The Headless Horseman

You may not have noticed, but I only blog about dates with guys I know I’ll NEVER see again.

Why?

Well, I think it has a little something to do with the notion that a guy I’m actually interested in may not be too keen on the idea of me broadcasting my opinions about him on the Internet. I mean, do you really want to read a review of yourself? On a first date??? I know I don’t.

That’s almost as much of a buzzkill as telling these guys the name of the website I work for (hint: it has to do with weddings). Based on the general reaction so far, it would be less disturbing to say I work in a leper colony.

Anyway, I held off for 2 months on writing about the guy I call The Headless Horseman. I thought we might meet up again. Mainly, because he said, “Let’s meet up again!” But that ship has sailed… so away we go!

He was from Chemistry. He was 37, lived in CT, never married, no kids, no pets. Had an MBA, worked in finance (Again? Really? Seriously? I need to diversify my portfolio. Then again, maybe I don't.). He claimed to be 6’2”, with brown eyes and brown hair. I say “claimed,” because he didn’t have any photos posted. Not a one.

Now, I KNOW what you’re thinking. No photo? Are you CRAZY? He must be married, or horribly disfigured, or 1 of the 10 Most Wanted. I should really know better.

It’s true. He might have been all those things, but I plowed ahead anyway. SO unlike me.

We emailed pretty regularly for a few weeks. ONLY email -- he never gave me a phone number, and never asked for mine. And while there was a definite formula to his responses -- roughly 4 paragraphs long, with exactly 2 questions every time -- the substance of his emails was both nice and normal. The only oddball thing was that he still would NOT give up the photo, even after I explicitly asked for it! It was too personal, he said. Okaaaay.

Eventually, he did ask me out. I secretly wondered if he'd be wearing a bag over his very private head. When I met him, I didn’t even know who I was looking for. Not smart, I know. But could I really get killed at a Starbucks in the Waldorf? I’m thinking no...

And, turns out he WAS normal looking. Totally, average-ly, middle of the road-ly, normal looking. Forgettable, even. Like a piece of dry toast. I was like, what, no tan line from where his wedding band usually is? No droopy eye so I can’t tell if it’s staring at me or my boob? No giant scorpion tattoo on his face from his stint in the Joint?

Nope. Nada. Normal.

We spent about an hour and a half talking -- conversation was easy breezy. I even laughed. On purpose! And for the first time during this whole miserable online dating process, I thought, here’s someone who’s NOT horrible! I just might like to see this not horrible person again!

When we parted ways, he shook my hand to say goodbye (karma for Costanza?), which I didn’t take as a good sign. But he emailed me a few days later saying he had a nice time and wanted to do it again. Which I DID take as a good sign. Over the next 6 weeks, though, The Headless Horseman drifted from potential to pen pal to poltergeist.

As you know, I’m not terribly forward, so I waited for him to make our next date. We emailed back and forth for about two weeks, but not a peep. And these weren’t dead-end emails where he was just too nice to come out and say he wasn’t interested. He always asked me MORE questions. So I answered them. Until I got fed up with being pen pals.

I decided to be bold.

I told him I’d be in CT visiting my brother and sister-in-law before their baby was born and it would be great to meet up for lunch on my way back to the city. Lunch on a Sunday. Sounds casual enough, right? Non-scary? He responded about an hour later saying he’d “very much look forward to meeting” but he was golfing with his old boss. Ok, that’s cool. He said he expected to be back in the city in the next 2 weeks for work and would let me know once he knew the exact date.

Well I certainly wasn’t putting another date out there. So I waited. He kept emailing, so I replied. And then waited some more. Tenth email’s the charm, right? Wrong.

After that, he disappeared. Poof, like a ghost. Until this past Friday.

Pumpkin Head popped up out of the blue. Right there in my inbox! He changed his email formula too. Two paragraphs, NO questions...

Work’s been crazy, he said. I’m sorry, he said. Hasn’t had time for dating, which was the “story of his life.” Blah blah blah. Whatevs. I didn’t want to be totally rude so I sent him a short note today (5 days later) to wish him the best, and say I hope he makes time to enjoy the summer (if the sun ever comes out again). The end.

And so, here we are. What do YOU think happened here?

Was his job REALLY such a drag? Or was he just not that into me? I’m thinking the latter… which is ok by me. Because at the end of the day, I want a guy with a head. And some balls.

Cuckoo for Nosferatu

I’m on this vampire kick.

