Hi.

Missy and I have started this sort of diet/exercise buddy thing. We email each other what we've eaten and how much we've exercised and cheer each other on. It's sort of like tracking points for Weight Watchers, minus the whole pesky points. Writing down what you eat each day makes it pretty clear where if you need to be eating more veggies and such. I'm getting a big kick out of it - not so much for the motivation part (although realizing that I'll have to 'fess up to eating an entire bag of Pirate's Booty in one sitting does make a person more inclined to stop. Not that I did) but mostly because I love lists and reading what somebody eats everyday is freaking fascinating. If anybody wants to join (I'm the only one who'll read it - don't worry), feel free to give a shout.

I defy you not to love these.

I love Kate Spade. Love the handbags, love the stationary, love that she's originally from KC. Her stuff is whimsical and fun and not remotely practical which makes me love it all the more. But Kate recently launched a new line that makes me think twice about this whole "screw practicality" thing.

Fine china for toddlers.

I believe they're actually marketing it as china for children, but c'mon - there are sippy cups involved. Breakable sippy cups. BESIDES the fact that toddlers are notorious cup throwers, BESIDES the fact that broken china wrecks havoc on child-size, bare feet - BESIDES THE FACT that prices start at $75 - I suspect that she'll still sell the hell out of these things. Because they're really fucking cute.

Goddamn I want some.

I'm week 3.

We all know I love my trashy reads, but tonight I discovered a mag so pecular, so insane, so gosh darn "say wha-?" that might just be too creepy even for me.

It's called... well, I'm not going to say what it's called because even though I plan on mocking them furiously, I might want to write for them someday. I'd love to write this huge, clever lead and then bang you with the big reveal but I'm really tired and need to take a bath. So here it is, kids: a lifestyle magazine about your menstrual cycle.

So, which week are you?

Brilliant!

When I write my first novel, I think I'm going to name my characters after the made-up names from my spam box. ("Gemima McCracken", "Hester Feydeau")

As my cousin Balky used to say...

I've developed this adorable little habit recently. It's not something I often talk about because, frankly, I'm afraid you'll think less of me. Granted, my habit doesn't sound that bad compared to shooting old people or chopping up monkeys but it's starting to get a little out of control and I think I might need some tough love to snap out of it.

I'm obsessed with Googling my competitors.

Anybody else do this? I can't be alone in this, right? After I've read my email and skimmed the celeb-u-rags, I take a roll through my mental rolodex and indulge in a little good, old fashioned masochism.

That girl in my commercial class who makes me bristle? ("What've YOU booked lately, bitch?") That chick from college who was never very good but has managed to book some of the best TV jobs around? ("YOU'RE GUEST STARRING ON THAT SHOW FEATURING MY FAVORITE TELEVISION DOCTOR?! Noooooooo!") My idiot of an ex? (Hey, why not?)

I'm not sure why I do this. Let me stress: I get no satisfaction from it. (Well, sometimes a little satisfaction... followed by the crushing fear that karma's coming after me with a net.) If they're doing better than me (which, sadly, they often are) then I'm left with a raging case of jealousocticus enrageious (followed by the requisite hour-long talk down). If they're doing worse, I've got karma on my ass. It's a lose-lose! (That said, I wonder what happened to the chick who won "Most Talented" back at Topeka West High...)

There's got to be a better way to channel my down-time.

I'm going to hel

Because I'm a big fan of money, I've agreed to participate in a little chunk of free cash I like to call "a focus group". I've done several of these over the years and let me tell you, if there's one thing I enjoy more than getting handed a wad of bills, it's being handed a wad of bills for being opinionated. I used to recruit for focus groups back in my Trend Forecasting days, so I know how to ace the pre-screen. This normally isn't a problem as long as we're discussing something I'm familiar with, like booze or snack bars, but occasionally I get a little overzealous and find myself attempting to talk advanced electronics with a gaggle of computer geeks. (You try to talk semi-intelligently about megapixels and giga-hoos when you barely know how to turn the damn thing on! Also known as "the longest two hours of my life".) But tonight's group is on fashion which is something I can easily bullshit my way through. Of course I had to present myself as someone who spends an inordinate amount of money on high-end fashion (pray they don't ask me to rattle off everything I own again she says, knowing full-well she won't remember a single answer she fibbed about in the pre-screen) so I'm borrowing a fancy bag from a friend and wearing my nicest "I shop, therefore I am" ensemble. $125 for two hours, plus free food? I'm so there.

