Friday, October 29, 2004

So much for the Straight-A Student

So it turns out that the day I came into work (all hung over), I really should have taken off. But noooo. I had to be all brave and martyr-y.

That night (Wednesday night) I was running a fever of like 100 degrees and was puking at even the mere mention of food. So dumb of me (but very typical) to punish myself like that. C put a cold towel on my head whilst I tried to watch America's Next Top Model ('I might be seeing double, but damnit that just means TWICE the Tyra!'). I vaguely recall the gals going to boot camp and running up some stairs of some sort. Watching the episode confirmed my hatred of Ann (who midwestgrrl so aptly portrays as M-Ann). M-Ann (Adam's Apple and all) is totally a chicken shit. All talk, no show. A coward to the nth degree. "It was supposed to be a joke," my ass. So in case you didn't see it, read the re-cap.

Yeah, so Yaya aptly points out that Cassie and Ann clearly do not have the kind of relationship where that would be a 'haha and hug' kind of joke. Yaya totally calls out Ann on her bullshit coward excuse for her actions (and I now love Yaya more for it). About the time that Yaya was putting the intellectual smackdown on Ann, I passed out from exhaustion and (what I guess was) the flu. Didn't wake up until 7:30 the next morning when C advised me to stay home... which I did. While I thought that I was solely hung over from the fashion extravaganza, I clearly caught something. Hm... wonder if it had anything to do with drinking and smoking all night, not eating, and standing outside in the freezing cold with nothing but a t-shirt on for a cumulative two hours or so. Maybe? Yeah, so I pretty much made myself susceptible and deserved what I got: which really wasn't so bad. A whole 24 hours to sleep, which I did. I tried to watch daytime TV, the likes of which I never get to see: LIVE! with Regis and Kelly, The Ellen Degeneres Show, et al. But mainly I passed out and slept. all. day. long. I seriously needed it. Now I feel much better. My stomach still hurts, and I'm not really able to stomach that great a variety of food, but the worse has definitley passed. Here's to a great Halloween weekend... and not getting too drunk on Sunday night. What did I do last Halloween?? I split 3 bottles of champagne with Gina on an empty stomach. That will soooo not be happening. I think.


Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Hung over at work = not good (but it was worth it)

Let me start off by saying that I am extremely, extremely, ex-TREME-ly (the third one's for good measure) hung over. Head's pounding. It hurts to blink, swallow, and basically move. My stomach is so queasy that even the mere mention of food or Ashslee Simpson's acid-reflux disease makes me want to puke. I was seriously considering taking the day off, but the masochistic straight-A student in me forced me to punch my proverbial card. But it was worth it.

C's friend works for a huge fashion designer. The friend was able to admit C and I for a night of glitz, glam, and free booze. It seriously was amazing. Said fashion designer had a huge fashion show here in New York last night, which was followed by an even bigger afterparty. First, the show.

There were1,500 people at the actual runway show. The first three rows on either side of the wide, slippery-looking runway were reserved for celebrities. All of the other seating was up for grabs. So if you weren't an A-lister, it was first come first serve. We got there way early and planted ourselves behind the cards that read Kim Cattrall, Vin Diesel, and John Mayer. So we were the fourth row up (it was stadium style seating in an airplane hangar-type venue), CENTER. Patrcia Field sat right in front of C. (who was next to me). In short, it was awesome. Tons of celeb's and lots of flashing bulbs. Glenn Close showed up and sat down next to John Mayer. Photo opp's abounded. The gaunt models paraded down the strip, and then it was over. Then, there was the after party.

Let me just give you four words: free booze, quick service. Not a happy combination for people who have to work the next morning. But I threw caution to the wind and guzzled free champagne, vodka, and more vodka. Oh, there was an awesome dance floor with awesome music, AND: you could smoke inside, becuase it was an airplane hangar thing which I guess is legally considered outdoor space. In short, it totally ruled. I grinded right up against all the models, including this girl who's the face of a major print campaign. Anyway, now I'm paying the price. So tired and moving veeery slowly. I feel like that if anyone bumps me or touches me, I'll barf. I should get a medal for coming into work. Oh, well. Like I said: it was so worth it. I'm just worried about Halloween falling on a Sunday night. Will it be deja vu all over again?


Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Lest you thought I had died...

