The irony is not lost on me

I spent a significant portion of my evening eating brownies while watching Fat Camp on MTV.

I have officially sunk to new depths.

Mmm! Assy!

I was perusing another one of my time wasters the other day (and by “time wasters” I mean “interesting and educational websites”). It’s a site called Interesting Thing of the Day. The concept is pretty simple - every day this guy discovers and researches an interesting thing. The other day he posted an entry about kefir, which is sort of a yogurt-based drink. Apparently it’s an incredible probiotic, great for balancing your intestinal flora and fauna, and super-super good for you. I happen to love things that are super-super good for me (with the exception of kale) and if something’s going to make me poop, I feel a strange compulsion to try it. Anyway, I was at the local farmer’s market yesterday and low and behold there was a stand selling cheese, yogurt, and – heavens to Betsy – kefir. And there was only ONE BOTTLE LEFT. Clearly fate was taking an interest in my intestinal needs! I grabbed the remaining bottle, giddy that this opportunity had practically fallen into my lap. Who knew what was next? Movie scripts? A labradoodle? The possibilities were endless.

“You might want to sweeten it a little,” the farmer said, eyeing me. Yeah, yeah - just give me the bottle, bub. I ran home, anxious to try out this new taste treat. For the record, I love yogurt. And none of that “fruit” sweetened, corn syrup-and-food-coloring Gogurt-type crap. I’m hardcore – I eat it plain. I poured myself a nice tall glass of the stuff and took a healthy swig.

Folks, that shit was nasty. It was like drinking runny sour cream, but way more gross. Plus it smells like feet. I could not gag it down. I was about to throw it away until my conscience started up. (“But it’s so goooood for you.”) So this morning I decided to give it another go, only this time I took Farmer John’s advice. I planned on sweetening it with something natural like maple syrup but unfortunately the only bottle we had was from 2001 and the syrup had hardened into something molecularly similar to granite. Undaunted, I continued poring through the cabinets. Honey? Nah. Sugar? Nah. What on earth was I to use?

Let’s just say this – a big mound of Ghiradelli cocoa does wonders. (Before ye judge too harshly, Farmer John told me that one of his customers sweetens his with Strawberry Qwik.)

Believe it or not, I have a birthday coming up. Since I'm sure several of you have been wondering what to get a gal-about-town like myself, I've decided to help you out.

This. I want this.

Bringing you the best in all things cheap

I know I've raved about this site before, but for those who consume magazines on a regular basis but find subscription prices undoable, here's my go-to site for all things glossy:

www.bestdealmagazines.com

They have a ton of choices, as most online mag stores do, but here's the thing - they also offer a bunch of subscriptions for just $4.69 a year. Granted, not all the titles are winners (Ignite Your Faith, Boating World) but there are some definite deals (Atlantic Monthly, Interview). They're constantly sending out online coupons (this week every title is a random 17% off) plus, if you're a Superthrift like myself, you'll sign up at www.ebates.com to get an additional 10% back. That brings your year of More magazine to just over $3.39 a year. Seriously, I get giddy just thinking about the savings...

YES I'm going to the gym!

Yes friends, after much huffing and puffing (and bitching and moaning), I'm afraid the 6 a.m. writing sessions have gone the way of the dodo. (Clubbed over the head for sport by natives who took advantage of its trusting nature? Yes.) I'm a bit disappointed in myself, truth be told. It's sort of a thing in the writing community, this early morning thing, and I've always associated it with the mark of a "real" writer. (Susannah Clarkson and Stephen King both take it a step further rising at 5 a.m. just to piss me off. So does the Dalai Lama, but since he's praying for the future of the world I'll cut him some slack.) I did just learn that Neil Gaiman is a night writer and he's super prolific (not to mention hot. Did I mention hot?) which makes me feel a little better. But only a little.

Speaking of things I should not be doing instead of night writing, has anybody been watching Top Chef this season? I'm totally gunning for the underdog Marcel, mostly because he looks like a supervillan's slightly inffective henchman. (And for those who know, doesn't judge Tom Colicchio remind you of an older and rounder Baldandeffective?)

Where's Dr. House when you need him?

I did not haul my heiner up at 6 a.m. to write this morning, but I was still up at the crack of retardation to go get an MRI. (Apparently that's what we do in our 30's - frantically floss and get MRI's.)

