Damn cripples!

My feature article was yanked! Replaced by a two-page spread on people with disabilities! Like that's more important than my article about hamster auditions!

AND YOU CALL YOURSELVES JOURNALISTS!

Where the free art?

I worked last night at Christie's auction house. Passing hors d'oeuvres to the fancy pants, whining about how long the party was, playing "Which Piece Would You Buy?" with the other waiters - the usual. The party must have been for their Young Buyer crowd because the average age was 30. It's always weird being in a subservient position to wealthy people, but when they're your age it's doubly awkward. They're never sure if they're supposed to treat you like the help or like a buddy, so they mostly just giggle and avert their eyes. I was serving a tray of stinky cheese paninis to a circle of sorority types when I overheard one of them discussing the piece she was planning on bidding on. It was a Rothko - one of my faves.

The starting price was $4.5 million.

Yeah, I know.

Not that she was the one big buyer in the group - the cheapest piece started at $500,000 - but it was just unbelievable to hear that someone my age had $4.5 million, much less $4.5 million to spend. One of the girls in the group asked Miss Moneybags what she did for a living; she hesitated for a second before her friend piped in with, "She's trying to figure out how to put it..." I was dying to hear the answer but there's only so long you can linger with a tray of stinky cheese before people start getting weirded out.

By the way, the Piece I Would Buy: the portrait above, by (whoda guessed?) Toulouse-Lautrec. Starting price, $20 million.

That's RIGHT!

The Scoots got indicted! Frankly I think they have even bigger fish to fry, but this is a good start. (While we're at it, let's get something done about that Kaufman case, too.)

A shout-out to my peeps

Let me just say this: I love it when people I don't actually know post comments on my blog. I get a little thrill each time someone new pops up. (Especially when they're not declaring jihad or showing me their penis.) So to those of you out there who read/post - strangers though you may be - I salute you.

And for those of you out there who I do actually know and who read/post comments (unlike, say, Nadia) I double salute you. Keep up the good work.

Well it's about time!

Take that, Kansas school board!

A List of Things I Love; or The Most Self-Involved Post of 2005

Because feel like writing but don't feel like writing anything that would be, say, profitable, I'm going to make a list of the things I love. For the record, this list is strictly commercial. Purchasable happiness. Buyable delectability.

- My American Express frequent flier miles credit card. While not a purchase per-se, it allows me to purchase AND I get roughly one free flight a year from it. Just make sure you pay the card off in full every month. (Don't go squirrelling around with the APR on this bad-boy, it's a monster.)

- Pilot G-2 pens. I used to be a hard-core Le Pen fan but they're just too damn difficult to find, and since I refuse to write with a ball point (fine point felt tip is the only way to go) it's a bitch to hunt those suckers down. Luckily I discovered Pilot. Seriously, there's no point in writing with anything else.

- Bust Magazine. I want to write for Television Without Pity but they refuse to let me. (Or anyone else, for that matter.) I want to be paid to write for Gawker but that ain't gonna happen. In the meantime, I'll dream of coming up with something to pitch to Bust. (If you've got any ideas, send 'em to me. If I make money off of it, I'll make you dinner.)

- Jane Magazine. I KNOW I'M TOO OLD TO READ IT.

- Chevy's Fresh Mex. The margaritas are alcohol-free (in Manhattan, anyway) and the decor is decidedly Spring Break, but who can say no to chips made fresh from El Machino?

- Anything that's fresh tomato or grapefruit scented.

- Chocolate "creme" filled donuts from Duncan Donuts.

- Anthropologie and Kate's Paperie. Christmas is coming... Don't forget your favorite blogger! And me!

- Dianetics. Okay, so I actually don't love Dianetics but I'm desperate to read it and I can't bring myself to actually go to the library and check it out. But if anyone wanted to float a copy my way, I wouldn't be opposed.

To be continued...

Buy a ticket to the ME sho - Wait, that sounds familiar...

Assuming all systems are go and it's a slow news day, my first real-live feature article will run this Sunday in the world famous Topeka Capital-Journal! It'll be in the Metro section, for those in the T-town area. This may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so stock up, kiddies! (And feel free to write complimentary letters to the editor. I'm gunning for a column.)

