I'm going to Hell.

There are times when I realize that I'm a terrible, terrible person. Times when I realize that people such as me - or is it "I" - don't deserve to breathe the same delicious air that other, less terrible people breathe. You know how I know I'm a terrible person?

"Grizzly Man".

For those that haven't seen it, I'll sum up:

- Really annoying guy moves to Alaska.
- Really annoying guy camps.
- Really annoying guy (and sadly, girlfriend) get eaten.

Seriously, halfway through I found myself rooting for the bear.

A great day for the nerdies...

Again, from The Superficial, my appropriately named news source:

"In case you haven't already seen it, Sony has finally released an official image for Spider-Man 3 featuring Spider-Man wearing his black costume. For those of you who didn't spend your childhood reading comic books and mastering the NES, the black costume implies that Spider-Man will be facing his archrival Venom, who sports an alien symbiote that merges with its host to give them that black costume with all its alien symbiote powers. And now if you'll excuse me, I have go find some women to have sex with to wash the taste of nerd out of my mouth. Damn you, childhood. Damn you to hell."

A sad day for the ladies...

"In case there was ever any doubt that Mandy Moore and Zach Braff are indeed getting married, the foxy Neva tracked down their Tiffany's wedding registry. There's nothing particularly interesting, but it's worth looking at just to see their full names Amanda Moore and Zachary Braff in print. Although if you'd like to get a little something for the couple, I recommend the $260 pierced tablespoon. I'm not exactly sure why you would want holes in your spoon, but I figure it's for those go-getters who find drinking soup just isn't quite challenging enough on its own."

If you want the full-on weep fest (and the Tiffany's link) go to www.thesuperficial.com. I'm just the messenger...

I've been eating like I'm going to the chair.

I've been having the weirdest dreams lately. Weird dreams. Kissy dreams. On Thursday I dreamt that I was living in LA with Seth Green (we had a very cool car and the weather was fine) and last night I subconsciously snogged Mo Rocca and Santino from Project Runway. (Mo, by the way? Surprisingly skilled.) I'm sure the dreams had nothing to do with eating a bag of Stacy's Pita Chips and a bowl of cereal at 11:30 at night. Maybe I need to stop watching so much damn TV. (Don't get me started on how self-conscious it makes me about my unbleached teeth.)

Have you met my husband?

So someone (who may or may not be my husband) looooves to gently mock the feng shui. Granted, he moved the shit around and doesn't make me sign marital contracts but there's always some subtle eye-rolling when the topic comes up. Until last night, that is.

(Me) "It's probably not good to have the cat scratcher in our career area..."
(Matt) "But the paper shredder is okay?"
(Me) "Well it probably shouldn't be there either, but it's better there than in our relationship corner."
(Matt) "YOU'VE PUT A SHREDDER IN OUR CAREER CORNER?!"
(Me) "But it's near the computer..."
(Matt) "YOU CAN'T PUT A SHREDDER IN THE CAREER CORNER! PUT IT BACK IN THE RELATIONSHIP CORNER!"

This is a conversation I never, ever expected to have. Ever.

Shredder ended up under the sink - in the spirituality area.

Californians and St. Louisians will know what I mean

I am far, far too excited about this. And it's doesn't even have anything to do with models or designers!

I think Tom and Katie are still together. Dammit.

We took the cats to the vet today. Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God. Val wasn't about to go down without a fight and screamed bloody murder the whole time. When that didn't work she puked. Twice. (At least she didn't poop herself this time.) She gets so terrified it actually hurts me. Tinkerbell, on the other hand, just curls up and waits to die. The vet was wonderful (New Yorkers with pets: West Chelsea Vet is the best) and kept telling Val what a sweet girl she was (which was decidedly untrue). To Val's credit she never bit or scratched. Still, the thought of doing this again next year fills me with a kind of dread seen only in war movies.

My birthday is coming up faster than I'm entirely comfortable with and I've decided that in order to cope I need a REALLY BIG CAKE. I was checking out the prices at Billy's Bakery (which kicks Magnolia's ass, regardless of what those Sex and the City gals say) but I refuse to pay $45 for a freaking cake. Anybody got a favorite recipe they care to share?