I was helpless to resist the marketing machine behind Twilight. I broke down in March and bought the DVD alongside millions of “young adults,” for whom the series was originally written. Luckily I look younger than my advanced age of 35 (being plump = no wrinkles!). So I pulled my hair up into a ponytail, went to Best Buy, and tried to blend in. (I stopped short of popping in my retainer, mainly because it cracked about 20 years ago, when I actually WAS a young adult.)

Well, the movie was the gateway drug that lead me to the Stephanie Meyer books… which reminded me how much I liked True Blood… which then turned into a quest to find the mysteries by Charlaine Harris that inspired that series… which made me re-watch season 1 on DVD… which now brings me to HBO to watch season 2 that just started on Sunday night.

I think I’ve been glamoured.

Someone recently asked me which I liked better, Twilight or True Blood? It was as if they’d asked me the meaning of life. I really couldn’t answer. It’s not a Coke or Pepsi (Coke, but shhhh don’t tell my bro), Yankees or Mets (Yanks), Blair or Serena (Blair, all the way) kind of a question.

So, here’s my attempt at driving a stake into the heart of the issue -- in the hopes of finding my FF (favorite fang):

Fan Investment:
>> Twilight: 4 hardcover books (2,560 pages), plus a movie franchise
>> True Blood: 7 paperback books (2,179 pages), plus a TV series
>> Winner: Twilight, those fans are lunatics
Score: Twilight – 1, True Blood – 0

Spooky Location:
>> Twilight: stormy Forks, Washington
>> True Blood: swampy Bon Temps, Louisiana
>> Winner: True Blood, what’s better than voodoo in the bayou?
Score: Twilight – 1, True Blood – 1

Moody Theme Song:
>> Twilight: “Decode” by Paramore is haunting and intense
>> True Blood: “Bad Things” by Jace Everett is southern and supernatural
>> Winner: Twilight, but only by a smidge
Score: Twilight – 2, True Blood – 1

Vampire Legends:
>> Twilight: They live among us, but in secret. Can’t be seen in sunlight or else their skin sparkles like diamonds. They don’t sleep, ever. While most drink human blood, more evolved vamps consider themselves to be vegetarians by drinking only from animals. And they join forces with werewolves to fight crimes.
>> True Blood: They are out of the coffin, so to speak, and are a known part of the general population. Can’t be seen in the sunlight or else they burst into flames. They do sleep in coffins. While they prefer human blood, in order to mainstream with society they mainly drink synthetic bottled blood (flavored Type O, A, B, AB) from Japan. And they join forces with shape-shifters to fight crimes.
>> Winner: True Blood, seems more real, in an impossible kind of way
Score: Twilight – 2, True Blood – 2

Lead Vamp:
>> Twilight: Edward Cullen, born in 1901, turned vampire at age 17, looks like he stepped off the pages of GQ
>> True Blood: Bill Compton, born in 1840, turned vampire at age 28, looks like he stepped off the pages of the Farmer’s Almanac
>> Winner: Twilight, I know he’s underage, but I'm all about Edward
Score: Twilight – 3, True Blood – 2

Damsel in Distress:
>> Twilight: Bella Swan, a clumsy 17 year old high school student
>> True Blood: Sookie Stackhouse, a telepathic 25 year old waitress
>> Winner: True Blood, Sookie kicks ass
Score: Twilight – 3, True Blood – 3

Most Influential Secondary Character:
>> Twilight: Alice Cullen, Edward’s “sister,” who can see into the future
>> True Blood: Tie between Eric Northman, a vampire sheriff, who owns the local bar, Fangtasia; and Sam Merlotte, Sookie’s shape-shifting boss, who owns the local bar, Merlotte’s
>> Winner: True Blood, those boys are cooler
Score: Twilight – 3, True Blood – 4

Getting Down to Business:
>> Twilight: No sex until marriage
>> True Blood: All sex all the time
>> Winner: True Blood, for obvious reasons
Score: Twilight – 3, True Blood – 5

Getting Lost in the Story:
>> Twilight: When I wasn’t reading these books, I was thinking about reading them. I’m pretty sure I got thru 2500 pages in about 3 weeks.
>> True Blood: While the books are good, the show is better. I tried stockpiling a few episodes at a time, but I just couldn’t wait to watch.
>> Winner: Twilight, I could not put them down
Score: Twilight – 4, True Blood – 5

Staying True to the Story:
>> Twilight: Incredibly faithful retelling of book 1 by Catherine Hardwicke
>> True Blood: Incredibly creative retelling of book 1 by Alan Ball
>> Winner: Tie, they’re both true in their own ways. No points here.
Score: Twilight – 4, True Blood – 5

Feeling When it Ended:
>> Twilight: Totally sad
>> True Blood: Totally hungry (it was lunchtime)
>> Winner: Twilight, I really didn’t want it to end
Score: Twilight – 5, True Blood – 5


So sue me. I can’t decide. I love them both equally. Like two (blood-thirsty) children.