By the way, all the funny parts were written by my husband and Dan.

Loo light up my life

Paris Hilton had sex in a porta-potty? Wait, what!?

Blogger bugs me

I have nothing else to say, but if I don't post something in this space you can't read anything I've written in the next post. Blogger's weird that way. Let's see if this works...

Titty-tastic!

So Pam Anderson is putting to kids to bed, huh? She's putting the shoes back in the closet. She's.... putting the socks in the sock... drawer.

What I'm trying to say is, Ms. Anderson is reportedly retiring her titties. Call me skeptical but I'm skeptical. For a woman who's put 'em in, taken 'em out, and put 'em back in again, she seems a touch indecisive on this point. (But I'm in love with the quote from her mom. Yes Pammy, your smile is exactly what the boys want to see.)

I have not seen you in nothing either, asshole.

So I'm working this job I do every so often, selling baby clothes to retailers across the country. I actually look forward the gigs - the clothes are super cute, I get breakfast and lunch and since there's no commission, there's none of that icky pressure. The only drawback is the guy who works at the booth across from me. He's a shlumpy, sleazy guy from some indeterminant, vaguely Eastern European-ish country who peddles last season's peasant skirts to uninterested buyers. (Imagine George Costanza crossed with Steve Martin's Wild and Crazy Guy and you'll nail him.) He normally leaves me alone - which is wise - but for some strange reason, today he decided to chat me up. First he started talking about San Juan ("You never been dere? EVERYBODY been dere!"), yammering about how many times he got "it" while he was there (exactly what "it" was, I wasn't about to ask). Then he moved on to his feelings about "de gays". Then he moved on to me.

"So what you do?"

"I'm an actor."

"No you are not."

"Yeah. I am."

(doubtfully) "Really? No, you are not."

"Uh, yeah."

(scoffing) "I have not seen you in nothing!"

Well... Can't argue with that one. I was tempted to pull out my Prevacid ad but the patheticness of that move would've sent me over the edge.

Hold the presses -

Does Halle Berry have six toes? How did I not know about this?

Only in Japan (thanks, Chintamani)

If this ever comes stateside, it's mine.

We need Gunderman for this one.

I can't decide if this is insanity or brilliance. Apparently people are buying up loft space and converting them into things called "Writing Rooms". Basically, they take a large, empty space, put up a few cubicles and rent it out to writers as a work room. They provide the coffee (but you have to make it) and insist on complete silence, so as to eliminate all distraction. You must provide three letters of recommendation, a resume, and writing samples in order to apply for a spot. Assuming you get in, there's usually a six-month waiting list.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the appeal. Working from home, it's easy to get distracted by the TV and the telephone and noisy neighbors. These rooms offer a space in which to work uninterrupted for as long as you want and the chance to network with other writers (you're allowed to talk outside, I suppose), plus it's probably inspiring to be surrounded by a bunch of people who are all working toward the same goal - not to mention a lot less lonely than sitting at home by yourself. What I can't get over are the prices. According to an article in Time Out New York, the Writing Room charges $600 a month. A ringing cell phone can make you lose your deposit. I can't decide if it's an interesting commentary on the state of life in the Big City or simply a brilliant marketing device, akin to convincing people to shell out $5 for a latte. Mostly I think it's sad that quiet space is so limited here that people can charge inordinate amounts of money for the "priviledge" of having it.

My acupuncturist is trying to kill me.

My acupuncturist insisted I drink this combo to cure my cold:

cinnamon
ground coffee
ginger
scallions

Boil 10 minutes. Then add:

lemon
honey

Strain and drink until your forehead is damp.

I dare one of you to do it.

White trash survival kit

Toilet Paper......... check.
Bud Light.............. check.
Keystone Ice........ check.
Budweiser............. check.
Red Dog................. check.
Misc. other bottles of alcohol... check.
Piece of plywood to float your chick and booze on... check.

Next time let's all be more prepared.

(Thanks to mom for this one.)

MMM-MMM, CAH-DRY!

I just slept 11 1/2 hours for the second day in a row. I'm still in my jammies at 1:04. That's practically un-American.