Where my Tyra Mail?

Oh my friends, I've discovered something wonderful. Something that will make your lives just that much better. Something that, until now, never held much appeal...

High thread count sheets.

After our old T-shirt sheets wore down to a scrap of fabric between holes, I decided it was time to break down and buy a second pair of sheets. I love to shop but there are some things that just don't give me the same thrill as, say, a really good Banana Republic sale rack. That list would include socks, pillows and yes, sheets. So I hauled myself to the home of all things discount, TJMaxx ("you should go"), and grabbed the first pair of plain white sheets I could find. Got them home, washed them, slapped them on the bed and ahhhhhahhhahhhhahhhahhhh! (That's supposed to be the sound of angels singing. I wasn't sure how to spell it.) 400 thread count equals 400... nicenities. I'll never go back to my shabby, muslin-like, 250 thread counters, I'll tell you that! (I read that Scarlett Johannson sleeps on 1000 count. Got to look into that...)

In the meantime, I need to make some money. I've started doing daily affirmations in order to align the universe with the desires of my mind. While I'm not 100% sold that just by saying something you manifest it I'm also not about to go fucking around with the powers of the universe. (Hi Universe! Love ya!) So I've been saying my affirmations ten times a day - "I make $100,000 a year doing commecials" - and so far, so good. Not that I've made a penny on my commercial yet, but by God I will! (10,000,000 pennies to be precise.)

The problem is, I keep waffling about the amount of money I'm affirming for. Is $100,000 enough? Maybe I should make it $200,000. ($100,000 is nice, but $200,000 is better. Some would say twice as better.) But what if by capping the amount, I'm not allowing the universe to give me the next "Can You Hear Me Now?" campaign! And while $200,000 certainly isn't a bad salary, this is New YorkCity. (Maybe I should make it $3K...)

This is what occupies my brain, peeps. This, and who's going to take Project Runway. (I'm banking on Michael.)

He so handsome.

For those who are into this sort of thing (and I so, so am), you can watch Hugh Laurie's audition tape for Dr. House on YouTube. Just type in "hugh laurie" and it comes up. He recorded it in a hotel bathroom while shooting "Flight of the Phoenix". He's real good in it but man, watching these things just proves that I work way too hard on my auditions.

Not to mention impressions of any kind

Giving props to Missy for this topic, I'm getting totally listy on your asses with

"THINGS I AM NOT PARTICULARLY GOOD AT"

- Singing
- Playing piano
- Being patient when I am behind slow people
- Being patient when I am behind someone with a lot of questions
- Being patient generally
- Rolling out pie crust
- Rollerblading
- Finding things
- Swimming
- Keeping a poker face
- Telling a joke
- Reading a map
- Driving
- Riding a bike
- Math (except fractions)
- Catching a ball
- Throwing a ball
- Sobriety after two drinks
- Not eating the entire basket of chips and salsa
- Ignoring the sale rack

Feel free to add your own not-good-ats. The world and I want to know.

Mean.

I know, I know. Meanmeanmeanmeanmean.

Just don't tell me I have to give up soy.

I was walking through Central Park the other day when I noticed something crunching beneath my feet... AND IT WASN'T THE BONES OF JIMMY HOFFA! (Although wouldn't it have been awesome if it were? Damn.) No, peeps, it was leaves. Leaves. The leaves? They're falling. Wasn't it just summer, like, recently? Don't get me wrong, I love me some fall. Love it. Got married in it! But I can't help but get a little twitchy knowing that within minutes (MINUTES) winter's nasty, graspy hand will... be... uh...

Wait. I already wrote this post didn't I?

Goddammit.

See, this is what happens when you stop sugar. That's right, I am no longer eating sugar. This makes, what, the fifth time I've stopped eating sugar this year? Anyway, yes, stopped eating sugar. Aside from the sugar in my plain soymilk (WHO KNOW IT HAD SUGAR IN IT?! IT'S "PLAIN" FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!) and in the spoonful of jam I use to sweeten my plain (by this they mean unsweetened. See? Confusing.) yogurt, I have not had sugar of any kind for five days. No honey, no molasses, not even ketchup. (Read the ingredients.) Why, you ask, would I inflict this terrible, terrible thing upon myself?