I'm mildly intrigued by the fact that Nick Lachey is seeking spousal support from Jess. Not that he doesn't deserve a double-D sized pay day, seeing as how she spent the bulk of her marriage all up in a certain rock star's ass (or vice versa). So I say go for it. He had to deal with Daddy Simpson for several years; that alone's worth a cool couple grand. BUY THOSE BALLS BACK!

NOOOOOOOOOOO!

NOOOOOOOOOO!

Don't keep me hanging on like a yo-yo.

The hub and I actually went out last night. Like, to a bar. Which is practically newsworthy, given my dislike of leaving the apartment after dark. (I'm like a reverse vampire.) But leave the apartment we did in order to help KT Buffy and Keeley celebrate the day of their births. There were huge screens showing 80's videos (how did we not know George Michael was gay back in the Wham days? Buddy wore some tiiiiiny shorts...) and we all had fun oohing and ahhing over the metal boys' package enhancing pants.

At one point two girls called me over and asked if Keeley was famous. They were intrigued by the fact that people kept fawning all over him, plus he's sporting some fine "I'm potentially a someone" facial scruff these days. Unfortunately I made the error of telling these two cute girls that it was Keeley's birthday instead of, oh, lying. Apparently that was wrong. When my husband found out about it he started yelping "You would make a TERRIBLE wingman!" He launched over to the girls and spouted off some story about how Keeley had just sold a spec script to The O.C. and that we were all actors hanging on to his coattails. I believe he even threw something in about being Keeley's handler. The girls were all, We thought we recognized him! (They recognized him from his spec script?) I'm sure it could've gone on and on but the bar was getting overrun with frats and it was time to go.

Is mama sporting a hell of a hangover? Why yes. Yes she is. Did she also just throw her neck out while typing? Oh sweet baby Jesus, yes.

How do you spell Alisha? I-M-M-A-T-U-R-E

I got new headshots taken yesterday which is always fun, if by "fun" you mean "slightly awkward and incredibly expensive". That said, I love my photographer. I've shot with her before and she's always great. Here's where I get crazy; when I think about how much she makes. She shoots two people a day, four days a week. She charges $1,000 a pop. If my math is correct, that means she makes roughly $24,000 a month. (I haven't bothered to multiply that by twelve for fear that I'll eat my own head.) Now she's probably paying $5000 in rent for her studio and apartment and she works hugely long days - but I work hugely long days! You, you work hugely long days! I thought I'd missed my calling when I decided not to pursue medicine but clearly I need to get myself a couple of light reflectors and put up a couple of ads because headshots are where the money's at!

Here's another thing I realized while doing some heavy reading: I am now closer to the target demographic for More magazine than Seventeen.

But if both are sitting at the gym, which one do I grab even though I feel moderately ashamed and have to pretend that I'm looking at it for research? Is there even any question?

TomKat kaput?!

There's just so much, I hardly know where to begin!

Looks like maybe, possibly, probably that Tom 'n Katie might, perchance, allegedly be over. The thought, she makes me giddy. Did I have an imaginary heart-to-heart with Katie in the bathtub last night about her life choices? I'm not saying yes and I'm not saying no, but I am saying that the potential tabloid time-suckage of this story could reach Top Model proportions.

There's more, but I've gotta dash -

Bring on the chocolate hearts!

Happy Valentine's Day! (And KT Buffy's b-day!) I bought 4 different little heart shaped brownies and a bottle of wine for me and the man, so I think we're set. (Dinner, schminner. Brownies!)

May you all be smooched on or sexy-glanced at or deliciously self-indulgent.

Blech.

I cannot get motivated to write. I've been sitting on one particular story for, oh, well on 6 months now and I just can't, can't, can't get motivated to finish it. Or start a new one, for that matter. I just want to sit in front of the TV and eat more than the proper serving size of Swedish Fish and find out who wins Project Runway. That's all I want to do. I sit down to write and instead find myself ordering FICO scores. (You've got to know your score, right?) I'm just soooo not mo-ti-va-ed. How the hell am I going to be a well-respected novelist if I can't finish a stupid story about serving a Diet Coke to Donald Trump? Feng shui, why hast thou forsaken me?