It's been virtually impossible for me to post as of late. I've been droning away until 10PM almost every single solitary night. As I do not have the Internet at home, I usually bolt out of work to fall into bed. Plus, every post I've tried to put up lately has been gobbled up by Blogger. Blasted Blogger! BUT. I did have two whole weekend days to myself this past weekend, and here's the fun update.

* Went to Sunday brunch at Pastis, where I sat next to Mena Suvari and her older husband. She was definitely cute, if very short. She was stretching in her seat a lot, but NOT as an effort to attract attention to herself. No way. I ate an AWESOME brunch of scrambled eggs over beans and tomatoes on toast. The "toast," it should be noted, was clearly a butter drenched slice of bread that had been pan-fried. Hello, treadmill (which, sadly, I have not seen as of late because of my work schedule).

* Saw The Machinist with Christian Bale. First of all, great movie. Definitely liked it. Second of all, the weight loss. Gross. Just goes to show how far an actor will go to win an Oscar (please see Monster and Bridget Jones's Diary).

* Uhm, I have a lot more to say, but I'm afraid that this post, too, will gobbled up by Blogger. So I'll stop and see if I can get this up. If so, more to follow. So as my parting words (for now): VOTE. And vote Kerry if you please.


Friday, October 15, 2004

I am seriously pissed. the. F. OFF

OK. It's roughly 2PM on a Friday afternoon. The office pace is frantic. Manic. Ridiculous.

Fine. No problem. I'll take solace in the fact that it's Friday and that I can relax this weekend. Or can I? I literally just walked in front of my boss while he was speaking to four other people (whilst frantically working) when he fires out of the corner of his mouth, "Can you work this weekend?" I quickly reply, "Sure, I can work on Sunday." Can you work on Saturday? (What?!) Like the weenie that I am, "Sure."

So that's that. I've worked tirelessly until 10PM almost every day this week, and now I'm committed to indentured servitude on my weekend. Son. of. a... Gooh. Here's to having "gainful" employ. Whatever that means.


Thursday, October 14, 2004

Na Na Na NA, SHA na na na (Get a Job)

Oh yeaaaah. It's a Drone and the City kind of day. Today has been a whirlwind of returns, exchanges, and errand runs for my boss. I must say that 90% of the time... let's say 75% just to be safe, I really enjoy my job, the people that I interact with, and the level of coolness to which I'm exposed. However, it was viewing the third and final Presidential debate on domestic issues last night that has got me contemplating jobs (namely, my own) in America.

See, Bush was posed with the question of poverty and joblessness in America as we know it today and what he foresees as a workable solution. Among the referenced issues raised by the moderator and J. Kerry: how hard it is to get a job, how folks en masse are losing their jobs to folks in India and China, how the minimum wage is shamefully low, etc. etc. etc. All Bush could come back with was the response that a firm grasp on mathematics and science would help advance a worker in this country. That education is the answer to everyone's problems. That he's diagnosing and treating "the problem" with a perfect solution. So that "no child is left behind." Blech. OK, where to start?

First, a fired worker is most likey NOT. A. CHILD. These are real adults with real responsibilities to manage. Secondly, uhm, yes. Education IS grand, Mr. President (hah). I can vouch for that. I loved spending four years discovering myself amongst the spoiled, overpriveleged and unappreciative (much like yourself). I loved working my ass off and paying off student loans, hoping that it would all lead to a free pass to Great Job-ville. I got great grades and did indeed work my ass off, always maintaining two or three jobs at once while hauling a full course load. But you know what? I also had to work my ass off to get a job that would pay me even close to what would cover my bills and allow me to have a decent life. I wasn't exactly beating job offers away with a stick. My problem with Bush's so-called solution is this. A factory worker that is laid off is not thinking, 'Hm, I think I'll use Bush's well thought out incentives to go back to community college, so I can get smarter and get a better job.' No. He's thinking, 'Oh shit. Where the hell am I going to get rent money and cash for food?' Or so I would presume. Said person wouldn't exactly have the luxury, after having been FIRED, to contemplate a life of academia. And even if said person DID manage somehow to attend college, I'm sorry but, a degree from a community college ain't exactly generating any free passes to Job-ville, let alone GREAT Job-ville. In short, Bush: you're nuts. Or rather, the person who told you to say everything last night is nuts.