Let me just say, radiology facilities need to spend a little less time nagging about insurance authorizations and a little more time on their magazine selection. RADIOLOGY TODAY? CUSTOMER INTERACTION SOLUTIONS? I almost fell for a WEB MD with Hugh Laurie on the cover until I realized he wasn't actually featured in the magazine. (Who knew WEB MD even had a magazine? And who the hell reads it?) Instead I entertained myself by listening to the reactions of the people waiting for CT scans, upon hearing how many glasses of liquid they were expected to consume without urinating ("HOW MANY?", "Five.", "FIVE?", "Five.") and being grateful that I wasn't one of them. I was all set; I was even prepared for the I.V. which is pretty amazing, considering my needle thing. (FYI - heart surgery at a young age can make one a little squirrelly about injections.) Still, I was good to go - until I got to one particular question.

"Is there any possibility that you might be pregnant?"

See, that's a tricky one. I mean, any woman of child-bearing age in a monogamous, non-prophalactic-using relationship who has sexual intercourse mid-month has the possibility of being pregnant. "IS THERE ANY POSSIBILITY THAT YOU MIGHT BE PREGNANT" is pretty freaking broad. I mean, yes, sure, there's a possibility that I might be pregnant. There's also a possibility that I might go parasailing someday. I decided to ask the woman behind the counter what she would do in this situation.

"When did you last have sex? Hmm. And when did you ovulate? Hmm. Uh... Hmm."

I decided to ask the lab technician. After all, she probably dealt with this kind of question every day.

"Oh wow. Well, we usually tell our ladies to go around the corner and pick up a..." (vague hand gesture indicating either pregnancy test or magic wand) Unfortunately for me, the tech on duty wasn't exactly Oprah in a lab coat. More like Joe Theisman in scrubs. Somehow I doubted he'd fully comprehend my very, very specific injection-giving instructions.

"Well a pregnancy test wouldn't actually show anything yet because..." I yammered, going on about the intricacies of the female anatomy.

Theisman stared at me with barely disguised bewilderment, like I was lifting the veil of feminine mystique right before his very eyes.

"Yeeeah, I think I'm going to need a supervisor on this."

Theisman returned a few minutes later, trailed by a portly, Huxtable-esque doctor.

"Yes, ma'am? Seeing as how this isn't a life-or-death test, we're going to need you to reschedule it until after you get..." Dr. Huxtable trailed off, clearly incapable of saying the word "period". I was starting to worry about the state of men in the medical profession.

So yes friends, I get to do this all over again, once I get my... you know.

This time I'll bring my own magazines.

Getting up before the crack of dawn requires some kind of reward, right?

Just so you all know, my first 6 a.m. writing session went exactly as we all expected that it would. Splendiferously, sucktacularly bad. After an hour and a half of staring at the computer screen, I managed to squeak out exactly three sentences of my "novel" and one really grumpy email. To whit:

"This shit sucks. Maybe it's the lack of sleep talking but right now I hate my life. I slept about four hours last night, between Matt's terrible stomach pain (he spent the night on the couch – the second night in a row, I might add) which freaks the cats out, which means another night of howling and running back and forth and scratching in the litter box and howling some more before FINALLY falling asleep the minute I decide to get up. I keep getting up to check on him throughout the night and then I can't fall back asleep. (If he misses work, will we make rent? If we can't make rent, how are we supposed to afford a kid? Do I need to work more than 40 hours a week? Why aren't I booking commercials and making money? Why didn't I go into advertising?) Now I have to get in the shower when all I want to do is to go to sleep. I know that this is what it's like when you have a baby – up all night, no rest – but the fact that I don't have one just makes it seem shittier, like there's no point to the misery. I know that negative thoughts don't get me anywhere and for the most part I manage to stay on the (relatively) sunny side of the street, but this morning I just want to punch a hole in the wall. (Instead I threw a pillow at one of the cats and then immediately started sobbing out of guilt. Seriously, I'm starting to wonder if I should be trying to have a kid if I can't even handle the fucking cats…)"

Methinks it's time to reconsider caffeine.

John Grisham, watch your ass!

Continuing my string of Grand Ideas That Dissolve Into Bitter Regret (see: Weight Watchers, my own line of greeting cards, owning a bakery, my acting career) tomorrow I'm getting up at dawn to write. I figure if Stefanie can do it, I can talk about doing it.

See, here's my problem - every night it's the same thing. After work I plan on hitting the gym, then devoting the rest of the night to tapping out the Great American Novel, followed by an hour of medition and a chapter of The Wives of Henry VIII.

