Dear producers of Grease! You're The One That I want:

Stop. Just please... stop.

I know I said that I was going to quit watching this train wreck, but every Sunday night I find myself in the exact same position: On the couch, powerscarfing fat-free brownies and screaming at Billy Bush. ("They're auditioning for Broadway! MAKE THEM SING A FUCKING SHOW TUNE!")

There are many, many reasons to loathe this show, but reason number one has to be the costumes.

NEON.

SPANDEX.

NEON SPANDEX.

You would have to hog tie me to a unicorn in order to get me on national television on one of those getups. And even then it'd be a battle.

Man, the Oscars were boring this year. Granted, I didn't actually watch the show but I did watch fifteen minutes of E!'s Red Carpet Recap today and it was pretty snoozy. I just couldn't get excited about the movies this year, with the exception of Pan's Labryinth which was robbed. (I say, having seen none of the other foreign language films.) My only regret is not getting to see Ellen mingle with the stars because I'm sure that was nothing short of awesome. Although I adore Ellen, whenever I see her I immediately flash to some absolutely scandalous (and most likely untrue) stuff I heard about her sex life which will not be repeated here. (Unless you really, really want me to. Speaking of celebrity sex lives, I've also got some very, very alleged dirt on Mr. John Stewart...)

I do like the fashion parade that is the Oscars, though. (Reese Witherspoon, my oh my!) Although I do take some umbridge at this year's Worst Dressed List. While Anne Hathaway's bow does appear to be attacking her titties, really - the worst? Damn, I'd pay good money to look that bad. (Psst - Anne Hathaway? I've heard some stuff.)

I've spent the last two days knee-deep in tax preparation. Ten hours of tax prep, people. TEN MUTHERFARKING HOURS! It's not just about time-consuming itemization here at Lies! All Lies!, oh no. We have a whooooole "receipt filing" system that comes into play.

See, the building where I live requires everyone to provide copies of every single goddamn receipt for the every single thing you're writing off. Not only do they want each and every receipt - which is fine, since the taxman wants them too - but they must all be numbered and categorized according to their byzantine system, and photocopied and labeled with descriptions. It takes for-fucking-ever, hence the ten hours of un-fun. Between that and the early morning cat-sitting all week and the ridiculousness of electing to do my weekly grocery shop at Trader Joe's on a Saturday afternoon, I'm feeling... well, I'm basically just rolling round in a carpet of self-pity today so please bear with me.

And yes, I did eat almost an entire pan of No Pudge brownies while reading Beauty and the Geek fan sites. They are both so good - and yet, so bad.

Since it's all about the willful spending today at Lies! All Lies!, I'm decreeing that this be your next "must-purchase":

The Select Comfort Side Sleeper Pillow

Select Comfort is that company that offers the Sleep Number beds (which fascinate me, by the way) and while I'm sure they're great, the pillow I recently purchased from them has changed my life. I've gone through roughly ten million pillows, searching for the perfect supportive-but-smooshy combo with absolutely no luck. I'll find one that's okay for awhile, but then my back starts to hurt and my neck gets all scrunchy and I start worrying about wrinkles from the granite tablet I suddenly find myself sleeping on. But this thing - man! I have never slept better in my life, and they're not even paying me to say that.

Such incredible comfort will cost you, believe me, but - and I say this as a total Superthrift - it's absolutely worth the $50. (I haven't tried the stomach/back sleeper models, but if they're half as good as the side sleeper, I'd say go for it.)

iloveitiloveitiloveit!

Forget the necklace! Forget the monogrammed houndstooth bag! (Unless you've already purchased them. Then they're both fantastic.) THIS! This is what I want for my birthday! This is the perfect birthday present for someone turning (mumble, mumble, sob quietly).

Slim pickin's here today

Yesterday I saw a poster for the new Harry Potter movie and got awfully excited. Man, that J.K. Rowling is really something. As someone attempting to write her own book (so far - THREE PAGES! Three pages! Three... Only three pages?) I have a vague, vaaaaague, idea of how difficult it must have been to crank out that tome. Not to mention the fact that she wrote it while nannying. (Man, that kid must've slept a lot.)