My green snot means no trip to Vermont. (But luckily my rhyming abilities are still intact.) I did manage to make it to the Superhero Fashion Show last night though and discovered a deep-seated crush on Rob Cordry. ("CAH-DRY!") He's always been sort of schlumpy on the Daily Show, but suited up in Kenneth Cole's "Millionaire Playboy Superhero" suit he transformed into something quasi-hot. A marching band started off the show with a rousing rendition of the Spider-Man theme song while a kid in a Spider-Man costume cavorted onstage, having the time of his life. John Hodgman (a former professional literary agent and the author of "The Areas of My Expertise", the next book I want to read) was a hilarious host, talking about his secret life as the superhero "Professional Literary Agent". (His costume: buttondown shirt, jacket, khakis and a mexican wrestling mask.) Then Edna from The Incredibles gave a phone interview and discussed her hatred for capes ("No capes! No ponchos! No shawls!") and the problem of outfitting difficult superheros (Captain Long-Waist-Narrow-Hips being a personal fave). The fashion show itself was only okay - I was hoping for some really incredible stuff - but I'm sure they ended up raising a ton of cash at the costume auction.

Okay, enough dilly-dallying. Laundry and grocery shopping waits for no man. Whatever that means.

Dayquil and Sudafed, A Love Song

So I just got back from the doc. Apparently my sore throat and stuffy nose and green snot isn't fatal, like I thought. I have a head cold. It's not that I wanted it to be something bad, but I wouldn't have minded if it was something a little cooler. If I'm going to feel this shitty I want to be sick, you know? (In the back of my mind I always hope for something a little hardcore... Something really painful and icky that I alone have the threshold to withstand!) A head cold is so lame. Can't I at least be quarantined? (Psst... I'm not contageous. But if it gets me out of chopping wood this weekend, I am.)

Alrighty then

Babysat Billy last night. 7:30 is shower time, which - like most 9 year olds - he loathes. I was sitting in the living room when I started hearing grunting from Billy's bedroom. This was followed by a few urgent whispers, more grunting, a thump.

"Billy? Are you getting in the shower?"

"I CAN'T!"

"Why not?"

"I'm battling my reflection in the mirror!"

"It looks wonderful, dahling."

Being sick blows. I caught this particular bit of nastiness last night at catering (some benefit for a company called New Alternatives for Children. It was at Jazz @ Lincoln Center. The theme? "All That NAC". Ugh.) and it looks to put a damper on my Vermonting. I may not be able to chop down any trees, but I can sneeze on 'em real good. And tomorrow night is the Superhero Fashion Show up at Symphony Space. My wonderful, gainfully employed hubster has secured us tickets to the show of the season. Ed Helmes, Samantha Bee, and Rob Cordry (from the Daily Show) are modeling superhero outfits designed by big name designers (Marc Jacobs, etc), and it's narrated by Edna from The Incredibles. Its a fundraiser for the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company, a literacy program. If only Stephen Colbert were modeling... Have you watched the Colbert Report yet? He's got the stuff.

Post? You don't need no stinkin' post!

I'm going to be low on the posting the next week or so, but in the meantime you can look forward to such pithy tales as:

- The Sopranos Audition That Sucked!
- Spending $50 On Baby Clothes! (I Don't Have A Baby!)
- Vermont Farm Life! Or How I Lost My Foot In A Horrible Wood Chopping Incident!

But first, I'm off to watch the sleeping tot.

Matt on McSweeney's!

He so famous! Go here to read the thing.

Night time is the right time

I was awake most of the night with cramps. (Those herbs? The ones that are supposed to reduce heat? Well they get the blood flowing, all right...) I've never been afflicted with the debilitating cramps from which some poor ladies suffer (back at Landon Junior High, it was rumored that Tiffani Krug spent days curled up in bed. Whether she actually suffered from debilitating cramps or just wanted a good excuse to get out of Social Studies we'll never know. I mean, she used to go home twice a day to shave her legs.) but last night it felt like the lining of my uterus was being ripped from my innerds. At 3 am, after several futile minutes of trying to convince Tinkerbell that my tummy was the best place for her to sleep, a book title popped into my head. It was perfect. Pristine! Not since "He's Just Not That Into You" had there been a title that so encompassed one person's experience:

"How I Slept My Way To The Middle; Or Why I Am Not Famous"

Yeeeaaaah! Right? Right?