Instead, it usually goes a little something like this:

7:00 - After battling the surging, post-work crowds, manage to push myself home. Kiss husband, pet cats, say hi to the fish, announce that TONIGHT I'm going to write, goddammit.

7:30 - General puttering. Discussion about healthy dinner options. Decide salad will take too long. Pre-heat oven for leftover pizza.

8:00 - Get caught up in email; forget about oven. Run into (now overheated) kitchen and throw pizza into oven. Decide to have salad after all.

8:15 - Discover that salad really does take too long.

8:20 - Dinner and television. Pretend to watch Hardball with husband but instead focus on Chris Matthews' unusual pronounciation of "Cheney".

8:45 - Stand in front of freezer. Try to convince self to eat 60 calorie frozen lime bar instead of New York Super Fudge Chunk.

8:47 - Sit on couch with New York Super Fudge Chunk.

9:00 - DANGER ZONE! (Prime tv time.)

9:01 - Too late; already sucked in.

10:00 - Tear myself away to take bath.

10:20 - Check blog for tenth time. Squawk about how nobody comments. Yell at husband for not reading blog. General, unfocused pout.

10:30 - "How did it get to be 10:30 already?!" Frantically make lunch/take vitamins/brush teeth.

10:45 - Put on meditation tape. Argue with husband over who gets comfortable pillow, even though it was his Christmas gift.

10:50 - Give up on meditation. Try to go to sleep.

11:20 - Can't sleep. "How did it get to be 11:30 already?!"

11:45 - Sleep.

See? NO TIME FOR WRITING. I'll let you know how my new plan works out, but you already know how it's gonna work out.

I prefer chocolate truffles

In another example of New York Children Are Not Normal, I give you yet another article from this week's New York magazine. A kid-centric grocery store recently opened on the tony Upper East Side for time-crunched parents who don't have the wherewithal/inclination to slap something together themselves. It supplies healthy, mostly organic, pre-packaged food organized by age and serving size (appetizer/entree/dessert. Note: the first clue that New York Children Are Not Normal - or NYCANN - is the fact that they're offered appetizers), along with mini grocery carts and an ice cream/cupcake bar.

I have no problem with this whatsoever, I just don't think it'll fly - but that has nothing to do with why NYCANN. This is why:

Jake, 10 - (rating a mitten shaped hummus sandwich with the crusts cut off) "This is great since I hate crust. But the hummus could use a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt to brighten it up."

And again, Jake, 10 - (giving his overall impression) "It's pretty good, but not for a guy like me. I prefer Citarella or Dean & DeLuca. I treasure things like an aged balsamic vinegar and truffles - the mushrooms, not the chocolate."

HE'S TEN. TEN! What were you eating when you were ten? The top rockers at chez McKinney (circa 1982): Kraft macaroni and cheese, SpaghettiO's, KoolAid, and fried bologna. And I turned out JUST FINE.

Is there a prize for inner peace?

New York magazine has an interesting cover topic this week.

What Do You Do for Peace of Mind?

The author emailed a bunch of his friends and asked everyone what they do to achieve a moment of peace in their hectic lives. Needless to say, the answers varied wildly from "Watching Sunrise Earth on Discovery channel each morning at 7 a.m. on my MONSTER FKING HI DEF TV. Seriously, it's the best show on television. A slowly rising, Hi Def sunset, w.out ANY COMMENTARY, beamed directly into yr shithole little apt, direct from THE GRAND TETONS, or YELLOWSTONE, or the banks of the YANGTZE" to "Sparking a J and doing the crossword".

(I interrupt this post to mention that there's an elderly gent wandering around on his roof across the street, wearing nothing but a pair of short and slippers with socks. Which would be weird enough even if it wasn't 19 degrees outside. He doesn't look like he's going to jump so I'm not too worried. I'll keep an eye on the situation.)

Anyway, inner peace. It got me thinking about what I do to soothe my savage, cranky beastie. I realized I actually do a fair amount to keep him appeased (why hello there, Banana Republic sale rack), but since I'm only allowed one activity, so here's my quote:

"A pot of tea, an almond croissant and some journal writing, preferably somewhere slightly foreign and/or pretentious. Bonus points if filled with good-looking, interesting people for optimum jealously-induced mocking."

I'm curious what you guys do. ("An hour and a half of Ashtanga yoga every morning at 5:45" anyone? Anyone?)