I was fortunate enough to have help from my parents so that I could afford college (both temporally and financially). I was able to take four years off and get a degree. And you know what? Even though an Ivy League degree sounds all shiny and neat, when it comes right down to it, the benefits (jobwise) that come from such a degree aren't worth any more than the Crane's paper my diploma was printed on. Finding a job that barely allows me to exist on my own without help from anyone was an extreme struggle. I cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like to be without a degree and get fired from a job that I, practically speaking, could not live without. I can tell you that the first thing on my mind would NOT be, 'Hm. I think I'll take that math class over at Blink Blink U." Again, sorry Bush. Math and science are not an appropriate response to a crumbling economy. Not all of us are lucky enough to piss away an Ivy League eductaion in the land of mediocrity (Hello, D- student, er, I mean Mr. President) only to get a series of cush jobs because our family is comprised of greedy budgillionaires. PS: "Litany of complaints"? Please do not utter soundbites that you cannot spell. Now get a real job, 'cause you suck at the one you have now. Thanks.

Just to note, this is what happens when you decide to vote for Bush:

Image Hosted by

One word: karma. Or didn't you learn that in kabbalah class, Brit-Brit? (Sorry, it was too easy.) Thanks for the fug photo.


Wednesday, October 13, 2004

It seems that every time I try to post lately my post either gets gobbled up by Blogger and/or Internet incompetence (i.e., it disappears into thin air, and I do not have the motivation to re-post) or half-way through completing it, I have to run off to do work, so I log out and lose my progress. So, here's a relative quicky:

* Last night I was droning away until 10P.M. In my opinion, it was thoroughly unnecessary to be here that late, but whatever. I was demonstrating what a good little team player I am by biting the big one with everyone else in my office. 'Nuff said about that. I hate working late, what can I say? Especially when I have no more notice than at 7 o'clock hearing, 'What're you having for dinner [from the takeout place]?' Read: What will you be eating here at the office so that you can work for another three hours. Gr. I really don't want to work late tonight, because I REALLY want to watch the third Presidential debate (maybe ALL of the internets--oh yes, that's plural--will have post debate reviews) and (lest we forget) America's Next Top Model (hah).

* I hate always being right, but you know. It's a gift. Regarding my swishified dentist. Though I was thrown by the twin babies, my dentist recently informed me of his partner Bill and his move to New Jersey. I knew I was right. Yee haw. By the by, I only found this out because I had to make an emergency visit to my dentist on Columbus Monday. Oh yeah, that's on my ONE. DAY. OFF. One of the teeth that my loud Bronx-borne hygenist so *aptly* filled becgan crippling me with pain this past Saturday morning. C. and I were away (out of the City) enjoying peace and quite when I realized that I was cheweing everything on the left side of my mouth because the right side was shocking me with horrific pain. It was sensitivity like I've never experienced. When I finally made it to the dentist, the (I now feel her to be) bitchy hygenist got all crazy defensive, telling me that my tooth's face had not changed in appearance whatsoever. I said, great. But that I knew I could eat before I saw her. So, anyway. The dentist personally fixed my tooth and now it feels fine. Hurray.

* We have an Italian intern kid in our office, and he's sort of helpful but speaks very poor English. So annoying. I can't boss him around properly. Rather, I have to speak softly and slowly using only very simple grammar and vocabulary. More trouble than it's worth. Right now, he's putting stuff into bags. Literally.

OK, before this post gets gobbled up, I'm submitting it. Peace.


Friday, October 08, 2004

Eat your heart out

So last night was pretty monumental. Gina and I met Shanthrax. No, you're not going blind. Last night, we scoped out Shandi from America's Next Top Model. I.e., the girl who was completely jilted out of her rightful role as the winner of Cycle 2. I must take complete credit for this completely pre-meditated encounter (we were tipped off by Gawker Stalker as to her schedule and locale). It went down exactly as I had hoped. There she was, in all her catwalk-worthy glory, on a step ladder, clad in a blue aprin, bearing a nametag that said, "Shanthrax." I wish. No, but seriously. After spotting Shandi, Gina and I had the most overwhelming case of the church giggles. I was literally smothering my own face with my hands so as not to burst out. Once we composed ourselves, I with my digital camera in hand and Gina cowering behind me, we (or so I thought) proceeded towards her modelness. "Exuse me. I recognize you..." [Insert huge smile from Shandi here.] Within seconds she was jumping down from her step ladder and agreeing to take pictures with myself and my friend. When I turned around to introduce Gina to Shandi, Gina was nowehere to be found. Given a few seconds, Gina gingerly tip-toed around the aisle to join the fun. All in all, it made my day. Shandi is extremely friendly. Being that giddy for such a pointless and ridiculous reason with Gina: in a word, magical. Or, as jail bird Martha might say, it's a good thing. Heh. I had just made up my mind that Shandi rules when her boss came up to us and said, "Shandi, can you clean up on Aisle 6?" Like I always say, all good things must come to an end... just not always on the cosmetics aisle of Walgreen's at 33rd and 5th. Best of luck, Shanthrax.