I'm just going to throw this out there -

On 27th Street, they're already selling Christmas trees.

I'm the one with the hair.

The hubby and I are celebrating our anniversary tonight by going out to dinner and stuffing ourselves. (Our anniversary is technically Monday but splitting a bottle of vino on a school night just seemed wasteful.) We're going to the restaurant where we got engaged. And by "engaged" I mean the restaurant where Matt abruptly announced that he thought we should get married "sometime this Spring". (Don't worry ladies, I eventually made him get down on one knee. And buy me two engagement rings, but that's a story for another time.) We're going to L'ecole, the restaurant at the French Culinary Institute. I made sure to tell the reservationist that it was our anniversary and, oh yeah, that we got engaged there (screw subtlety - mama wants some bubbly!) so we'll see what happens.

Frankly, between a bottle of wine and an inordinate amount of food and my weird heat-reducing herbs, I fear this may not end up pretty, my friends.

So's you know -

My feature article in the Capital-Journal will most likely be running in the Midway section on Oct. 30 - "assuming she has space". Let's hope it's a slow news week.

Anybody got a spare ark?

It's been raining for 19 days straight and frankly, I am done. I can't get motivated to do anything because I know I'm going to be soggy the minute I leave the apartment and that my $3 umbrella is going to blow inside-out and its only use will be for the imaginary beatings I give to the cabbies who splash me with filthy, nasty street water. All I want to do is sit by a fire. Instead, I sit in front of the TV and watch Laguna Beach while eating bean with bacon soup. (For which I have a killer recipe, yo.) I have high hopes for each day - plans involving sending out "thank you for donating" cards and "please give me work" cards and knock-'em-sock-'em pitch letters to Cat Fancy - but by the time I haul myself down to the gym and go all the way over to the East side to pick up the herbs from my acupuncturist that are supposed to get my blood moving and reduce heat (?), none of it seems to happen. And then Laguna Beach is on again.

I need a job.

I'm about to get cocky, y'all.

Gawker can't get enough of me! I must be fantastic!

(I'm the Rosie O'Donnell stalk)

http://www.gawker.com/news/stalker/gawker-stalker-celebrities-like-u2-131119.php

I can fly!

Spent the day with the 9 year old. He's getting big. At the Natural History Museum he got all exasperated when I forced him to ride the glass elevator so that I could pretend I was levitating. He was all, "All riiiight", like he doesn't love to pretend that he can magically float to the second floor of the Hall of Ocean Life like I do. Next to getting all creeped out by the giant-squid-battling-killer-whale exhibit, pretending I can float is the best thing about that place - and he's trying to imply that he's above that sort of thing! WHO'S BABYSITTING WHO, KID? (Or should I say, WHOM'S BABYSITTING WHOM?)

And then at the library he announced "Let's sit here. It's so much more US".

I figure I have about 5 more months before he's taller than me.

This pushes cuteness to 11. (Little Reggie here was actually born with a full head of hair - his mama just loves him so much she licked it off!)

Thanks to baldandeffective for this one.

The hair. The HAIR.

I don't know about you, but when I look at this picture all's I see is homeschooling and corporal punishment and endless loaves of white bread...




LITTLE ROCK, Ark. - Michelle Duggar just delivered her 16th child, and she's already thinking about doing it again.

Johannah Faith Duggar was born at 6:30 a.m. Tuesday and weighed 7 pounds, 6.5 ounces.
The baby's father, Jim Bob Duggar, a former state representative, said Wednesday that mother and child were doing well.

He said Johannah's birth was especially exciting because it was the first time in eight years the family has had a girl.

Jim Bob Duggar, 40, said he and Michelle, 39, want more children.
"We both just love children and we consider each a blessing from the Lord. I have asked Michelle if she wants more and she said yes, if the Lord wants to give us some she will accept them," he said.

The Discovery Health Channel filmed Johannah's birth and plans to air a show about the family of 18 next May.