This is why I go to the gym

Wandering around the East Village today, I stumbled upon an oasis.

Max Brenner, Chocolate By The Bald Man

This place is like the Starbucks of chocolate. Max's gleaming mug adorns everything from the cappuccino foam to the receipts, his shiny pate twinkling like Wonka's grin. The proliferation of all things Max should've bugged me, but after a few whiffs of... of... (are those fresh-baked brownies?) it's hard not to succumb to the sheer indulgence of it all. Unlike most New York chocolatiers with their impressive cacao percentages and snooty salesclerks (It's CHOCOLATE, people!), it was refreshing to walk into a place that served things like Belgian waffles with warm chocolate truffle sauce and "Choco-Pops" (hot chocolate with crunchy chocolate wiffle balls). Sure it's over the top, but what do you expect from a place that has "Stop it Max, this is already too much!" stenciled on the wall?

I managed to walk out there relatively guilt-free with a simple hot chocolate (choice of dark/milk/white/orange. I went dark). It was good. Damn good. Was it $4 good? Eh, but it was a hell of a lot better than the melted frosting City Bakery passes off as hot chocolate. (Although people go crazy for that molten, sludge-like goo so what do I know?)

On second thought, scratch the "guilt-free". I doubt Max scrimps on the heavy cream.

Personally, my favorite flava is chocolate mint

Mucho apologies for the non-posting but the one-two punch of overwork and low-fat cookie dough ice cream has proven a siren song too strong to resist.

I auditioned for an industrial (or "training video") on Monday. Nothing new about that, but as I was checking out the competition I noticed several decidedly un-commercial ladies filling out forms. Each was sporting an abundance of black lace and gold (plated) bling, and much effort was spent fluffing hair and repositioning cleavage. Curious about where the role of "Skank" fit into a video for multiple sclerosis (tagline: "Skanks get it too!") I scanned the breakdown. My role was a schoolteacher and mother, the other character was a corporate big-wig. That's when I noticed the other sign in sheet.

Now, I love reality TV. (Beauty and the Geek? High five!) That said, the thought of actually appearing on, say, Flava of Love holds about as much appeal as mushed rabbit.

Who knew they held auditions for Flava of Love?

That's right, I spent roughly twenty minutes in the company of several overexcited, underdressed women who were more than ready, willing and able to swap spit with the toothless, clock-wearing wonder. I'm not judging them (I'M NOT JUDGING THEM) but when you're so excited to be chosen for the opportunity to "date" a washed-up rapper that you poop yourself on national television (don't believe me? Google last season), perhaps it's time to reevaluate your choices in life.

I sat there, torn between working on my audition and eavesdropping ("So where do you live?", "Bensonhurst", "Oh yeah? Me too!") when I got called in. Let me tell you, pretending to have MS is a hell of a lot less interesting then being a fly on the wall at a Flava of Love call.

My only regret is that I didn't steal the application questionaire.

Guess what time it is?

Because it has been requested (I swear. No, really) I've decided to bedazzle you with yet another round of THINGS ALISHA LOVES!

- Caffeine.

After six months of staying straight, I had my tea "fully leaded" this morning and baby, it was beeeutiful. I was like the ARMY - I got more done by 11 am that most people get done by noon! I changed the cat litter, did the dishes, figured our finances and made a full brunch - all before hitting the gym! You should've seen me on that treadmill! I was hiking up that incline setting like a sherpa on Everest. If coke is anything like this, keep me far, far away. I'd be running for President on that shit. (Come to think of it, did our President run for president on that shit?)

- Housing Works Thrift Shops

I suspect I've told you all about this place before but man oh man, it is good. Even though I was practically on my death bed yesterday (you should see the cold sore that's eating my face), I still hauled my shriveled, grumpy ass out over there in order to be the first one in. Lest you think I'm turning into a crazy person lining up a half an hour early, there were a good 30 people waiting by the time 10 am rolled around. (It was me, several panicky elderly ladies and a clutch of still drunk gay men; clearly a tribe that knows a bargain.) I was there for an adorable Marc Jacobs-meets-Girl Scout jacket that I'd spotted earlier on a mannequin and lo and behold, they were having a "50% off all clothing" sale. My adorable MJ-meets-GS jacket? A mere $5. (Designer, alas, unknown. I have my suspicions as to who it might be - MJ, I'm talking to you - but the tag was cut out.) I also spotted a full-length, fire engine red Prada coat (50% off-eted to a mindboggeling $80 which, luckily for my bank account, didn't fit) and a rather underwhelming plain black Prada blouse (down to, oof!, $22). Take that, Target!