Thursday, October 07, 2004


This just proves that it's truly enough! (See below post.) When soap operas acquire their own signature scent, you know it's gone too far.

As I understand the advertising baloney, wearing a scent implies that you wish to be associated with some sort of philosophy or identity. So what would the identity be here? 'Indulge your inner drama queen/promiscuous slut?' Gooh. As I stated before: E.NOUGH!


Feel the Vibration (you know, of the drill...)

So yesterday Drone went to the dentist for a filling and some other mildly painful work. It was only the second time that I've been to my new dentist. The first time was a week ago when I got a cleaning, a full set of X-rays, and was diagnosed with a cavity that needed filling. I'm trying to take my dental health by the balls rather than purchasing porcelain dentures in 20 years.

It's been an embarassingly long time since my last check-up/cleaning. When asked how long it has been, I reponded to the hygenist (quite honestly) that I could not remember. Probably two years. Having gone so long without professional maintenance, I'd say one cavity really isn't that bad. Anyway, so my teeth aren't too bad--they're not breaking news. The news lies within the story of my dentist and dental hygenist. First, the hygenist.

She's very nice. Very nice and 'straight outta da Bronx.' She enjoys voicing her opinion and asking me (possibly rhetorical?) questions while she is knee deep in my uvula drool. Sorry, I can't really answer you, and I'd prefer not to hum my responses. Thanks. When I say she's 'nice' I mean that she's very feisty (read: loud) and entertaining (read: likes to sing out loud to the satellite radio music that's piped into the office). You have a great voice and all (well, not really) but could you not divert your brain while you're scraping my teeth with the sharp instrument? Oh yeah. DON'T look away from my mouth for 30 seconds at a time while your hands still move. You may be good at what you do, but I don't think they teach a course at Dental Hygenists U. in cruise control. Last time I checked, eyeballs help. Next, the doctor himself.

The "doctor" only sees patients when something super important needs to be done. Otherwise, the Jenny from the block does your teeth. Guess that's normal as dentistry goes but it makes me wonder what he actually gets paid to do. As Gina and I have discussed many a time, it seems that when you get to a certain level (professionally speaking) and attain a certain status, you don't really have to do all that much work. You just delegate (i.e., yell at other people) and cash checks. Second observation: my dentist had me totally fooled that he enjoys the romantic company of other men. In the least derogatory sense of the phrase, girl likes to swish. Swish it... swish it good. You betta work! However, when I asked who the cute babies were that are photographed in the office, the receptionist informed me that they were the doctor's twin babies. Hm. OK. Every once in a while, guys like this can fool me (unless they're fooling themselves, that is). All in all, I love my new dentist. He's cool, and the office is a lot of fun. What older folks might dub "spunky." I just wish the hygenist would look at my mouth when she's fixing it. Hm.



No, I'm not talking about J. Lo's 'breakaway' movie that flopped. But oddly enough, J. does figure into this post. On my way to work, I passed no fewer than three billboards for different stars and/or designers that are hocking their latest crap on the scent market.

Enough with the dewey, hazy television ads. I'm sure the perfume business is lucrative, but just stop. I do not want to be delicious, Donna. That just sounds gross. Marc: I'd rather not blush. Brit-Brit, I'm really not curious about your scent. God only knows what that smells like. Ciggies, booze, and acne med's perhaps? Nope, I do not "dare." Jenny from the block: still with the scents? What happened to glowing (whilst peering naked out of the shower)? You've all had your moment (Calvin), now get over it. Leave me the hell alone! Thanks.


Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Things that make you go BLAH

I'm having one those squirmy, whine-inducing, uncomfortable I-hate-being-a-(quasi-)adult kind of days. I'm contemplating my current lot in life and jumping headlong into the warm and inviting pool of self indulgence. I was reading Midwestgrrl's post when I clicked on a link to CASE. This is where the Vice-Presidential debate is taking place, so I was supposed (i.e., I had intended) to peruse the site in order to read about the campus and how it's preparing for the debate. With the song "Cleveland Rocks" annoyingly buzzing in my brain, I soon found myself diverted to the Residential Housing page. One thing led to another, and now I find myself missing the time when all I had to do was bitch with friends about writing 30-page papers and tutor (i.e., hang out with) a couple of cool Upper West Side brothers in academic studies for pay. Feeling extremely melancholy as I answer the phone and fulfill the requests of spoiled individuals, I have a case of the blahs.