Anyone else having a Dracula moment? Or is it just me?

Like a Rock

Have you ever been inspired by a car commercial?

I was watching TV last nite (surprise, surprise), and I got stopped in my tracks by the new commercial GM is running. First I watched it live, then I watched it again.

It was SO inspiring it made me want to run out, buy a red pickup truck, wave a cowboy hat up in the air, and eat a hot dog.

Haven’t seen it yet? You need to. From sea to shining sea, over moving photos of losses (a defeated hockey player pounding on the ice, the desolate streets of Detroit) and victories (a 1-legged runner in a marathon, a sprout of grass growing from the dirt), is a voice...

First, he lays it on the line: “Let’s be completely honest. No company wants to go through this.” Referring, of course to GM’s declaration of bankruptcy. He says the days of having 8 car brands are gone, and promises a bright future where "leaner, greener, faster, smarter" models run on new technologies like fuel cells (see, monster trucks ARE good for the earth!). “Reinvention is the only way we can fix this,” he boldly declares, “and fix it we WILL.”

Then, he hits it out of the fruited plain, “This is not about going OUT of business. This is about getting DOWN to business. Because the ONLY chapter we’re focused on... is chapter one.”

Wow. I think by that point, I stood up and saluted the TV.

I don’t own a car anymore now that I’m a city slicker (sniff, sniff). When I did, GM was not even on my radar. I was all about the imports -- Volkswagen, Nissan, and BMW. So that’s some pretty powerful advertising. What’s even more impressive to me is that GM only announced this news, like, 2 weeks ago, and they already have an ad campaign addressing it head-on. It also stands to reason that with all the people they owe millions (billions?) of dollars to, their ad agency's hand is most certainly outstretched. And yet, they still delivered. Big time.

This can-do spot gives me hope that maybe the worst of this slump is behind us. And we can ALL get down to business again. That’s good marketing.

But what do I know? I thought Adam Lambert would win American Idol.

Watch the full commercial below:

To Move, or Not to Move?

Back around the holidays I told you about a love note I received from my building. Well, it wasn’t a love note exactly.

More of a list of people to tip.

Anyway, they’ve continued leaving treats in my mailbox these last few months. The next letter I received, roughly around Valentine’s Day, stated how much they enjoy having me as a resident (and frankly, who wouldn’t?), and how much they yearn to give me peace of mind about “rising rental costs.” Let me repeat… Rising. Rental. Costs. So they decided NOT to raise my rent, if I would simply agree to the small matter of renewing my lease 6 months before it expired.

Hmm, let me see if I understand this. Not raising my rent when the housing market has effectively collapsed, when about half my floor is empty, and when I know I’m paying way above market value for my teeny-tiny deluxe apartment in the sky?

How generous. You spoil me.

First offer -- REJECTED!

Some time went by (tick tock, tick tock), and my silence must have been deafening because about a week ago another letter came my way. Lo and behold, they are now offering flexible leasing terms to suit my needs. MY needs? Aw, how thoughtful! It turns out, renewing today for another 12 months will mean a $125/mo DECREASE. Nice to see they at least have a pinky toe in reality now -- the number is certainly moving in the right direction.

But we haven’t reached home.

My lease is up on August 1st, so I sit, and I wait (tick tock, tick tock), armed with three facts: 1) the same apt as mine, 4 floors higher, was going for $500/mo LESS than I’m paying, 2) the construction they’ve been doing on the balconies and the roof deck is moving at a snail’s pace (probably because they’re broke), making the building less attractive to new residents, and 3) the 2-bedroom to my left (home to a very sloppy family) and 1-bedroom to my right (home to French models, ooh la la) are both vacant and have been for many, MANY months.

Now, I really loathe the idea of moving -- it sucks the life out of me. Just the organization alone is enough to give me hives. So if I threaten to leave, it will be a bluff. I want to do no such thing. But I feel like I have an incredibly rare opportunity here.

I feel drunk with power!