Boys, stop reading.

Yeast infections.

I get them like crazy and nothing - not acidopholis, not Diflucan, not yogurt, not nothing - will get rid of them. I read that sugar is a leading cause of yeast infections (that, and stress. Please. I LIVE on sugar and stress) so I'm trying to cut the source. I'm also trying to eliminate yeast from my diet which is... I mean, come on. Find me a bread that doesn't contain yeast. I'm also supposed to eliminate alcohol (BITCH, PLEASE!) and caffeine. (Yes I know that I had successfully eliminated caffeine from my diet. But that was until I decided to eliminate sugar. But I'm only having one cup of tea a day and if one cup of tea is a crime...)

Thankfully I discovered a little box of deliciousness in the health food store called Barbara's Fig Bars. (I get the wheat-free kind because, hey, why not?) See, I have a thing for chewy. Caramel, Twizzlers Pull 'n Peels, fresh baked cookies - these are the stuff of which dreams are made. And these cookies (excuse me, "fig bars") are heaven. Very sweet (fruit juice only) and super-soft, like underbaked brownies. I can eat the hell out of a box of these things. Unfortunately, at 60 calories per, they are not Weight Watchers approved. (That may not sound like much until you eat eight of them.) Now they're not for everyone - Matt insists that regular Fig Newtons are better, but this is also the man who used to eat all of his mom's diet food because he liked the chemical taste, so there you go - but if you're watching your refined sugar intake (and Splenda scares you, as well it should) you might give these a go.

(I have to find a way to get paid for this stuff. Fig Bar Barbara? I work cheap.)

A small dose of heavy.

Yesterday was one of those perfect autumn days that make you glad to be alive. The weather was that gorgeous blend of crisp and sunny so I went to the Great Lawn for a good old-fashioned dose of people watching. A guy was flying a huge, homemade butterfly kite over Belvedere Castle (want to see a bunch of jaded New Yorkers squeal with delight? Go get yourself a giant butterfly kite) and someone was playing the bagpipes - a sound that makes me insanely happy. I actually laid down in the grass and watched the clouds. Nice nice nice.

On my way home I noticed a tangle of squad cars and traffic and people gathered on Park Avenue. A mother was standing next to me yapping on her cell, waiting for the light to change. She turned to me and asked if I had seen it. Of course I had no idea what she was talking about. Apparently someone had turned the corner and hit two little girls walking home from school.

We all know the phrase "Your life can change in an instant". Right then - RIGHT THEN - I was witnessing it. If the girls died... Even if they didn't, none of those lives would be the same. Just by turning a corner. Not to get all Hallmark on you but it was an awfully powerful thing.

Celebrity "news"

Brit-Brit had another baby boy. Even I can't muster up any excitement for this news flash.

And did you all read that Anna-Nicole Smith's son died - at her bedside - in the hospital right after she gave birth? Even in her world, that's an awful lot of crazy to go on all at the same time.

A shout-out

Lemme tell you something - vodka and champagne don't mix. (Well, they mix spectacularly going down, but later they get downright mean.)

Michael and Stef had a bash last night in honor of their recent nuptuals and it was, as they say, awesome. Great food, abundant booze (be sure to tip your bartender!) and a gorgeous, gorgeous couple. Congrats, guys. Have a fantastic honeymoon.

HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!

Let's get one thing straight: That Geiko commercial? The one with Little Richard? Officially the funniest thing on television right now. In fact, it might just be the funniest thing ever.

Goddamn that thing is funny.

Two things -

While I hate spam, occasionally a garbled, terribly translated offer for penile enhancement catches my eye. A garbled, terribly translated offer that goes something like this:

"Her hip. Suddenly. Speak and the outer... Dimensions."

Admit it, if some hifalutin' hipster poetryslammed that bad boy, you'd think it was awesome. Or at least I would.

Yesterday I walked past some kids selling lemonade outside of their Upper East Side condo. I'm a total sucker for that stuff, but these kids had me at hello. The older sister was doing her best newsboy with cries of "Lemonade! Lemonade!" but her little sister kept stealing her thunder with this version of a sales pitch:

"POISON! POISON'S GOOD FOR BOOOOOYS!"