Thanks to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for this one

A friend of mine tipped me off to this cool thing Vogue does - instead of bios, their contributers must list 7 things that define them. For example, Robert Wyatt (photographed Burberry's Christopher Bailey, pg. 174) lists:

Regular bread baker; Owns a vicious male cat called Babe; Diehard romantic; Collects hotel bath mats and red wine; Admires honesty - and good ankles - in other people; Listens to Kings of Leon; Patient; Disarmingly charming

Catherine Wilson (interviews Hedi Slimane, pg. 160) wrote:

Yearns to be a Big Wave Surfer; addicted to the smell of Magnolia grandi flora; Director and founder of the Port Eliot Literary Festival; Empathetic; Stationery obsessive; Falls asleep by reading seed catalogues; Gently tenacious; Contributing editor to the Telegraph Magazine

Alisha McKinney (freelance writer/editor/auditioner and general whinypants) chose:

Worrier; Obsessed with old stationery and anything handmade and/or letterpressed; Refused to wear pants in pre-school; Calls her mother every day; Covets the ability to sing and cook well; Wishes she could wear high heels and bikinis; Can't hold her liquor

I realize that we've played this listy game before, but do I tire? I do not. If Vogue called, what would you choose?

The ickiest conversation I've ever heard.

I overhear a lot of conversations in this city. I always feel a little dirty, knowing that I am not the intended audience but I figure that's the price people pay for airing their dirty laundry in public. I also don't believe in the phrase, "Too much information". When I'm talking and someone says that to me - especially if it's accompanied by and eye roll and/or hand wave - I don't tend to stay friends with them very long.

That said, yesterday I overheard a conversation that offered way, way too much information.

I was standing in line at the bank when two women came charging in, having an extremely loud argument over whether or not one women should "get rid" of her (I assume unborn) baby.

There is nothing funny about abortion. It wasn't a funny conversation. I mean, this is what's commonly known as a Big Talk. But there was something about the fact that, not only were these women having an extremely private conversation in public, they were shouting about it. IN LINE AT A BANK. No one was sure what to do. I mean, you can't exactly tell them not to have an (extremely private) conversation in public, but they were both so casual about it. It was just so surreal... (I think that's the word I mean. Or maybe I just mean "awful".)

Dan and Suz, you may be sitting in tufts of cat hair Friday.

Sorry the posting has been a little scattershot. Schedule, blah-blah, schedule. Cleaning, blah-blah, schedule.

Last night I worked an event for Hollywould, the curiously monikered shoe designer favored by starlets and (apparently) lower-level US weekly employees. There were models, there were shoes. (Cute shoes. Shoes I find physically impossible to wear.) I had some time to kill before work so I wandered into Banana Republic to stalk the sale rack and found a gorgeous midnight blue silk kimono dress marked down from $168 to $27.99. I will probably never wear this dress. It doesn't fit. (It currently resembles a bathrobe. But that's what tailors are for.) Nor do I have the life that accompanies such a dress. (Toddlers tend to throw food.) But it was $27.99. That's like, a billion percent off.

So I'm sitting in the coat check oogling the crowd and what do I see? Starlet (well, starlet-ish) wearing my new dress. Now I don't know much about much, but I guaran-damn-tee that she didn't pay no $27.99!

Victory, she is sweet.

Here's the thing - my tailor is Asian, as all tailors in this town are. The dress is a kimono. I feel sort of funny waltzing in, little fuzzy headed white girl, asking the Asian woman to make me look... Asian. Is that offensive?

I just saw The 40 Year Old Virgin. Steve Carell is hot.

My birthday's neigh and it makes me feel a little odd. I'll be 34. Yes, I'm man enough to admit it. In fact, I don't understand this whole aging-down bit. Actors are especially notorious - I can't count the number of times people've told me their ages and my first thought has been, "Damn girl, you look terrible for 22!" (Full disclosure, I lied about my age in LA. But I had to in order to enter the city limits.) I think this birthday I'm going to buck the trend and start aging UP. Now when I tell people my age (41) they're gonna think, "Damn girl, you looks fine!" (And that's exactly how they're going to say it too.)

