Could somebody give me a job please?

I TOTALLY CALLED THIS! IS THERE NOTHING I CANNOT DO!?! (Should we take bets on who gets front-paged first? I'll take "caught canoodling with a co-star" for $100, Alex.)

Guess the Celebrity

Stumped? I'll give you a hint. It's Simon LeBon.

Who's a great little self-promoter? OH YES YOU ARE! OH YES YOU ARE!

Assuming they have space, the second half of my soap story will be in the Cap-Journal this weekend. What? You don't get the local paper from Topeka, Kansas? Well you can read the first half right here!

And for those who get it (that'd be Mr. X, I believe), my Law and Order story is featured in the October issue of Dramatics. Inflict it on a thespian near you.

Here comes Santy Claus.

Last night I got to go to Duane-Reade (the Walgreen's of NYC, for those not in the know) to pick up some Pepto for my hard workin' man. I must confess - I live for drugstores. Seriously, I can spend a solid day and a half wandering the aisles; comparing prices, checking out the latest candy selections, thumbing through the ample supply of magazines... If the store has a half-off rack, forget it. You're not seeing me for a week, sailor. So with this in mind I pulled open the heavy glass doors, smiled at the lone, bored "security guard" (clearly just an employee who pulled the short straw that day) and stopped dead in my tracks.

Christmas lights.

They're already putting up Christmas lights.

Now I realize that there's only sixty more shopping days until the fat man arrives. I realize that, with fuel prices being what they are, it was probably more economical to ship out Christmas stuff with Halloween stuff. Most importantly, I realize that RETAILERS ARE INSANE. This year, why bother taking the inflatable candy canes and plastic trees down at all? Just keep the suckers up all year! It might look a mite silly having sprayed on "snow" lining your windows come July, but Retailers, don't listen to those pesky nay-sayers. They're just jealous because they didn't think to bring out the Easter candy in February like you did!

(Psst. If you're planning on traveling this season, get your tickets now. We waited a week to buy our Christmas flights and they went up $300 and almost every seat on two of our flights was already sold. Just so's you know.)

Grrr.

Okay, this whole Jack Frost nipping at my nose weather pattern? Booshit. You may scoff at life in "seasonless" LA (it gets pretty farking cold there, by the way) but if I never had to wear gloves again, I'd be fine, sister. (She says, while casting a worried glance toward the ozone layer.)

Speaking of gloves, looks like it's time to buy this season's first pair. While most people just dig through their closet for last year's, mine always always always disappear. Where the hell do those things go?! I swear, I lose at least three pairs each season. (Not the whole pair mind you - because that would make sense. Just one. Every. Time.)

You know what else I need? (Quiet, Gunderman.) An attractive winter hat that doesn't squash my hair. Seriously, that shit can drive a girl bananas.

Next time I'm saying I'm a tourist.

For those that don't live in the Big Apple, the morning rush hour commute is nothing short of horrible. (I assume it's horrible everywhere else too, but at least you don't have to be smushed up close to someone with questionable hygene habits. Unless that person is you, in which case you probably don't notice.) A few days ago I was running late so I hauled ass to the subway just in time to see fifty sluggish high school students lumped around the turnstiles. Okay, I should've just walked the extra two blocks to the other entrance. Really, a smart person would have known that Field Trip + Early Morning Commute + Text Messaging Teens equals Madness but instead I decided to stay there, hoping one of them would notice my impatience and be courteous enough to let me through. I waited. And waited. And - OHMYGODWILLYOUJUSTMOVEALREADY - waited. Just then a woman, equally tired of waiting behind the pimpled masses, pushed open the emergency gate and walked on through. I'm not sure what I was thinking, aside from the obvious ("MUST! MAKE! TRAIN!") but if you think I didn't walk through that open door too, you don't know me at all.

"ES-CUSE me, MA'AM!"

That's when it hit me. I hadn't swiped my Metrocard. The world's tiniest lady cop came running at me like I'd just shot the president.

"ES-AKLY WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, MA'AM?"

Er, whoops.

"YOU JUS' BARGED THROUGH THERE WIDOUT PAYING YOUR TOLL, MA'AM!"

Er, whoops.

She looked me up and down, assessing my threat to national security. I tried everything to convince her I wasn't a terrorist. Excuses were stammered ("Teenagers!", "Train!"), there were several attempts at appeasement ("I swear I wasn't trying to skip the toll! I have a monthly card! Technically I've already paid!"). I even tried my best grin - the one that sells stuff on TV. She looked up at me and immediately called for backup.