On a completely unrelated and desperately uninteresting note, here's my new least favorite thing: low rise jeans. They're okay when I'm standing up but as soon as I sit, it's all about the muffin top. I always have to pull up the front of my pants in an attempt to squish the squish, which is about as awkward a maneuver as one can do (not to mention the fact that it leaves my lower back exposed, which is a bit breezy) and while I know can't be the only one dealing with this, I never notice anyone else tugging at their pants.

Anybody? Anybody?

I need another tote like I need a hole in the head.

Cute! Cuuuute.

I picture this monogrammed with something more interesting than the standard "AMM" or even "ALI" (although I'm still considering that one). I want something amusing and descriptive and unpredictable, but most of those are four letter words...

It's like waiting for Santa!

Tomorrow. 10 am. MTV.

Beauty and the Geek marathon

I haven't looked forward to something this much since... OH GOD, I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING I'VE LOOKED FORWARD TO THIS MUCH! Seriously, the show is awesome. It totally celebrates geekness and treats the guys with a tremendous amount of compassion and respect, which, I suspect, is the sole reason I will be allowed to watch it in peace.

(FYI: Nate "lead singer of a Star Wars band" Dern? Totally humpable by episode three.)

*UPDATE: In a startling moment of "I told you so", after being coerced to watch two back-to-back episodes, Matt may have actually admitted (and I quote): "It's not half bad."

Yet another reason not to put your child into show business

Oh hon...

Not to kick her while she's down or nothing, but apparently Brit recently checked into rehab - then checked herself right back out. Can you do that? Just hop in and out? I'm just saying, if you find yourself in a tattoo parlor getting yet another horrific sounding tattoo (gah!) while sporting an incredibly unflattering (and I'm assuming self-administered) shave, perhaps you might want to consider turning the car around.

First off, I would force my enemies to rinse with Listerine significantly longer than the recommended thirty seconds

Scuffle, scuffle, scuffle. (Sound of rummaging)

There has got to be something interesting to write about in here. (Scuffle, scuffle, scuffle)

Nope, nothing here but some crumpled soymilk coupons and a wad of overused Kleenex. My life is dullsville, babies. Last night was spent sobbing over the season finale of Beauty and the Geek, followed by some mildly obsessive Googling. Seriously, they should film this shit, it is that interesting. Don't forget to capture the part where I eat half a box of Valentine's Day chocolates and the rest of the swedish fish, then go into a rage when I can't figure out how to turn down the volume on the laptop. Oscar caliber, that.

I've been reading a ton of young adult stuff lately (for the record, "young adult" is not code for "barely legal") because I have a glimmer of an idea for my own YA series. It's just in the baby step stage so I don't want to talk about it much but I figured I should start reading the genre so I know what the hell I'm actually trying to write. For the most part, the stuff I've read has been relatively uninspiring. Not that any of it has been bad (well, some of it has been bad) but nothing has really knocked my socks off.

Until I started reading this new book. Damn this thing's good. So good it kind of freaks me out and makes me want to throw in the towel because the girl writes so well. And while I know that writing is different than acting and that the competition is totally different, I still think I might need to injure her a little. (Just a little! A tiny, teensy little!) Sometimes I imagine what life would be like if I were a dictator. I think it's safe to say that I would be a menace.

I knew I should've married Richie Cunningham

No way!

According to the Oxford Hair Foundation, redheads will be extinct by 2100. Apparently we are so special and rare that there's a bounty on our tresses: some crazy foreign bazillionaire is so obsessed with red hair that he wants to collect every shade and variation for a traveling P.T. Barnum-esque exhibit. He's paying upwards of $80,000 per scalp. You can read all about it here.

So the day is finally here. I feel a little meh about it, even though it's our cat's birthday. (Happy B-day, Val!) It's snowing though and I can definitely get behind that.

Not much new in these parts. I have a commercial callback today which I'm excited about since I thought I totally tanked it. Seriously, auditions are like scratch off tickets - you just never know.