Now what to do for my birthday - my 41st! - is another question. I thought about doing a quiet shindig at home but then I realized I'd have to clean and we don't want that. I'm also thinking about having it at my favorite Mexican restaurant. That's right - home of "El Machino" itself - CHEVY'S! That would so rock. So rock.

I know I'm right.

My husband and I were having a discussion about The Doobie Brothers over toothbrushing this morn. I'm of the opinion that "The Doobie Brothers" is clearly a reference to the mellowing herb while my husband feels that their moniker is derived from the fact that they're a "du-wop band".

It's about the doob, right?

He's probably already sold this one.

We all know K.Polly's got the smarts, the looks and the wit. But he's also got the shit - when it comes to art, that is. Check out his new art site and buy stuff for your sweetie. And by "sweetie" I mean "me".

Yes, I'm hasselin' the Hoff.

As we all know, I am a huge fan of the site Go Fug Yourself. I aspire to their level of good-natured snark. Plus they lead me to things like this. A German-made Hasselhoff video. (Matt: "I think I liked them better when they were Nazis...")

I... I don't know if it gets better than this. I honestly don't.

And there's more!

There must be something in the air because now Lance and Sheryl are calling it quits. For some reason I'm not so bothered. He left his wife and kids for a rock star and she's got those ropey, overly muscled Madonna arms and wears way too much leather.

I'm just sayin'.

I'm just sayin'

I saw a guy on the subway yesterday carting pups. (Hopefully not the drug smuggling kind.) His pumpkin colored doggy carrier matched his pumpkin colored sweater perfectly. (The other carrier was a light blue Juicy Couture number that said "Preppy Puppy!")

Somehow he still managed to look straight. No mean feat, that.

Valentine's Day is coming up and you know what that means... Actually, I don't know what that means. Anybody got plans? Since I live in the most happening city in the world we'll probably break open a bottle of wine, order some Thai and, ohhhh, catch a fresh episode of Gilmore Girls? See who won Project Runway? (Over Matt's dead body, I'm sure.) I walked past Andre, the weepy recently-eliminated Runwayer yesterday by the Met. Tall, good-looking, stylish, gay... All I could think was, "Do I cater with that guy?" OH! I heard that Hilary Swank was spotted holding hands at a bar with some guy who is not her (soon to be former) husband, Chad. Not that holding hands means anything necessarily. I mean, I hold hands with my male friends when I'm having a dri-.

So Heather Locklear and Ritchie Sambora, huh? Once she started getting all that work done, I knew something was up. She's got to be pissed that she's not a Housewife, right? Speaking of, have you seen Terri Hatcher lately? Aye-yi-yi. And to think we used to get all bent out of shape about Calista's weight. She's all teeth and skull! Woman, whoa.

I'm off.

Oh the baby. The sweet, sweet baby for which I sit. He's discovered dancing which just about makes my year. We put on some Dan Zanes and he launches. It's very Martha Graham/Elaine from Seinfeld. Poor kid - he's like my personal dancing monkey. He'll start to wear down but do I let him stop? Hell no! MORE DANCING! I figure it makes up for all the times I let him sit on my face. Yes, whenever I lay down these chubby little legs appear and plop! His diaper butt, on my face. Good times, peeps. Good times.

The State of the Union is "sucky".

So last night I had one of those stupid dreams that are par for the course when living in a terrorist-target. The standard towers-are-falling-everything-scary sort of deals that made me wake up all anxietified. That combined with seeing Stefanie's (fabulous) play got me thinking that it might be time to put together an emergency bag. They're always telling New Yorkers to have a Go Bag with Power Bars and 6 gallon jugs of water and $300 in small bills (like I have a spare $300) but it's just always seemed like such an effort. Then there's the issue of where exactly one should go with their Go Bag. We live on an island. I don't have a car - and even if I did, I saw the Katrina evacuation. Please, nobody's going nowhere. Does anybody actually have a plan? Or a bag? The sweet woman I babysit for told me I could come to her folks in Jersey but there's the small issue of getting to Jersey. Should I swim? And what if there's an emergency and you're not home to get your Go Bag?

Anybody got anything?