky. A British accent does not automatically make everything fancier.

P.P.S. And come on, people, when they play "My Old Kentucky Home" right before the Derby, I really do expect you to sing along. If I memorize the all the words and wear a fascinator all day and throw down cold hard cash on Mint Juleps and park three miles from the track, then I need to hear group participation at the crucial emotional moment. I don't even care if you're from out of town. Get on it for next year. Thanks.

Herewith, the fascinator in action. Speaking of jackpots, my sister Claire (right) took home some bank on the long-shot surprise winner, Mine That Bird.

Thank Gelato It's Friday

Today, on Gelato Friday (mmm, I'm really craving something cold and creamy), I would like to address several topics:

1. I want Oprah to stop with Twitter, talking about her Tweeple, and beaming in viewers in via Skype. Sure, I've Skyped here and there, but that's because I'm on a budget and I wanted to communicate with my sister Liv in Italy (that is, before the Italian police asked to see her nonexistent work visa and politely invited her to exit the country). But anyway, I know Oprah is not on a budget. I'd much rather see her take a question from an actual audience member being filmed from a flattering angle than listen to her shout across the room at a blurry image of a poorly-lit Barbara from Rhode Island or Monica from Idaho.

2. I am fascinated by an item called a fascinator, which is what I plan to wear on my head to the Kentucky Derby next weekend. It's something like a cross between a headband and a hat (see above: SJP in a particularly elaborate example). I hope my (yet to be procured) fascinator will add Drama!, Flair!, and furthermore, Height!, to my ensemble. FASCINATOR. Don't you just love that word? I learned it from my sister Claire.

3. It has been one full week since I spoke to my teacher friend Tim's first-grade class at the Walt Disney magnet school on career day. I told them about how I write stories for magazines, and I tried to outline the process of getting from an idea to an interview to a photo shoot to words on a page. All they really wanted to do, however, was play with my late-90s model mini cassette recorder, which still held the previous week's interview with Mary Poppins (the musical) star Ashley Brown (whom I claimed was the real Mary Poppins). Regardless, I enjoyed the feeling that for a moment I might be molding young minds. I also enjoyed reviewing the students' recent homework assignments on the bulletin board, especially the paper which noted: "If I could be a butterfly for a day, I would fly to Pizza Hut and eat cheese pizza." Well said.


(My favorite number from Mary Poppins: "Step In Time")

Ina Is My Martha

Because affectionately referring to my girlfriends as "heifers" doesn't come naturally to me, I don't think I could ever be BFFs with Paula Deen. (Though nothing entertains me more than gazing in the mirror and intoning in my most extravagant twang: "Guess what I'm fixin' t' do now, ya'll? I'm fixin' t' wrap this bacon 'round these chilled mac 'n cheese squares, an' then I'm goin' deep fry 'em, ya'll.") I can't connect with Martha Stewart, either, because as much as her bad-girl tendencies and sinister flower arranging demonstrations intrigue me, I don't do Arts & Craps. But if there's one TV homemaker who makes me want to move into a cottage and start growing my own asparagus ASAP, it's Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa. I never watched her much when I was immersed in the, um, corporate world, but these days I'm 100% enamored with her popped-collar denim shirts, her soothing approach to egg-cracking, her trips to the market to buy lamb shoulders from butchers who adore her and her rotating cast of non-threatening dinner guests. No one else on the Food Network can touch her for pure legitimacy, pure quality, pure comfort--and that, I have decided, is the catchword of the moment.

I was not comforted, however, when I awoke this morning to the grating scream of a giant wood chipper in the alley behind my building on Mohawk Street. I was not comforted when I heard my next-door neighbor puking through the wall (and, directly after the puking, watching an adult video at top volume). I was not comforted when I got into my car and listened to Eminem's Crack the Bottle (the fully explicit version), a tune with which I can hardly bring myself to sing along. I was not comforted when I discovered via various beauty blogs that I might die from the formaldehyde-laced Brazilian hair straightening treatment I received on Thursday. And, though I'm very much looking forward to this evening's VIP Chippendales performance at the Horseshoe Casino, I don't expect banana hammocks would score high on Ina's comfort meter. Oh well. Tomorrow is Easter, a good day for fresh starts.