The Learning Channel is doing another show about the family's construction project, a 7,000-square foot house that should be finished before Christmas. The home, which the family has been building for two years, will have nine bathrooms, dormitory-style bedrooms for the girls and boys, a commercial kitchen, four washing machines and four dryers.

Jim Bob Duggar, who sells real estate, previously lost his bid for the U.S. Senate. He said he expects to run for the state Senate next year but isn't ready to make a formal announcement.
Michelle Duggar had her first child at age 21, four years after the couple married.

Their children include two sets of twins, and each child has a name beginning with the letter "J": Joshua, 17; John David, 15; Janna, 15; Jill, 14; Jessa, 12; Jinger, 11; Joseph, 10; Josiah, 9; Joy-Anna, 8; Jeremiah, 6; Jedidiah, 6; Jason, 5; James, 4; Justin, 2; and Jackson Levi, 1.

Why, why do I love this so much?

From MSN:

Tom Cruise’s future father-in-law apparently isn’t a happy camper.

Katie Holmes’s dad is said to be “very upset” because his unmarried daughter is pregnant with Cruise’s child. And, what’s more, the devoutly Catholic Martin Holmes reportedly is none-too-thrilled about his daughter’s involvement in her husband-to-be’s controversial religion, Scientology.

“[Martin Holmes] was very upset and got into a real spat with Katie,” the forthcoming issue of Life & Style Weekly quotes “a close friend” of Cruise as saying. “Tom had promised her parents that they would do the right thing and get married before any baby came along.” After scolding his daughter, according to the mag, Martin Holmes berated Cruise by declaring “You’re no good.”

“He said he and his wife were very upset by the news,” according to the source, “and demanded the pair get married quickly.”

Furthermore, a member of Christ the King Church, which the Holmes family belongs to, told L&S that Cruise and Holmes’ publicist, his sister Lee Anne DeVette, sent a letter to parishioners, asking them not to talk to reporters. Although a family friend told the mag that the Holmes family is thrilled by the news of a grandchild, they’re also concerned.

“It seemed like Katie was being controlled by Scientologists,” the friend told L&S. “Now they wonder if it’s a Rosemary’s Baby situation, where Katie is being groomed to provide Tom with a child.”

Dance indie boys! Dance!

Ok Go - "A Million Ways To Be Cruel"
On a dark, rainy, fully craptastic day, this video is exactly what you need.

http://www.ifilm.com/ifilmdetail/2677682?htv=12

And... scene.

For those of you who may have doubted my $1000 frittata tale (ahem, Nadia, ahem) this, taken directly from the menu at Norma's restaurant at Le Parker Meridien Hotel.

The Zillion Dollar Lobster Frittata Regular 1 oz Sevruga Caviar 100
Super size 10 oz Sevruga Caviar 1000

Looks kinda nasty, you ask me.

Further FURTHER evidence that (some) New Yorkers have way too much money

So I'm sitting at the podiatrist's office skimming the glossy mags when I stumble upon a blurb for something called the "Zillion Dollar Frittata". It's served at the schwank Le Parker Meridien Hotel (which should've clued me in) and consists of lobster, caviar and "yukon gold potatoes!" and costs $1,000.

A thousand dollars for a frittata.

I get it. There's caviar on it. Caviar's expensive I hear. And lobster. Lobster ain't cheap. And yukon gold potatoes which are... buttery. (Buttery enough to require an exclaimation point, apparently.) But - say it with me now - come ON! It's an omelette. It's not like it even does anything! Spending $600 on a vaccuum is retarded (right on, Missy) but at least it cleans your floor. If I'm spending a thousand dollars for eggs, it had better come with a frigging golden goose. A golden goose who gives hourly massages, along with a basketfull of puppies and a fairy prince who cleans my apartment. And that's just for starts.

I want money. That's what I want.

Further evidence that (some) New Yorkers have way to damn much money.

Last night at Grand Central they were auctioning off a 2006 Lamborghini. The tickets were $1,000 a pop and 300 were sold. At a THOUSAND DOLLARS A TICKET. And it wasn't even for charity! So - what? These people all had a spare $1,000 lying around? "This thousand dollar bill is just taking up far too much room in my solid gold wallet!" I mean come ON! And it wasn't even a cool car! It was orange! Now if were a mint condition 1959 MG Roadster and I was, you know, insane then maybe I could see it, but these people seemed grubby and greedy, pocketing four hors d'oeuvres at a time and talking with their mouths full, sending bits of partially chewed salmon and spittle all over my tux jacket... Actually, I take it back. They seem exactly like the kind of people who would shell out $1,000 for a chance at a neon orange Lamborghini.