I'm on my second day of no sugar. (Caffeine, however, is another story.)

I had a dream last night that I went to a make-out party with Michael Cerveris and refused to kiss him because I was married. I was also only wearing my jammies. I'm sure there's a deeper message here.

Hope everyone's doing something special today. We will be tipping our delivery guy a little extra. And that is not a euphemism.

Or not.

Valentine's Day is coming up and, needless to say, I have nothing planned. I know I'm supposed to hate Black Wednesday with its overpriced heart-shaped nonsense and disastrous, forced attempts at "romance" but for some reason it's always been one of my faves. Easter has better candy (I'm talking to you, Cadbury creme eggs) and Christmas has trees, but Valentine's Day has the perfect blend of superficiality and hope that grabs me every time.

Anybody got plans? If I was a guessing gal, I'd say that:
- baldandeffective and his little lady will roll a fattie and hit the clubs, thug-style
- Mr. and Mrs. Babble will chuck the babes at grandma's and take a road trip to Branson to see that Japanese fiddle player
- Buffy will be spotted at the midtown Scientology Center wearing only one boot
- Stef will finally finish up that penis cozy she's been working on for months
- Mr. McWatters will be overheard telling a Starbuck's counterperson to "chillax"
- Lisa P (to whom blogger won't let me link) will cover herself in chocolate and tassles and surprise the hell out of her husband
- Sassy will purchase a pair of tap shoes and announce that she's "gonna make it on the Great White Way!" (Yes, she actually says that.)
- Val eats fifty eggs
- Mare-Mare will unexpectedly announce that she's running for President and then quickly recant after realizing that she did, indeed, inhale
- mom will finally return Sam Shepard's phone calls. Finally.

For those unnamed - faithful readers all - I wish you nothing but candy and roses (or beer and strippers, whatevs) on this most festive of Valentine's Days.

By the way, I love this.

My Prevacid ad was recently renewed for another year which means a right big check recently landed in my greedy, grubby paws, so Matt and I decided to give ourselves a little bit of "fun money". We allotted ourselves $100 and today seemed like a perfectly good day to spend it. What did I buy with that hundred smackers?

A tea set.

I don't understand it either.

I'm not sure what came over me. I was in this little boutique (little boutiques get me every. damn. time.) and everything was so beautiful and impractical and frivolous and suddenly I needed things. Things like china. And teapots. And creamers, adorable little creamers. Normally I just slap a tea bag in a mug and call it a day, but there was something so civilized about these delicate little cups (with actual saucers!) that I simply could not resist. Which is how I ended up spending almost $50 on a little tiny tea pot, an awfully cute creamer, two coffee mugs (that I later discovered at Bed, Bath and Beyond) and a slightly damaged tea cup. (Which the owner threw in for free after I admired it loudly. Twice.) I decided not to feel guilty about my purchase because it's nice to have fancy things and it'll feel good to use those cups when sit down to write. (And also because the boutique doesn't offer refunds.)

After my little spree, a friend and I met at City Bakery for their famous hot chocolate. New York Magazine just rated it number one so I figured I had to give it another go. In the past I have found it rather sludge-like and undrinkable but baldandeffective told me to try it with a shot of espresso and since I seem to have fallen off the no-sugar-no-caffeine wagon yet again, I figured why not? Lemme tell ya - that shit was goooooood.

Lemme tell ya - that shit was also cafffffffeinated.

I yawped my way through J. Crew, Banana Republic AND Anthropologie. I poked my nose into other people's dressing rooms and accosted strangers about their handbags on the subway. (Kate Spade has sample sales, y'all.) My poor friend had to listen to me prattle on about my latest obsession (finding the perfect cropped cardigan) while avoiding being smacked in the face by my frenzied sale racking. Clearly I have a problem (the first step is admitting it, right?) but that sugar/caffeine siren song is just so damned hard to resist. Thank God I never started smoking. (By the way, if anyone knows where I can find that perfect cardigan, I'm all ears.)