- www.shesabetty.com

The subtitle of this site is something like "single girl solutions" which I find odd, seeing as how the whole thing is about shopping. Maybe she thinks that only single girls shop (a belief I would be happy to correct). Still, the stuff she finds is usually interesting and she's a good writer, which pisses me off a little, but I'll get over it.

- Swiffer dusters

I hate dusting. Scratch that - I LOATHE dusting. While nothing is worse than mopping (I would rather wade through poo infested waters than mop) my distaste for dusting comes in at a close second, which is why Swiffer is my new god. Now I've been down with Swiffer for awhile (if only I'd thought of attaching a cling sheet to a pole, I'd be a quadillionaire by now) but I'd stayed tight with the floor models, never even considering the high-reaching options. (Unless you're a giant, you'll want to get the kind with the extendable handle.) I dusted things that, frankly, may never have never dusted - ever. Things like the tops of doors and window sills and picture frames - things that my regular Swiffer (with its flat, square head) kept knocking over. I'm trying not to think about the biodegradability of the Swiffer sheets (so not biodegradable, she frets) but... nah, I have no rationalization so I'll just pretend I didn't have that last thought.

- Whole Foods' giant bottle of body lotion

Sure, maybe it's not Creme de la Mer, but until I can afford to rub $150 worth of celebrity endorsed cream (ahem, "creme") on my body, I'll be happy with this. I find Whole Foods overpriced most of the time but they're doing me right with this stuff: 32 ounces, $3.79. 32 ounces - that's bigger than my bathroom. Awesome, bargain hunters. Awesome. And it's good too! Very thick, nice and creamy, doesn't smell bad. (Here's a tip for all you curly headed people out there - use body lotion instead of hair goo. It's trick I learned on set. The emollients keep the frizz down and make the curls shapely. Don't go too crazy or you'll border on the jeri curled, but if you use it on the ends of damp hair and it's great.) This lotion is also fab because it doesn't contain parabens.

- Alba Terra Tints lip balm

I'm not a huge fan of lipstick (smudgy, expensive, untasty) or gloss (sticky, goopy, hair sticks to it) but I look Amish without some color. This stuff gives me the moturizing feel of Chapstick but with a strong shot of color. I know a lot of companies are rolling out similar products (Burt's Bees, et al) but Alba seems to have the strongest pigment. Plus it has an SPF 18 and no petroleum. I love the "Blaze" (a nice berry) and "Sienna" (good for redheads), and Matt likes that it tastes all pepperminty. You can get them at any health food store for roughly $4.

- JASON Vitamin E oil, 45,000 I.U.

I have no idea what an I.U. is, but the fact that this oil boasts of having 45,000 of them probably means it's good. I was having really stupid breakouts for awhile and couldn't figure out why.
While I still don't know what caused them, I do know that they went away a few days after I replaced my usual night cream with vitamin E oil. Granted it is not sexy, it will not firm or tighten or primp or pamper, but I get a lot of complements on my skin and I think this stuff might be why. (Don't forget your high SPF sunscreen every day too.) I goop it on after I wash my face and let it soak in overnight. (You might want something richer around your eye area.) I like that doesn't seem to clog my pores the way other stuff did and has the bonus of being chemical-free.

- Heather Smith Jones

Some of her new stuff doesn't appeal to me ("Confronting", "Holding Up My Thoughts", "In This Place", I'm talking to you. "About Mama", "Learning To Overlook Yourself", "Little Bird & Orange", you can stick around) but her combinations of needlepoint pointilism (best I can describe it) and paint are really beautiful. I keep promising I'll buy something when I get some money. Man, I ready for some money...

Who DIDN'T break up last week?! A gossip roundup.

Apparently Santa brought a whole heap of heartache (or, you know, not) to Tinseltown this holiday season. A list of the people who went splitsville:

- Drew and Fab (Eh.)
- Justin and Cameron (He's rumored to be hooking up with Scarlett Johanson, while Scarlett's ex, Josh Hartnett, gets bathroom bj's in downtown bars. RUMORED bj's! Rumored!)
- Claire Danes and Billy Crewdup (She's rumored to be with her new co-star and whatdya know, a friend of ours is currently acting opposite her. Alas, it wasn't him.)
- Marilyn Manson and Dita Von Teese (That one actually surprised me; I thought those two might work. She's supposed to be pretty great - very Midwestern and sweet underneath the corsets - but he's been busy doing heroin with Angelina - ALLEDGEDLY! - and partying with 19-year-olds, not so allegedly.)