"DO YOU HAVE I.D., MA'AM?"

Little Ladycop studied my driver's license, looking at it and looking at me. Looking at it and looking at me. I attempted to replicate the shot on my license as backup arrived. Backup Ladycop was many things, but "little" wasn't one of them. Imagine a black Lou Ferrigno with tits and you'll have some idea who I was dealing with.

"You know that you have a Kansas driver's license."

Both cops stared at me. I wasn't sure what they were hoping for since "You have a Kansas driver's license" wasn't really a question. I began to explain that, while I was a New Yorker, my old New York license had expired which meant that I had to go to the Manhattan DMV which is the eighteenth circle of Hell and since you couldn't PAY me to take a driver's test in Manhattan, I just decided to get a Kansas license while I was home visiting my mother and I simply hadn't had the chance to go back to the DMV and get it switched over because, see, they're only open Monday through Friday and I work all week and I just haven't had the wherewithall to take a day off from work to go stand in line for six to eight hours and...

"DO YOU HAVE ANY WARRENTS OR PRI-AHS?"

I assured her that (normally) I was very, very law-abiding. She sighed loudly and proceeded to write out a VERY LARGE ticket. I refrained from making disparaging remarks about how fulfilling her life must be, collected my (VERY LARGE) ticket, and prayed that the E train would arrive before I broke any more laws.

I should have just stepped on her and called it a day. They can't arrest you for stepping on a tiny cop can they?

Please, sir, may I have some more. (Mahi-mahi this time.)

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME!

Okay, so it was actually two days ago. Still, two years (and two days) ago, I woke up, brushed my teeth, and managed to shove my slightly bloated self into a too-small Vera Wang (whoever said that brides lose weight before the wedding never met me) to say "I do" to a pretty fantastic guy. Boy that was a great wedding. My only regret - not getting any of the creme brulee. (Rule #1: Eat first, then chat.)

Every year on our anniversary, Matt and I go to the restaurant where we got engaged - L'Ecole, at the French Culinary Institute. The food is great, naturally, and it's fun to get dressed up and have a fancy 4-course meal. (Next year we're aiming for the 5-course. I'm going to start fasting now.) We decided to be adventurous eaters this year so instead of going for the safe and predictable (although probably delicious) mahi-mahi (bathed coconut and lobster broth!), I decided to listen to my server and get the duck.

Hmmm.

There's something about medium rare as a cooking temperature that makes me feel queasy. Seared tuna and tuna tartare? Absolutely! I'll eat that shit raw any day. But almost raw bird? Er -

Matt got the venison. I don't know why I feel bad about eating God's cuter creatures. Still, it's hard to eat deer. (And rabbit. And lamb. And I absolutely draw the line at veal. And fois gras, even though geese aren't really that cute.) Not that that stopped me. I ended up making my husband hand over the deer while he made due with my duck.

For dessert I decided to try the rosemary cake with goat cheese mousse. (Goat cheese mousse!) It was quite delicious but not NEARLY as delicious as Matt's creme brulee! (And if you think I didn't make him hand that over too, you don't know me at all.)

And the cost? Oh yeah, the cost. Between four glasses of $10 wine and the food... well, it cost more than my coat, that's all I'll say about that. (Thank goodness anniversaries only come around once a year.)

Yahoo leaves the toilet seat up too.

Damn you, Yahoo, for telling me who won Project Runway before I got a chance to watch it. You put it on the front page! At least have the decency to hide it back in the entertainment section so's those of us that happen to choose to work on their Halloween cards instead of watching the finale don't find out. (Yes, I know it was the finale.That still doesn't make it "news".)

I've had it, Yahoo. We're breaking up.

Subject line of the day: "Interview ended in a planet, is twisted in the might"

I love fan mail. I wish I could be all cool and whatevs about it but it gives me a little giggle when someone sends me some electronic approval. I just got an email from a guy in Topeka who runs an online review site and if I ever decide to write a book on my exploits, he wants to review it. (Is it anti-reviewer-like to tell the writer in advance that you're going to give them a rave? Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

More importantly, I made my first pot roast! I haven't actually tasted it yet, seeing as how it took four hours to cook. (And that was with the help of pre-made beef stock. Bet June Cleaver's wasn't organic.) Matt and I also gave the house a thorough cleaning (I covet that hotel toilet shine) and did some laundry (sheet night). All this AND I got caught up with my Project Runway (will Jeffrey get kicked off? Is Laura the most irritating woman in the world?) and Gilmore Girls! (Lauren Graham, while still brilliant and quippy, is not aging well.)