P.S. More wholesomely, have you ever communicated with a real live Uncanny Nanny using the most modern of technologies? I have:

Whilst waiting in the lobby of the Cadillac Palace Theatre last night to interview Broadway star Ashley Brown in her dressing room, pre-performance:

Jeff: Who're you texting?
Me: The girl I'm interviewing.
Jeff: You're texting Mary Poppins?
Me: Yes. I'm texting Mary Poppins.

Change I Refuse To Believe In

I couldn't be more thankful to see the season finale of The City air last night. Despite the show's value as a treasure trove of upbeat shopping tunes (which I regularly download to add to the Peacock Boutique master playlist), I suspect the producers' choice of Aussie model/renegade Jay Lyon as Whitney's boyfriend has been nothing more than a marketing gimmick designed to subliminally encourage viewers to eat at Outback Steakhouse. Listen closely when Jay speaks and you'll hear for yourself:

Jay: "I told you, Whit, I don't even know that girl. I swear I didn't take her home cheese fries cheese fries cheese fries last night.
Whit: But Jay, you were wasted.
Jay: I only had seven shots alice springs chicken oozy cheese cheese, I swear.
Whitney (balefully): "But Jay."
Jay: "Why're you always yelling at me, Whit? Deep fried bloomin' onion mmm mmm good. Look, if you can't trust me, I just don't know if this relationship can work.

Lord, what I wouldn't do for some shrimp on the barbie.

Meanwhile, a sticker on my most recent bag of Baked Lay's has alerted me that the chip brand will soon be sporting a new look. That's just great. I'll never find them in the snack aisle, and if I ever do bring a bag into my apartment I'll be confused every time I see them on the kitchen counter. Obviously there are Frito-Lay executives who are unaware of my fear of change and the fact that I've already had enough for one year. Between this, the renaming of the Sears Tower (prompting all my Facebook friends to indulge in "What you talkin' bout, Willis?" status updates), the privatizing of Chicago parking meters and an upcoming overhaul of the Chipotle logo, my life has become nearly unrecognizable.

P.S. There are two Quotes of the Week. One goes to Jeff, and one to me. What? It's my blog.

While traversing a sidewalk in Washington Park and mapping a route to the Museum of Science and Industry via iPhone:
Jeff: I think we passed the bus stop.
Me: It's right behind us.
Jeff: Where?
Me: That blue sign, see?
Jeff: There? We can't stand there. Too ugly.

Over dinner at Pingpong:
Jeff: Kelli, remember when you used to love those Babysitter's Club books? You had every one lined up in a row.
Kelli: I loved the horse books, too.
Me: I watched the Babysitter's Club movie on OnDemand last week. I used to be a Babysitter's Club of one.
Jeff: Emma, you babysat?
Me: Oh yes, Lake Forest was a babysitting gold mine back in the day. I used babysit the shit out of that neighborhood.

A Ghost Story, Ending TBD

Yesterday I was at lunch with someone who said he hadn't seen a certain movie because, he reasoned, "Who needs a ghost story? Isn't life scary enough these days?" I concur. Even movies with titles like Confessions of a Shopaholic are enough to scare my pants off in this economy, and with so many hypothetical axes being slung every which way, the last thing I'm trying to get into is more gore.

Still, I can't help but create a little suspense in my head once in a while, especially when the weather calls for it, and especially when I've been churning out a feature story in utter silence for days on end. And so, when I'd typed the last word of said story yesterday afternoon (in case you're wondering, the word was "here"), I stood up, slipped on my tennis shoes, and exited the premises. It was 5:51pm and a tad late for a walk, but that's what Daylight Savings Time is for, right? It was also drizzling rather seriously, but by the time I'd realized it the front door had closed behind me and it was Too Late to Turn Back.