I would've bought two cups if I'd had the dough.

Did somebody call for a Flowbee?

Okay, okay, first things first - Suri Cruise.

Two words: That hair.

Holy guacamole, Dr. House, I think Suri stole your toupe!

Have you seen that kid? That's... that's a mess of hair. Don't get me wrong, bloodthirsty Scientologists, the girl is goddamn adorable, but... whoa. (Psst - Suri. Hate to break it to you, but your mom still seems a little drugged up. I'M NOT SAYING SHE IS, bloodthirsty Scientologists - I'M JUST SAYING.)

And second - why did I eat an entire French baguette while watching Project Runway? Riddle me that, peeps. Riddle me that.

At a loss for words this morn.

Anyone else not quite ready for the season change? What happened to summer? I left it around here somewhere and now it's gone. Don't get me wrong, I love Fall. Adore it. Got married in it. But I can't help but notice a sniff of winter in the air and that, my friends, sucks. I loathe winter. The chapped skin, the unflattering clothing, the nonstop sensation of being cold and wet. I know what you're all thinking - "But Ali, what about warm fires and hot drinks? What about CHRISTMAS?"

Humbug, I say. Hum-bug. These little charms do not outweigh the nasty, black-tinged slush that I must wade through day in and day out before stuffing myself into an overcrowded, overheated subway car on my way to an audition where I will try to disguise my red, dripping nose in an attempt to look "cute".

BAH!

That said, I do love Fall. The leaves are starting to change in Central Park... people don't stink so bad... all the cutest clothing is hitting the stores... We need to figure out a way to make Fall and Spring last longer. Can one of you guys get on that?

Rockin' the Sondheim crowd

So-o-o-o, turns out that the Cap-Journal isn't the only readable that finds me hilarious. I have been snapped up by another print source. A glossy print source. A national, glossy print source. Soon readers across the globe will have access to my funny-ocity. The New Yorker? Who needs ya! The New York Times? You wouldn't know comedy if it farted! But this, this precious jewel of readability, this vanguard of comedy stylings, this will be my new home! And what, pray tell, is this glorious magazine's name?

BRAVADO!*

(*All names have been changed, just in case. Don't want to be fired for misdirected snark.)

Okay, so maybe it isn't such a big deal. It's really just a small but decent magazine geared toward serious high school thespians, but it is national. If there are any teachers in the hizzouse (Hey, Boyer - got a Thespian Society?) there's a shot your school gets it. They'll start running my stuff in October with plans to make it a regular column. They're even talking about sending a crew up here to set up a photo shoot! (I haven't quite sussed out the reasoning, but any chance to pretend to be awesome I'm all for.)

First stop, BRAVADO. Next stop... um...

Again I say, yuck.

I know this post won't interest you men but ladies, lemme hear you on this one:

Jessica Simpson and John Meyer.

Does this couple make anyone else throw up in their mouth a little? Seriously, I can't stand that guy. Granted, in interviews? Charming. His column in GQ? Surprisingly hilarious. That said, people can tell me he's a talented musician 'till the cows come home but alls I know is, he's the guy who wrote "Your Body Is A Wonderland", the most horrifying song next to that damn "Father and Daughters" song he came out with later. He appears to be all kinds of cuddly and woman-friendly but there's something about him that makes me want to punch him in the nose.

And she's... Jessica Simpson.

(I read an article where she admitted to getting Restylane injected into her lips and had to go into hiding because they were so big. I KNEW that was you walking by the Time Warner building, Jessica Simpson! I almost dismissed the sighting because her lips were so crazy - don't get me started on her skin color - but I'm happy to see that my celeb-u-dar is on point.)

Anyway, eesh.

(An amendment: This week's People has a cover shot of Jessica next to the words "I'm in love!" and it just seems cruel. I rarely feel for celebrities but imagine you're just starting to date a guy and you're really into him and all you want to do is play it cool, and all of a sudden there's People magazine shouting that you love the guy... I mean, how do you recover from that? It's gotta stink.)

Shoes, glorious shoes

I plan to write stuff, I really do, but first I need to buy shoes. (It's the Back To School weather. Gets me itchy to purchase.)

More soon.