Who's next? I'm betting on Nicole and Keith. He got busted for sleeping with a fan (and entered rehab the minute it hit the tabloids) and she's starting to go all Meg Ryan on me. (Nik's definitely gotten her lips done, and she can no longer move her face. Please, please, back off from the Botox. I miss the old Nicole, with the red hair and the laugh lines. What the hell happened?)

And Bartles and James used to say, "Thank you for your support."

Is anyone else struggling to write? I'd say it's the winter doldrums, but since it's the warmest January on record (Denver's totally hogging all the snow) I really don't have much to complain about. (Except for, you know, the whole global warming thing.)

That said, I'm working on a few new stories. One is about my first modeling job (I was having such a good time until the editor shouted out "Stay tight on her face so we don't see her body") and the other is about trying to get knocked up. That one's more of a struggle, not because I feel particularly sensitive about it (unless you catch me on the wrong night) but because I'm not sure which direction it should go. Here's the thing about trying to get knocked up - it's really not that easy once your past your twenties. From what I understand (and correct me if I'm wrong) there's really only a 3 to 5 day window of opportunity, contrary to what we all learned in sex-ed. (In middle school, the poor woman who taught "Health" would get so nervous discussing anything related to human sexuality that one day she twisted her pearls so tight she broke her necklace. This is the same woman who told us repeatedly that "sperm could swim" without bothering to explain the details. I spent the summer convinced that I'd get pregnant in the tub.) Honestly, if I'd actually taken the time to learn how babies are made (aside from "put the thing in the thing"), I never would have stayed on the Pill for so long.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only one who's thought about this. There are tons of articles dedicated to not getting pregnant (20's) and being too old to get pregnant (40's), but nothing about your 30's. So here's my question: Is this a topic worth pursuing? If not, why? (So I can stop wasting my time.) If yes, why? (So I know what people want to read about.)

On a side note, HOLY CRAP, IT'S SNOWING!

Did you watch?

My television viewing may have hit an all-time low last night. Yes I know I could have been doing something productive with my evening like writing a new story or sending out a mailing to casting directors or meditating (okay, I'm totally bumming myself out) but instead I watched something so goddawful bad, I'm almost too ashamed to admit it.

"Grease! You're The One That I Want!"

For those who had the good sense not to watch it, this bucket of retardation is all about casting the latest Broadway revival of Grease. The twist? YOU, THE VIEWER get to decide who gets to play Danny and Sandy. I know! You totally didn't see that coming! That's right, you get to decide which non-professional, "I played Sandy in high school" wannabe gets to star ON BROADWAY and make $3,000 a week! I just can't stop picturing the real actors who are going to have to share the stage with these yahoos. (Now that's a reality show I want to see.) I started watching it because I was hoping that it would show what an actor's life is really like. Like instead of being about "I just saw this ad and I want to be on TV", it'd actually be about casting a show. But of course it's exactly what you'd expect - American Idol for the thespian set. They've even got the faux-tough British judge, just in case you weren't clear on the concept. But I didn't change the channel. Why? HOPE. I kept thinking that surely this would get better. Surely the network people aren't this. freaking. lazy. And that America isn't this. freaking. lame. But (she says as she stares at the butt indention in the couch), apparently "America" is.

(On a side note, I had a dream the other night that I was a contestent of America's Next Top Model but I got kicked off because I bitched out Tyra Banks. It was pretty awesome.)

Never. Again.

Although I loves my reality shows, I don't happen to watch The Real World anymore. (Mostly because A: it is anything but, and B: it makes me feel way old), but I happened to pause long enough to catch the following conversation between the characters of "Overwrought, Twenty-something Party Girl" and her "Poor, Beleaguered Mom".

Girl (bawling on phone): "I fucking hate this place! It's totally not worth it! When I think that I'm wasting $700 a month on rent while I'm holed up here it makes me sick!"

Mom: "What are you talking about? You pay $450."

Girl: "UTILITIES, mother! I have to pay utilities on top of my rent!"

Mom: "I pay your utilities."

Girl: "Could you throw me a bone here, mom?!"

MAN! You could not pay me to be in my twenties again. That shit sucked.

I place you under arrest for being pathetic.