Dodging sludgy puddles and peering through the fog on the lakefront path, I beheld the enshrouded Chicago skyline. I passed beneath the dim orange glow of an endless row of streetlights. I outpaced the rush-hour creep of Lake Shore Drive. I made my way along the curve of a narrow concrete pier that dead-ends about a quarter of a mile out into the water, where I determined to touch the graffitied steel lattice of a lookout station before retracing my steps. It was a curiously warm evening, but an empty chill rose from either side of the walkway; below, winter's slow-melting swaths of chunked-up ice floated in ringed patterns like crop circles, rolling heavily atop the waves. It was, in other words, an Eerie and Unsafe situation (sorry, Mom!).

As far as I knew I was the only human soul on the pier, but when I turned I found myself walking toward a man dressed in head-to-toe black (workout wear, mind you). He was tall, gym-rat burly, and despite his stony expression, clearly be-bopping to something effervescent on his iPod. We inched closer, and I held my head as high and level as possible, hoping to exude an ass-whuping air of defiance. My hair, unrestrained by any ponytail-holding device, swirled about my face in what I imagined to be an extremely mermaid-esque arrangement. "That man could kill me right now if he wanted to," I thought. "One hard shove, and I'd be a goner." (See above: My possible fate.) I became acutely aware of those undulating ice circles, one of which I might disappear into like a basketball swishing through a hoop. Eye contact was established, and the man and I passed without incident (obviously, as I am still here to spin this heart-stopping tale).

Moments later, the Alicia Keys song "Superwoman" began piping through my headphones, and my mind turned from dark scenarios involving hulking powerwalkers to the daily business of pep-talking myself about my future career. "You will once again be a valuable asset to some company, some day," I preached heartily. "Yes you can. Yes you will." I even sang along a little, since no one was around.

Closer to home and now in full darkness, I waited to cross the street with a group of sensibly accessorized office workers (umbrellas, galoshes) who'd just filed off the 151 bus. They'd stayed late at their desks, no doubt, to prove their usefulness. At a lull in traffic we moved forward in a pack, and for a block I pretended I was one of them. You know, just for karma's sake.

When the Clouds Align, At Last

When Beyoncé sang Etta James' "At Last" to Barack and Michelle at the Neighborhood Ball on inauguration night, it was arguably one of the loveliest moments ever to play out for an audience of billions. Honestly, I could YouTube that shit all day. When the same song plays during the black-and-white scene in Pleasantville where they drive down Lover's Lane while floating cherry blossoms create a sudden shower of blush pink, a similar fairy-tale effect is achieved. But lately, when Etta's silky first notes of this timeless tune announce the beginning of a new Hoover vacuum cleaner commercial, I'm forced to close my eyes, sing "LA LA LA" at top volume and change the channel before another strain reaches my ears. Hoover: As much as I respect your vast vacuum empire and enjoy the sheer dirt-busting power of my Wind Tunnel Complete (it certainly does suck), you're ruining it for me! Please, make up an original jingle about bagless debris storage or something.

In other news, I thought Bachelor Jason made quite the revealing slip last night when he said: "When I'm with Melissa, it's like everything just falls right into place. It's like when all the clouds align. She's such a fun and amazing and beautiful girl." If he were really in love with her, don't you think he would have said stars instead of clouds? Mark my words, Melissa will not be the winner of a product-placed diamond ring and soon-to-be-called-off engagement when the finale airs next week. But if she's lucky, she might get one more run-hug-twirl, Jason's best and signature move.
























And now, please allow me to present today's Match Moment! Is it mean if I continue to feature cut-and-pastes from my favorite Match men on this blog? Come on, you know you like it. And so many clouds are aligning these days that I think we could all use the entertainment. So, here you go. Real uncensored romance, unleashed:

PRINCE CHARMING #1: Don't sweat the small stuff I always say! Tommarow's another day! Oops. I'm pretty much of a guy that when life slams me down I always stand up, dust myself off and go on!! Shit happens!!!! Get up and stand tall I always say!!! My match should be able to fish with no help if you know what that means. Camper also is great, but I know when a lady has to be a lady. I enjoy going out for dinner but the candle light thing works for me also! Love to snuggle an spoon!! I love snowy nights infront of the fire, and those rainy Sunday's sitt'n watchin the games, huge bonus!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Huge Bears fan and Cubs fan you pick the game I have tickets for both!