Passing hors d'oeuvres brings out the very worst in me. I think horrible, nasty, mean-spirited thoughts that I ordinarily never do (except in the subway. Awful thoughts are perfectly acceptable there) and I get really irritable and fussy and I cannot, cannot be pursuaded to laugh at stupid, inappropriate jokes (unless they are made by another miserable waiter. Then they are hilarious). I also can't disguise the look of envy/disgust that sweeps across my face every time I have to deal with the wealthy. As I removed a tray of lamb and portabella skewers from a group of overly perfumed trophy wives I heard one of them say, "Oh God, she hates me". I wanted to say, Lady, I don't hate you specifically. I hate all of you. I feel confident saying that every cater waiter feels this. Hell, I'll go out on a limb and say that every waiter feels this. It's why I feel a compulsive need to sweet talk my server whenever we go out. It drives Matt crazy but I can't help it. I want them to know that I'm on their side, that I won't inadvertently spit on them. And if I do, then I'll apologize and add a buck to their tip. I have fantasies of being wealthy enough to - just once - leave a "Ben Affleck" tip. (Remember when he tipped that poker dealer like $2,000 and J.Lo was horrified and went and took some of it back? Jennifer Garner would never do that.) Someday I just want to be able to leave a cool $200 on a $50 meal - something grand like that. That's gotta feel stellar, right?

Would you care for an hors - BOOM!

So we've got this little terror warning going on right now. Nothing big, just potential death and destruction on the subway system. So where am I working last night? Grand Central. The big boy. El target-o numero uno. Not only was there a party for 500 in the middle of (arguably) the juiciest attack point in all of New York City, but the freaking guest of honor is a SUPREME COURT JUDGE. (Antonin Scalia, for those who care.)

One of the other waiters summed it up best: "It'll be just my luck that I get blown up while carrying a tray of brie en croute. If that happens - man, I'm gonna be pissed."

Thank God he didn't mention "Cherry Pie"

Poison's "Unskinny Bop" will not leave my brain. And it's all thanks to one man.

Pollard

(Go go to bitemybottom.blogspot.com by Kris Pollard, the funniest man - and wedding toast maker - around.)

Eat your heart out, Lipton

This quote, from my tea bag:

"If you're going through hell, keep going."
- Winston Churchill

Oddly inspiring, especially when one is heading off to cater.

I smell some bullshit

I know I'm supposed to be terrified and stuff, but does anyone else feel a teensy bit suspicious of this new subway bomb warning? Anyone find it a scoodge odd that this comes out immediately following Bush's "We have to do more to support the war!" speech? Obviously I hope it's just a shady political move - better that than getting blowed up - but I can't shake the feeling that this is slightly craplicious.

Hey Fate, if you're up there listening, please don't make me eat my words.

And I will love you... Until forever...

I'm supposed to be busy writing things that pay me money, but I just have to comment on two things:

Tom and Katie's procreation
Jessica and Nick's breakup

Tom and Katie are having a baby. They're both gorgeous people and yet all I can think is, Yick. Is anyone with me? Maybe they're totally in love, whatever, but - yick.

While I might (might) have been heard to exclaim "REALLY?!" a little louder than I'd hoped at the newsstand, I'm not a'tall surprised about Nick and Jessica. I mean, when your wife's father talks about the size of her boobs in a national publication, that's not the kind of fella you want to call family. Plus there's that little rumor about her and Johnny "The Tongue" Knoxville from Dukes of Hazzard... and her and Bam "I Was On Jackass Too!" Margolin... and the fact that Nick gave his number to a little blonde chick at a party who turned out to be a writer for Jane magazine - who, when he had the nerve to deny that he'd hit on her - printed his smarmy text message in said magazine...

I wonder if they're still paying off the wedding.

Correct me if I'm wrong...