Apparently "act politically incorrect in public" is this season's dog-in-a-handbag; THE must-have accessory for B (and now D)-list celebs. Career a little slumpy? Heckle a black man! (Hello, Kramer.) Haven't been famous since... Wait, when were you famous? Still, go ahead and trade obscenities with a stranger - you've got nothing to lose! (It worked for Mel! Look at the numbers on Apocolyptico!) Just make sure you notify your publicist so that they can beg someone at Yahoo to tack it onto today's entertainment section so that you can finally have that shot at The Surreal Life. Wait, you were already on The Surreal Life? Never mind.

They left out "Schedule twice-weekly therapy sessions" and "Slit wrists"

For those of you who hate your jobs, you could be doing this. (Taken from the good folks at Gawker.com)

" We remember reading this New York article about The Outsourced Parent a while back and being impressed by the creativity of its central conceit -- a subtle jab at the way many New York-area businesspeople let other people perform more and more of the basic tasks involved in childrearing, dressed up as a service piece. Surely, though, we thought, no one actually does delegate every single responsibility involved in having a family to an outsider.

And then we saw this job posting and realized that sometimes, we are so fucking naive. Choicest bits after the jump.

Hello All,

A managing partner of a rapidly expanding $4 billion hedge fund (a multi-strategy credit opportunity fund that specializes in credit analysis and credit-related investments) located in Southern Fairfield County, CT is seeking an extremely organized, time efficient Personal Assistant/Executive Assistant who can take charge of the day-to-day functioning of the family and home office.In addition to thriving in a business setting, the Personal Assistant must also enjoy working with children. You would work in the hedge fund office and also in the Managing Partner's home--both located in Southern Fairfield County, CT. Overall, the Managing Partner is seeking someone who feels intense ownership of the people she is supporting--and views herself as a professional who eagerly goes the extra mile.

Children Responsibilities

* Sign children up for extracurricular activities
* Maintain children's activity calendar in Excel (Fall/Winter/Spring/Summer)
* Assist with car rides for the children
* Schedule medical appointments for the children
* On occasion - run errands pertaining to the children
o Book store
o Pharmacy
o Clothing Stores
o Party Supply Stores
* Organize and execute Birthday Parties for the children
o Develop theme
o Order the cake (make sure it is peanut/nut free)
o Determine food options (make sure completely peanut/nut free)
o Decorate
o Actively participate during the party
* Work one on one with Recruiters to hire nannies, tutors and instructors
o Fill out paperwork
o Conduct first round interview
o Keep a binder (of all resumes viewed)
o Determine if the family should meet with the candidate"

Apparently it goes on and on. I tried to look up the ad but it was deleted (hopefully from shame). Seriously, why even bother to procreate?

I'm not talking about her titties.

I'm not normally one for posting smutty pics, but this one is a classic. (If you don't see what I mean, just enlarge the thing. Key word, "ENLARGE".)

Not for the faint of heart.

Warning: Skip today's post if you have a woozy stomach or are easily nauseated by violence to animals. For reals, yo.

So apparently P. Diddy, that bastion of taste and class, is in hella trouble for selling fur-collared jackets (under his Sean John label). They're advertized as being "faux rabbit fur" which is, I guess, technically true... since it turns out that they're made from dog hair.

Which wouldn't necessarily be a problem except that the dogs that were skinned alive.

Lest you assume (like I did) that this nastiness was just a bunch of blasphemy penned by an overzealous PETA staffer or pulled from one of my (admittedly somewhat dubious) gossip sites, there's a small blurb about it in this week's New York Magazine. And just to be sure, I Googled "P.Diddy+fur coats+dogs skinned alive" and came up with several articles from reasonably reliable sources (including, but not limited to, The Huffington Post), which makes me think that this might be actually, vomit-inducingly true.

Setting aside for a moment the fact that the DOGS WERE SKINNED ALIVE, I can't stop thinking about the fact that someone not only knew about it, not only considered it, but actually signed off on it. And not only that, but it was somebody's job to do it. Apparently it's a fairly common practice in China (where the coats were made). I know they eat dogs in China and that animal kindness isn't necessarily priority number one, but desensitized as that particular person may be, a job like that has got to fuck you up in many, many ways. Nobody willingly signs up for a job like that. Taking a job that inhumane requires a level of poverty and desperation I can't even fathom.

The coats were sold at upscale department stores in New York. I wonder if the people wearing them even know.

You win this time, Cipriani!