PC #2: A Ray Of Sunshine.....And A Lot Of Laughs!!!!! If you are looking for a lot of fun and a bunch of laughs and can handle a great looking, fun guy! Look no further! I am looking for a girl who can be just a blast to hang out with. Someone I can look over and can't help but think "damn she is hot". I want a woman whose smile catches my eye from across a room and makes the heart flutter. A woman who smells intoxicating and I can't help but whisper "let's leave this party now!" Simple guy who loves to be active-sports-playing them...coaching them...watching them...loves the sun-why am I here in mid Feb??? Love to cook-hate doin the dishes...I am old scool romntic but why can't I have it all?!

PC #3 (accompanied by 14 shirtless self-portraits featuring a variety of silver and wood-bead necklaces): Well I'm 5 10 185lbs, . I'm 100% italian, STRAIGHT male, i have 11 piercings & 5 tats, im outgoing, spontanious, silly and fun to be around because I'm still a kid at heart. I'm very blunt too, i dont sugar coat things, I say it like it is! I'm professional with a bad boy side to me which always helps. I always get my way if I want it that bad. I love to work out, love my music (electro house, hardstyle, vocal trance, metal ) , go clubbing, beaches when its nice out, anything that can keep my interest.

Most of my friends are married engaged or work on the time that i have off so it's almost like I'm stuck in alot which sucks.

25 Things, Random or Not

So, is everyone aware of this 25 Random Things About Me chain letter that's taken hold of Facebook and choked the site's entire population in its irresistible boa death grip? Well. When I first saw it I rolled my eyes several times in a row. Like millions of users, I've been "tagged" in the 25 Random Things note nearly 1,276 times. I've always stoically resisted the urge to respond. Anyone who hasn't already been exposed to enough info about A.R.D. via Facebook status updates, MySpace golden oldies, blogs, Google searches, texts, e-mails, contributer bios, first-person essays, actual face-to-face conversation, etc., clearly has not been doing his/her research. Plus, an internet expert on the Today Show last week smirked while calling the list "the epitome of modern-day vanity," therefore making anyone who falls into its trap the automatic World's Biggest Dumbass.

But. When used as a procrastination tool, the 25 Random Things can be highly effective. Please don't disown me for doing this:

1. I'm considering full-on bangs, or maybe parting my hair in the middle.
2. My sister Claire and I are sometimes mean to each other about our eyebrows. The last time she told me mine were getting too thin was on September 22, 2008.
3. There's a jar of mint-infused honey in my kitchen that I don't want to open for some reason.
4. I've never met my current upstairs neighbor in person, but I know via Bob the Landlord that his family owns a popular Chicago shoe store where sensible shoes are sold.
5. When my sister Liv was a sweet little eight-year-old whose hair curled charmingly around her temples, I taught her to point to those curls and say: "Look, I'm horny!"
6. Magic Johnson cried a little when I interviewed him once. I am the next Barbara Walters, surely.
7. Personally, I always cry a little while watching Sweet Home Alabama or The Notebook.
8. And, I need to get over Ye Olde Hometown Sweetheart Love Story. At least, that's what various friends have asserted REPEATEDLY.
9. I keep a plaster cast of my own teeth above my kitchen sink. I got it the day my braces came off, at the ripe old age of 22 (see photo).
10. I know the horse racing industry is not always on the up-and-up, but I love the sound of many hooves thundering by on a dirt track.
11. Every Monday night, my uncle Jack and I exchange close to 58 incredulous texts on the subject of The Bachelor.
12. Favorite pen = Uniball Vision Exact, fine point, in blue.
14. I just skipped the number 13 because after last Friday, I'm feeling superstitious.
15. I've never been a bridesmaid.
16. Today I stood in front of the seal pool at the zoo, willing a seal to swim over to me. When one finally poked its head out of the water and flared its nostrils at me plaintively, I said, "Oh, there you are!" Like we were old friends.
17. The following fortune cookie wisdom is taped to my desk: "You have a slow and unhurried natural rhythm." I'm not sure if that's a compliment, but I like it.
18. I have to write a book. It just seems like the natural progression of things. But will people still be reading books by the time I finish mine?
19. After I park my car some nights, I like walking down the middle of my street in my party heels, in the dark. I consider it part safety measure, part Sex and the City delusion.
20. I am an incredible rapper. You should hear me on Lupe Fiasco's "Kick, Push." (My favorite song of the year.)
21. Also today, I wrote a letter of complaint to Hotmail about their banner ad featuring some girl's stretch-marked belly hanging over her waistband. I'm sick of looking at that.
22. I just sighed deeply.
23. I'm boring myself to death.
24. I have to go watch American Idol now.
25. Adios.