Really, really fucking scary.

Matt and I just watched THE DESCENT which is all about spelunking and albino cave monsters. You know what word doesn't sound scary? "Spelunking". You know what activity is really fucking scary - with or without albino cave monsters? SPELUNKING.

Claustrophobes - avoid this movie at all costs.

There are actually important things going on in the world

At the risk of going to Hell for mocking the deceased, somebody explain to me why everyone's making such a fuss over Anna Nicole Smith. I guess her death is shocking (sort of), but good Lord it was all anybody could talk about last night! On MSNBC they had four hours of uninterrupted coverage. How do you fill FOUR HOURS about Anna Nicole Smith? I'll tell you how - by saying the same thing over and over and over and over. ("She apparently collapsed in her hotel room", "It appears that she collapsed in her hotel room", "I believe she may have collapsed in her hotel room") And today they've started doing tributes. Tributes. Not to be heartless, but am I missing something? Was she a huge cultural icon? Because I was under the impression that she was a drugged up Trimspa spokesperson who once had sex with an old guy. Am I missing the greater picture?

I love New York, and by "love" I totally mean "love to laugh at". Today I wandered into this new store on the schmantzy Upper East Side that only sells puppy and baby stuff. Being fond of both puppies and babies I decided to check it out and discovered not only do they sell puppy stuff - they sell actual puppies! But these weren't just any puppies, oh no. These were all miniature rare breeds. There was a miniscule Boston Terrier and a teeny weeny poodle and some kind of ridiculously small pug - I mean, these creatures were tiny. (There was a schnauzer in one of the pens that looked practically Godzilla-like next to all the pocketbook pups. You just know that poor fucker's never getting adopted.) But here's the best part: instead of being housed in wire cages, they were showcased in CLEAR PLEXIGLASS JEWEL BOXES! Oh no! Oh yes! I don't know how to describe them but it was clear from the way they were displayed that these animals were meant to be seen as adorable, peeing accessories. Not that you'd know that they deficated from looking at them; the cages were absolutely pristine. (I guess when you're dealing with something that see-through, you're motivated to keep it clean.) But the BEST best part? Instead of plain old newspaper, the dogs shat on STRIPS OF PASTEL CONFETTI! Is that awesome or what?!

And in case you were wondering, the dogs start at $1,000. Guess somebody's gotta pay for all that poop scooping.

I wonder why I'm so tired?

Holy Mary it's cold outside! Eight degrees with a windchill of -30. (Okay, maybe not quite that low.) I'm sporting some sexy, sexy thermal underwear and starting to seriously regret sending away my winter boots to be repaired. But the sun is shining and, yep, that's about it.

Matt and I have recently switched sides of the bed for reasons too embarrassing to go into and it has totally thrown me for a loop. It's weird to sleep on the "wrong" side, even though I don't think it's technically possible for a bed to have a wrong side. My new side is closer to the door which also means closer to the litter box, which means that between the scratch-scratch-scratch litter box tango that plays out roughly twelve times per night and my non-stop march to the bathroom (damn you, tiny bladder!), not to mention my new obsession with my basal thermometer, I'm getting very little actual shut-eye. I'm supposed to take my temperature every morning after three hours of uninterrupted sleep which, c'mon, just isn't going to happen. I'm also supposed to take my temperature each day at the exact same time and move as little as possible so as not to raise my core body heat. Unfortunately reaching over to my side table requires muscle use, so now I just sleep with the thermometer under my pillow like a large, occasionally beeping tooth. Every time I wake up I feel compelled to check the clock to see if I've actually accumulated the required number of hours and then I spend the rest of the night in a state of nervous half-sleep, the kind of feeling you have when you have an early flight to catch and can't figure out how to set the alarm. All so I can take my temperature.

I think I'm going to have to let this part of the whole "trying to get pregnant" thing go. You know Britney didn't go through this bullshit.

I Heart Denise Richards

That's right, it's Shallow Sunday folks, so continuing on with my favorite topic...