And how was your weekend?

Ali loves to shop.

This is my new coat. It was quite a splurge. I won't tell you how much I spent, but I will say that although it was expensive, it cost significantly less than the original $395.00 (!!!) price tag. (Thank you, Loehmann's.) It's Original Penguin which is fast becoming one of my favorite brands, what with their retro feel and irreverant... somethingorother. Anyways, CUTE! (Check out the lining! And it's wool which means I'll be able to wear it until it hits around 30 degrees, or approximately one week more, whichever comes first.)

That's nasty

Have you ever coughed so hard you puked? I have. Seems going weeks without a day off gives a girl a touch of bronchitis. I've been doing a lot of puking lately. Last week, got the menstrual cramps so hard I hurled. Last night, coughed 'til I regurgitated Grape Nuts. I feel like a bulimic, minus the cute figure.

I had a bob once. ONCE.

For those who might have been concerned, I wasn't anywhere near the plane crash today. Well, I was sort of near the plane crash, but not near enough to have been injured. Just near enough to freak out for a few seconds until I reminded myself that I wasn't near enough to get injured.

On another note, I swear to Christmas I saw Anna Wintour pushing a baby carriage on 91st and Madison. I actually had to stop and gawk for a second to be certain, startled as I was to see her doing such physical work. Savage yet chic bob? Check. Enormous, paparrazi shielding sunglasses? Check. As soon as I heard the accent I knew. She was cooing things that sounded, dare I say, encouraging. She actually seemed rather fond of this I'm-assuming-grandchild. Unfortunately she caught me staring and before you could say "DAH-ling!" she was off. She may be a bitch but I gotta say, she looks damn good.

I need a nap.

Why yes, that is a giganic cold sore eating my face, thanks for asking! If there's one thing I hate more than the arming of North Korea, more than the melting of the ice caps, more than those damn "Hang In There!" kitten posters, it's a gigantic cold sore eating my face. I bought myself some Abreva ($20!!! $20 FOR A LITTLE, TINY TUBE!) and walked around a with bag of frozen pad thai on my lip (cold supposedly kills the virus. Or maybe just humiliates it into retreat) but the fucker's still there. Clearly this is my body's way of saying that I need a day off. But as long as my bills say different, I'll have to deal with disfigurement. (At least I don't have photogs snapping away at me like poor Katie Holmes here. Honey, I've got a bag of pad thai if you need it.)

These are the things that plague me.

I catered for the first time in a long time last night.

I have not missed it.

The dripping bags of wet garbage, the invasive goo of half-eaten food, the giant slop buckets filled with a mixture of leftover soup, red wine and backwash... It's impossible for me not to feel defeated halfway through the night.

And I will never cease to be amazed at the money in New York. Last night's event took place in the uber-trendy meatpacking district. (For those not in the know, the meatpacking district was once a sketchy area filled with slaughterhouses and whores. Now it's filled with incredibly expensive boutiques, spectacular restaurants - and slaughterhouses and whores.) It was a small wedding held in a florist shop/event space. Befitting a party held in a florist's, the blooms were beautiful. Black lilies (my favorite), French tulips (my other favorite) and in the center, a gorgeous chandelier that showcased artfully drooping tulips suspended in midair. But the real showstoppers were the orchids. Because I have an eye for beauty (and I'm nosy like that) I started wandering around and noticed a tag on the side of a vase of mustard colored orchids: "$100 per".

So I asked the guy working there if the sign meant that the arrangement went for $100. He gave me a small, sympathetic smile - as one would give to a person who was clearly retarded - and said that no, the price was per stem.

There had to have been 30 stems in that arrangement alone.

Here's my question: If the bride is paying $100 a stem for one flower arrangement, HOW MUCH DID THIS FUCKING WEDDING COST?!

Ouch.

Sorry folks, I ain't got much today. I've been burning the candle at so many ends, I don't even have a freaking candle anymore. Today was the first day I've slept past 6 am in... well, far too long. My mother got up at 6 am without (much) complaint every morning for most of my adolescence but I'm made of whinier stuff. It's all good - complaining about being excessively in demand deserves an overly dramatic eyeball roll - but that doesn't change the fact that I don't have shit to write about here.