My Un-Funny Valentine

It would appear that I do not have a confirmed Valentine this year, except for McLovin4U, who sent me a wink on Match last night but whom I cannot entertain as a possibility because he's yet another Vegas fanatic. Honestly, I can't wait until my subscription runs out. Whatever, no Valentine is better than last year's a-hole, who sent me an e-card, a couple texts and an arrangement of carnations that arrived at my office after I'd left for the day. He then went off the radar for the remainder of the evening (a time period during which I later learned he took his other girlfriend out to dinner).

This year, I'll be attending someone else's engagement party on V-day, and although I won't be taking a date, I will be getting into the spirit by wearing a rather beautiful pair of red satin shoes with jeweled bows, and that has to count for something. (See right for desktop still life.) They are my new ruby slippers, and if I could break them in enough to tap my heels together three times without wincing in pain, they just might take me somewhere incredible. Somewhere where health insurance is handed out like candy. Somewhere where every lottery ticket is a winner. Somewhere where the temperature at any given moment is 74 degrees and they serve a side of chocolate chips with every meal.

In other news, several things occurred yesterday and the day before:

1. I watched a dried Christmas tree float down the bike lane on Wells Street like a homesick tumbleweed.
2. I went to the dentist for my toothache, which hurts at all times but especially when breeze blows on it. My dentist said she can find nothing amiss and asked if I'm under a lot of stress, then brought up a toothache of mine from several months ago that vanished mysteriously. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have been diagnosed with a phantom toothache.
3. I took myself out to breakfast at Nookie's, where I sat near a multi-pierced girl who faintly resembled Angelina Jolie and who carried on a mostly one-sided conversation with her unlikely dining companion, a Nerdy Dude:

Angie Junior: If I can draw really good cartoons, then why shouldn't I, you know?
Nerdy Dude: Seriously.
AJ: And the weird thing about it is, everybody says I look like Angelina Jolie, and everyone says Jeanette looks like Jennifer Aniston, but we don't fight, we're actually the best of friends.
ND: That's so weird.
AJ: Jeanette's a Pisces, so she's really outgoing, which is kind of the opposite of me but not really.
ND: Hmm, interesting.
AJ: I would like to have nice teeth at some point, you know, get some work done on my teeth or maybe get Lasik surgery, even though my mom had complications from it. She couldn't see out of one eye for a long time.
ND: Wow.

P.S. I've loved print media since I was roughly 11 years old, when I first started reading Sassy magazine. (Or, maybe it was a fascination born out of running around Granddaddy's office at the Louisville Courier-Journal as a child and getting black ink on my socks. Or reading my mom's Redbooks while she was in Jazzercise.) Magazines have always been my most reliable bedtime companions, and I can hardly bring myself to throw away my Vanity Fairs even when they weigh 20 pounds and I've read every page. I once thought to myself: I want to write for a magazine. And that's what I did. But last night, I met with CNN's Ali Velshi, who just wrote a book about the recession titled Gimme My Money Back: Your Guide to Beating the Financial Crisis. I knew I was expected to ask him a question, so I said, "Ali, I work in print media. When do you think I might be able to get a new job?" His response: "Get a new career." So, I'm taking suggestions. If you can think of a line of work for which I might be suited, please let me know. And please don't say Waffle House.