See, if you really wanna know, I was that 9-year-old kid who had 'everything figured out.' Yes, I got straight A's. Yes, I played sports. Yes, I went to an Ivy League college. Everything seemed to be falling right into place. My "Plan" included an Ivy League Law School, after which I was convinced I would be some sort of kickass civil rights attorney/litigator. Well, my legacy of good grades continued in college, but my LSATs were not superb. (I even tried to plan for that.)

I took that Kaplan course the summer before I took the dreaded LSATs. [Note: I have since learned that I hate the LSATs completely. I completely disagree that this test in any way determines who will be a successful law school student and, furthermore, who will or will not be a terrific attorney. I hate them. Piece of evil crap, thy name is "Games Section." But maybe I'd be singing a diff'rent tune if I'd earned a 180.] I remember that during that Kaplan class summer, I was living rent-free in Manhattan as a resident advisor for summer students. Translation: I was living the good life with practically all my cash earmarked as 'disposable.' My summer "job," in addition to being a resident advisor (hah!), was literally hanging out with two siblings. It was basically babysitting, but the kids were like 12 and pretty much skateboarded all day long. So picture me, Monday through Friday, watching cable TV at an awesome Upper West Side apartment, occassionally visited by awesome kids who just want something to drink in between sessions of playing with their friends outside. I actually got. PAID. to do this. To watch TV during the summer months. So this cash went towards my own personal Lush Fund. With no worries at all (except for the Kaplan classes once a week on Sundays), I boozed and toured New York like it was my job. Needless to say, I didn't give the Kaplan course my usual 110%.

Come time for the test, I earned what anyone would deem an ok score. Not depressing, but certainly not the within one or two points of the perfect scores that Harvard, Princeton, Yale, NYU, et al require. So I applied to my dream schools. Then harsh reality hit. I didn't get into a single one of my top five choices. Noone in New York wanted me. I did, however, get accepted to a Lutheran law school in Indiana. They even gave me a nice package. At the time I thought, 'This is it. Not what I planned, but I'm game. I can take three... years... in. Valparaiso. Indiana.' Fast-forward past about twenty conversations that went something like this:

What're you doing after graduation?

Going to law school.

Awesome?! Where?


Princeton? You're going to love it.

No, Valparaiso.

What's that?

Blah blah blah.

So a friend of mine gave me some great advice that I'll never forget and for which I will always be grateful. She said that if I was having issues telling people about where I was going to law school, then I'd probably have issues telling people about it after I'd graduated. She was right. Now I know that it probably doesn't matter where you go to school; it's all basically the same. And I'm not in ANY way judging anyone who goes to any university. It was a personal thing, and my friend was smart to point that out to me. I did have an issue with it. Plus, I thought that I would be miserable in the middle of nowhere for three years amidst a conservative student body (politically and religiously speaking).

So, yeah. Valparaiso was all but nixed in my mind, but I hadn't officially called the school yet to decline. I really wanted to be in New York for law school, or so I thought at the time. Little by little, though, I did more empirical research into law school. Each and every person I knew who had gone to law school and who was at the time in law school, said they hated it. Unequivocally. All of them. Misery personified: law school, they said. Great. So now I was questioning law school in general. After making the call to Valparaiso that would pretty much seal my decision, I embarked on finding a post-grad job which, if you will recall, was the reason I started this blog. I became a drone: a proverbial cog in the wheel of money-making. I saw no future and got restless. Quit that job because the future was dim, unpromising and uninteresting to me personally.

So here I find myself. I have segued into a position that is quite possibly one of the most potentially interesting ones I could hope to have. I am not going to be a lawyer. I will probably never be a lawyer. Sometimes I have to say that to myself to remind myself that I consciously made that decision. A wonderfully brilliant excerpt from a Gina counseling session explains:

if you'd followed your initial plan you'd be toiling away in law school right now
and probably be miserable, and then you'd come out a lawyer and probably be
miserable too since something like 80% of lawyers don't like their jobs. so
you're left to find something else, and you can't start something new and start
at the top. it just doesn'thappen.
I cannot start something new and start on top. Spot on. So this type A-er is coping with the reality of not being on top. Like I said, I've hit a majorly self-indulgent patch on this road to success, so please forgive me. Oh, to return to simpler times of midnight runs to Columbia Bagel (which has since, sadly, closed its doors) and research papers in the pits of a library. But, like the Columbia Bagel, all good things must come to an end. Here's to new beginnings.