If it isn't already abundantly clear, I like to buy stuff. I especially like to buy stuff if: A) it's fancy, and B) it's on sale. So when I wandered into Williams-Sonoma over the weekend to peruse their 50% off table, it was safe to say I was gonna leave with something. Did I fall for the really delicious pumkin and walnut dipping oils, offered at a fraction of their original price? Or was I wooed by the pretty jars of giant olives, perfect for snacking? No, friends, I did not. Instead I went for something even stupider.

Tomato sauce.

"But Alisha", you might ask, "what could possibly be stupid about tomato sauce? In fact, compared to dipping oil and enormous olives, tomato sauce seems downright practical!" Aye, there's the grabber. PRACTICAL. I, too, was lured by the possibilty of something better than Newman's Own. And this particular sauce sported a name that had me at whatever's Italian for "hello": CIPRIANI. One of the most expensive dining establishments in my fair city (don't even think of getting married there) , Cipriani has recently launched a line of high-end sauces. According to their website: "Over the last 20 years, on the basis of the mistaken assumption that sauces are only used to cover the taste of food that is not fresh, condiments have almost been banned from the table. We are convinced that this is a mistake. There is a long tradition behind the preparation of sauces and this should not be lost. Sauces exist to enrich, ennoble and exalt the taste of a whole range of dishes. Pasta, for one, tastes even better when it is served with the right sauce. Chicken, red meat, fish and lobster can be prepared in a number of different ways to simple boiling or grilling and this is all thanks to the right choice of sauce. For young chefs, the sauce is a lesson in imagination, a road that leads to the art of real cooking."

Sounds good, right? And (originally) priced at $11 a jar, I figured this was some special sauce. So I decided to check out the ingredients, to see if I could steal a secret ingredient or two.

Ingredients: Tomatoes

That's it. No salt, no herbs - just tomatoes. I was so startled by this lack of stuff that I actually called over a Williams-Sonoma employee to confirm that I wasn't missing something. After looking at me like I was a particularly annoying small dog and offering a briskly sing-songed, "Well, let's look at the list of INGREDIENTS, shall we?", she quickly ate her tone and started chucking at the audacity of slapping $11 on a jar of plain, pureed tomatoes.

So of course I had to buy it. The curiousity would have haunted me for seconds - nay, minutes! - had I not. $11 tomatoes! Surely they were the best damn tomatoes ANYONE HAD EVER GROWN!

Nope. Tasted exactly like a jar full of pureed tomatoes. A baby wouldn't have eaten that crap.

Still, I take some comfort in the fact that some poor schlub is paying $25 for a plate full. At least I only got took for $4.99.

I've got a birthday coming up...

I've seen some funny things in my life, but this little Christmas wonder - compliments of SNL (who knew it was still funny?) - rocks. Enjoy, but not in the company of children or people who could have you fired.

Glass and a half of champers makes Ali a hungover girl.

Greetings on the first day of the newest year! Can't say it feels a whole lot different from the last day of the former year, except for the piles of the leftover confetti. Living in the "most exciting city in the entire world!" on the night of "the biggest party in the world!" (according to an overcaffeinated and underteleprompted Seacrest) can wear a bit thin. I've never understood the whole Times Square At Midnight thing. People line up behind police barracades for hours on end, usually in the freezing cold, no food, no booze and NO ACCESS TO PUBLIC TOILETS, just to watch a ball drop. I guess it's like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade; it sounds like fun until you actually go. Then you discover that the floats only come along every twenty minutes, leaving you with nothing to do but pick your nose and hope the Snoopy balloon takes down a tourist.

Matt and I kept it low-key last night, which will come as a shock to absolutely nobody. We popped open a bottle of expensive bubbly (thanks, Kathy and Bob!) and opened the Christmas presents we didn't have time to give each other before leaving town. We thought about hitting the East Village for some cheap curry but quickly nixed it once we remembered that it was New Years Eve. (Or as I like to call it, "amateur night".) Instead, we went around the corner to our favorite restaurant and splurged on actual appetizers. (So small! So fancy!) We managed to make it to midnight and celebrated the countdown on our balcony, gazing fondly on the celebrating crowds. (Okay, we didn't actually see anybody, aside from some guy wheeling a rental table down the street, but we heard a lot of shouting and merriment which is almost the same.) Generally I feel a little let down on New Years', like no matter where I am someone else is having a lot more fun, but this one felt pretty solid. Hope you all had a good one too.