You're looking at a photo of Denise Richards doing coke on a beach. If you're anything like me, right now you're saying to yourself, "Why that photo isn't very clear! She's not necessarily doing coke at all! She's probably just putting sunscreen under her right nostril!" In which case, you would be wrong. (Click here to see the rest of the exceptionally incriminating pics featured on my new favorite website.)

So here's the thing - I'm not that shocked that Denise is doing coke. Whatevs, you know? But what kills me is that she's doing coke ON THE BEACH. Like, how boring is the ocean?! And is it really so snoozy that a can of Coke wouldn't give you the bump you need? Granted, I've never done cocaine so I'm speaking out of my ass - maybe it just gives you a nice, gentle lift and all that propoganda from the "Just Say No" years was just a bunch of malarky - but it seems a touch extreme for a day of sunbathing, you know? And where are her kids?! (With the nanny. Thank God for the nanny.)

I'm telling you, the next time I'm sitting on my private beach watching the waves lap at the shore, I'm totally going to pull out my stash and do a little line. Improve on nature, you know?

"For the last time, put your wand away, Potter!"

Yes kids, Harry Potter is all growed up and frankly, he's freaking me out. Our favorite boy wizard's doing a production of Equus in London and the lad's going full-frontal, yo. Don't get me wrong, I'm impressed that he's not playing it safe with his career choices - not to mention the fact that at 17, waggling your weiner onstage is pretty damn ballsy (heh) - but these photos make me feel all kinds of uncomfortable. What's his mom got to think of all this? I mean, these are publicity photos; theoretically they'll be plastered all over London. That's gotta be awkward, right?

So an essay I wrote was just rejected by The New Yorker. While this comes as a surprise to exactly nobody, I was awfully impressed by the letter. Yes it was a form letter, but damn hell if it wasn't the nicest form letter I've ever read.

"Dear Ms. McKinney,

We're sorry to say that your piece isn't right for us, despite its evident merit. Thank you for allowing us to consider your work.

Best regards,
The Talk Dept."

Because my ego is big (yet surprisingly fragile) I'm choosing to believe that not every person gets this particular form letter, like maybe the really crappy applicants just get "your piece isn't write for us, period". But seriously, can we make every rejection is this awesome? Because that would be really awesome.

"$200 tip... $200 tip..."

* For some reason, Blogger doesn't seem to recognize paragraph breaks anymore. I'm not trying to be all cool and avant guarde with the smoosh.

You're looking at the most expensive brownie in the world. For only ten $100 bills you too can eat this gold dusted confection. What do you get for $1,000? Not only is it sprinkled with gold (and Italian hazelnuts), but it's served with a vintage port - which is sprayed on your tongue after every bite by your own personal assistant!

My heart goes out to the poor waiter stuck with that crap-ass job. I mean, I've had to do some demeaning things as a server but at least I've never had to sprintz down someone's tongue.

Still, you do get to keep the atomizer which is, you know, something.

No, I haven't watched the Project Runway finale yet. You know, in you wanted to discuss it or anything.

My husband introduced me to something new this week (which sounds a hell of a lot dirtier than I intented it to be). No-Pudge brownie mix. Have you seen it? It's in a bright pink box with a pig being squeezed by a measuring tape on the front. The box was the main reason I avoided picking it up - I hate graphics like that. Like when you'll see a barbeque joint whose mascot is a giant smiling pig with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, happily licking its lips. It's just icky and wrong, you know? But Matt is less sensitive about that sort of thing which is how we ended up making a batch of these fat-free monsters (all you add is yogurt) and why I will no longer be able to visit a store without making a beeline for the brownie aisle. Damn those things are good. They're a little less sweet than conventional brownies but I like that - which would explain how I polished off an entire pan in two nights. (Just because they're fat-free doesn't make them calorie free, dammit. Dammit.)

Just so you know, I might be blogging a little less in the next few weeks. I'm trying to get some "real" writing projects off the ground and since they pay (or might eventually pay) they get first dibs. Not that I love you any less, mind you - I may just have to love you from afar.