This today from Billy’s best friend Ivan:

“Hey Alisha? Who was the president? Who was in that plane crash? And had to eat all the people?”

Uh… Hmmm…

Granted, I’m not up on things like “history” and “facts” but I’m pretty sure that so far no president has resorted to cannibalism. The sad part of the story? I actually had to think about it for a few seconds. Like, I know that no president has ever eaten anybody (I don’t think) but maybe FDR? Wait - no. FDR did not eat anyone. I don’t think.

Fear for our children.

You're putting it where?

So I went to the acupuncturist yesterday. I don’t really have any reason to see an acupuncturist but I have insurance at the moment so I might as well go. Here’s what I learned:

- Having a youngish Caucasian doctor (versus an elderly Asian one) performing ancient Chinese medicine seems funny.

- Having a youngish Caucasian doctor thumping your tummy with something that looks suspiciously like one of those hammers they use to test your reflexes seems odd.

- Having a youngish Caucasian doctor then massage your bare belly with his bare hands seems like something you should tell your husband.

That said, the guy seemed to know what he was doing. He asked me a million questions and checked my pulse in my right and left arms (“I don’t mean to scare you, but your left pulse is incredibly strong. It’s probably nothing…”) and told me I was thin blooded and oh, something about my spleen and my chi. He had an extremely light touch with the needles, I didn’t feel a thing. Until he put one right between my eyes.

For those of you who don’t know, I have a bit of a needle thing. A phobia, if you will. It’s a weird phobia (sewing and acupuncture don’t really bother me but the threat of a shot will make me drop kick the doc) but I’m working on overcoming it. And I was doing pretty well until he put a needle in my face. Apparently it’s supposed to be very soothing but all I could do was stay motionless and pray that I didn’t have to scratch or twitch or do anything that might make a needle fall into my eyeball.

That said, I do feel better - especially since I can now blame all my irritability on "thin blood".

Send 'em in!

So I picked up a copy of Travel Savvy the other day. Their tagline is Lists That Matter and since I happen to get an inordinate amount of joy out of both creating and perusing other people's lists, I figured this was the magazine for me. Truth be told, I also sent in a pitch to them a few weeks ago. They were looking for freelance writers to submit their top lists as well as the name of the "expert" behind them. Well hell's bells, I'm as much as an expert on stuff as anyone, right? Shockingly, my Best Inexpensive Eats didn't hold a candle to "20 Ways To Find Passion In Argentina" or "9 Best Soccer Watching Venues" or "5 Best Telescope Hotels". (What the hell is a telescope hotel?) The choices aren't quite exotic enough to make for good daydream activity or over-the-top enough for a good giggle. I want a magazine that chronicles Stuff That Matters, like "5 Life Defining Moments" (although Vogue may have already stolen that one) or "10 Songs On Your Ipod That Would Incite Ridicule" (that would be a toss-up between "Complicated" by Avril Levigne or "Don't Stop Believing") or "Alisha's Favorite Writing Utensils" (Le Pen or Pilot pen's G5). I would invite other people to send in their lists too. People love writing lists! I figure if Found Magazine can make a go of it photocopying things that people find on the street, a magazine of lists can't be that crazy.

DAMMIT!

Someone already beat me to it, dagnubbit!

www.todolistmagazine.com

Let's put our heads together. There's clearly a market for this kind of thing (since the author has a book deal and all) so how do I create something similar enough (to make me want to write it) but different enough (so's I don't get sued)? We're clever people, we can figure this out, right?

You rock even harder! Yes, you!

Screw that last figure - Matt raised over TWENTY SEVEN hundred dollars for breast cancer research, all due to you!

He'd thank you himself but he's unable to move from the couch. (I think I hear moaning...)

More bragging

So not only is my baby busy kicking some AVON walking ass, he's also very writerly! McSweeney's, the breathtakingly hip periodical by Dave Eggers and co., will be soon be publishing Matt's piece "Dr. Doom For Homecoming King" on their website.

He's always got to one-up me, doesn't he? Damn him for being so funny!

An AVON update:

Matt called from his half-way mark a few hours ago - he came in at number 47 out of over 2,500 walkers! (I mean, not that it's a race or anything...) Oh, and his feet hurt.