That said, I've been halfheartedly following the Paris Hilton/Shanna Moakler slapdown saga for the past few days. Seems that Paris has been seen macking on Shanna ("Dancing With The Stars") Moakler's soon-to-be ex husband, Blink 182's Travis Barker, and Shanna either did or did not slap the shit out of the heiress, depending on who you ask. None of this interests me in the least, except for the fact that I may have caught a few episodes of Travis and Shanna's MTV series "Meet The Barkers" and couldn't help but notice the practically life-sized inking of Shanna's pretty face right in the center of her soon-to-be ex husband's throat. The man tattooed his soon-to-be ex wife's face ON HIS THROAT. Say what you will about Tori Spelling's husband's truly gawdawful tat of Tori on his tricep (ah, alliteration) but putting somebody's face on your throat... First off, that shit HAD to hurt. Second, if your face is tattooed at roughly eye level, could you continue making eye contact? I wouldn't be able to tear my eyes away and I SURE AS HELL wouldn't be able to continue making sweet soon-to-be ex wife love to the man, what with my face staring back at me all tiny and distorted. And third, if I were Paris Hilton, would I be able to make out with a guy with his soon-to-be ex wife's face staring back at me? Apparently yes I would.

This is why it's probably for the best that I'm not a hotel heiress.

Don't I know you from somewhere?

So I shot the commercial yesterday which was good and fun and relatively uneventful, dammit. The people were really nice and they fed us well - always the sign of a good day. I'm praying that they don't recast it because it's supposed to take place at a beach and Ali needs a paid vay-cay. (Alas, the production house guy said that they almost always recast the demos which makes absolutely no sense to me, seeing as how they had two days of auditions followed by a day of callbacks where I think they saw EVERY SINGLE PERSON from the original audition. I mean, why spend all that time and money to recast when you're just going to audition the SAME 200 PEOPLE you saw the first time?)

But here's the big story: At the fitting there was this girl I totally knew. I couldn't quite place her but I knew that I knew her from somewhere. Tall, model-y, odd looking... And then it hit me -

APRIL FROM SEASON TWO OF AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL!

I'm telling you, it took every ounce of restraint not to tackle her and force her to give me the skinny on the bitchfest that is Tyra Banks. Seriously, I was dying. I kept trying to figure out a unawkward way to bring up the fact that I'd seen her titties on national television (pixelated of course) but I couldn't figure out a smooth seguay. Unfortunately she wasn't in my commercial so I didn't have the shoot yesterday to weasel it out of her, which is probably for the best really. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate with that much potential gossip around.

Awesometastic!

Holy crap, I just booked another commercial! Last time booze, this time deoderant! I play a bridesmaid whose deoderant has stopped working. (Oh the comedy!) Before you (or I) get too excited, it's just a demo - a "demo" being sort of a sample version of the real deal. If the Powers That Be like it then they go back and shoot the real thing, hopefully keeping the same cast. There's a shot the spot will never see the light of day but my agents think it'll run (she says, knocking wood). Regardless, it makes me feel like a big shot to book two back-to-back like this.

Now I've got Billy Joel's "Big Shot" running through my head. The line, "and your eyes too bloody to seeeee" used to really freak me out as a kid.

Is it the Nyquil?

I've been having the weirdest dreams... So far I've battled an alien invasion with Ted Carter and had a three-way with Charlie Sheen and Lisa Barry from college. What's next? Tipping cows with Ghandi?

SOMEWHAT BREAKING NEWS!

There's totally a bomb threat outside my apartment right now! They've cordoned off our block and I counted six police cars, two police vans, three ambulances and four fire trucks, lights all a'flashing - not to mention a dude in full-on bomb gear who's dealing with the briefcases. (I know all about the briefcases because the janitor told me. I was hoping to get some info from the security guard downstairs but all he'd say is that there's a "sitchiation" and it's being handled. He totally thinks he's a cop.) Somebody has painted FUCK YOU on the sidewalk outside of the Little Pie Company which is very upsetting, seeing as how I live on a street known as "happy block". The janitor keeps saying that we should all leave the building but the cops don't seem terribly frantic; they're mostly shooting the shit (and occasionally shouting at a curious neighbor to get off the street). I figure if it was a real threat they'd tell us to get out. (Although that logic that got a lot of people killed in the Twin Towers. Maybe I'll get out the cat carriers just in case...)

UPDATE: Nothing went boom.