On the bright side, my personal life is great, and my mom is coming to visit for a true New York Thanksgiving. She gets to meet C., and we're all going to go to the Macy's Parade. Can't wait for my mild New York City-induced claustrophobia and impatience with crowds to kick in. Bring on the holiday spirit! Also, this weekend is a three-day weekend. Thanks, Columbus. Or, as my mom would say, thanks Indigenous Peoples' Resistance! However you say it, 24 hours more for me to scratch myself and sleep. Sweet.


Friday, October 01, 2004


Oh, my loyal friends and devotees: it is 8:30 P.M. on a Friday night, and Drone is still tip tap typing away at work. Why oh why am I the only one here hours after every one else has long since escaped? To be concise: crazy creative boss gave Drone a mini-research project to do for him at about 3 P.M. A project that needed to be ready for the start of Monday. I was otherwise occupationally occupied from about 3 to 5, so here I am just finishing at 8:30. I barely have enough energy to lift my fingers, but I wanted, ney I had an obli-GA-tion, to post. So here it is.

Wanna know how I was 'otherwise engaged' from 3 to 5? Do ya?? This one's pretty good. So at 3 P.M. uber-important boss (i.e., my boss's boss) comes in for a meeting. Whenever uber-important boss comes in, everyone runs, jumps, whispers... does everything short of dropping rose pedals on the floor. He's that important. So uber decided that a protein shake and some cut-up fruit are in order... like 10 minutes ago! Guess who's commissioned to play runner? Well it wasn't George "I-know-it-was-Osama-Bin-Laden" Bush. So, yeah. In case your as brainless as Dubbya, it was DRONE who was commissioned. Hurray! Well, folks. A collegue of mine suggested I call the place (the ONLY place that was acceptable from which to obtain the shake and fruit) and have it 'rush delivered.' Becuase for me to go and get it on foot would have taken the same amount of time if not longer. Stupid, Drone. So I followed the suggestion.

Fast forward to 10 minutes later. In a hushed whisper, "Where the HELL. IS it?!" (referring to the shake and fruit) said just about each and every colleague. Now I was sweating. Called the place four times. 'It's on it's way,' said the shake place. As each co-worker would gingerly come out of the meeting (of which I was not a part) and give me a look like I never want to see again as long as I shall live, I decided to go down to the lobby and meet the delivery guy. I couldn't stand to have my co-workers wonder where the late snack is, only to see my quietly sitting at my desk, as if I weren't doing anything at all. So I go to the lobby of the building. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Inside my head: "F#$%^&*!@#$%^&*(!@#$%^&*(!!!!!!" So I decided to do what I should have done in the first place.

I ran all the way to the place, pushing over women, dodging 18-wheelers, climbing over cars. I got there in record time and ran all the way back, only to find that the previous phoned-in order had arrived in my absence. Late, of course. So basically everyone, including uber-boss, knew only that the food arrived late and when it did, Drone was nowhere to be found. Noone knew of my above-and-beyond effort to get it myself.

Lesson learned? A lesson I've learned too many times for my own good: If you want something effin' done, do it your damn self. Never. And I mean NEVER rely on anyone else. Cynical? Sure. But screw it. Oh yeah, and don't take advice from co-workers. 'Cause when the shi-ite hits the proverbial fan, that co-worker will be whistling and staring towards the heavens, disavowing him or herself of any recollection that they steered you wrong.

Other things I want to blog about, but I'm too tired to go into great detail:

* Bush/Kerry debate #1: I'm sorry, but if you think George Bush warranted any respect whatsoever after that engagement, you should not be reading this blog. Seriously. Stay away. I'm not kidding. I think I heard on CNN that there was an unscientific poll taken of housewives in Ohio that leaned towards Bush after the debate. They, for example, should never talk to me. Ever. Period. 'Nuff said. Good job, JK. Bush? Yeah.

* America's Next Top Model Rules. I wish I could say more right now, but my Gucci pants are like totally riding up on me, so I'm outtie. (If you have not idea what I'm talking about, please see Midwestgrrl's blog.)