So, beloved readers, I’d like your advice (don’t be shy, all the cool kids are doing it).

poll by twiigs.com

Stay tuned to the comments and I'll let you know how it all turns out...

Seven Strikes

So I’ve had a bunch of dates lately. Honestly, more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. I blame the Spring. I may need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all (ok, ok, I HAVE a spreadsheet to keep track of it all).

I met one of the Match guys for drinks at Dos Caminos. Let’s call him George Costanza (not because of the way he looked, thankfully, but because his screen name had a Seinfeld flair to it). He was 39, grew up here in NYC, lives on the UES. Emory undergrad, MBA from NYU, and manages a hedge fund (when he's not busy being an architect or an importer/exporter). 6’1”. Had an ex-wife and hair (on his head), didn’t have kids or pets. And loved TV.

Are you noticing a few scary patterns here? I know, I am too…

Anyway, from the moment we said wassup, Georgie was a step (or two or three) ahead of me. You might say, he was putting the cart before the horse. He was the Kramer to my Jerry.

We’d had a few email exchanges -- brief ones mainly focused on our mutual love of television and the time/date/place of our first meeting. The only personal nugget he revealed to me that wasn’t in his profile was his first name. So when he arrived (9 minutes late), said, “Hey, you!” as though he’d forgotten MY name, and went in for the hug, he was met… with a handshake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! We barely knew eachother. There was no need for any more physical contact than you might have with a loan officer.

Strike one (half for the potential name-forgetting, and half for the huggy hello).

He led the way to one of the downstairs bars and he ordered our drinks. That was nice. A vodka martini for him, an Amstel for me. Right off the bat, he started talking about 24 (apparently he watched all of season 1 in BED with his ex-wife, "Susan"), and explained how we could learn a thing or two about torture from Jack Bauer. THAT is what is known as a Conversation Killer. It was a first date 1-2 punch of the ex-wife and the cheerful subject of torture. I had nothing to say. So I sipped my beer. Strike two.

We were seated pretty far from the bar, side by side on two stools, like we were waiting for the bus. It wasn’t long before he got up and stood in front of me, while I stayed put on the stool. In the time it took to drink a drink, he’d invited himself over my apartment TWICE (once to “see my DVD collection” and again, in an offer to hook my TV up to my laptop so I could download bootleg movies). I shrugged my shoulders uncomfortably. Strike three.

Costanza finished the last of his martini, leaving just 3 olives on a stick. He savored the 1st one like it was a chocolate éclair fresh from the trash, then chomped on the 2nd. He slid the 3rd one off the stick, swirled it around in his glass, and offered it to me. To me?? ICK!! Forget I don’t really like olives, but here was this stranger offering me the backwashiest one of the bunch. Gross. And, strike four.

He must’ve been sending secret hand signals to the bartender behind his back, because next thing I know, there’s another drink in my hand. Ugh. With a new drink, also came a new desire to sit down next to me. So he did. And he whipped out his Blackberry to show me pics of his nieces and nephews. A couple of pics, ok. But we must’ve looked at 150. And peppered between the photos of smiling children celebrating Festivus were weird things. Like a bacon-wrapped meatloaf. And a close-up of some woman’s cleavage. And a small white dog, wearing a motorcycle jacket while smoking a cigar. You can’t make this stuff up. Strike five.

Throughout the impromptu slideshow, he seized several opportunities to touch my shoulder, my arm, my knee. I kept slowly sliding further and further away until I only had 1/2 of 1 butt cheek still left on the stool. BIG strike six.

At that point we’d been there for over an hour -- and I was practically standing anyway, so I was ready to end the date. He really wasn’t such a bad guy, but he was just so forward that it put me off. So, I muttered something about having an early meeting (maybe I’M the guy here?), and put on my jacket. We went up a long flight of stairs where I’m 90% sure he was trailing behind to get a better look at my… behind (yes, ok, HE IS the guy). I’m feeling generous, so no strikes here.

When we got outside, I saw it started raining. Pouring, actually. So we both opened our umbrellas. And I turned to him to say thanks for the drinks, goodnight, and goodbye. He asked me to share a cab, and I politely declined, saying something stupid about loving to walk in the rain (PS: I don't). So that was it. The final moment. The end of the date. And he goes in for… the kiss (um, really?!?).

So, what did Georgie get? A face-full of my hair, which was growing denser by the minute in the extreme humidity. Striiiike seven.

Now, I’m not a baseball fanatic or anything, but I’m fairly certain you only get THREE strikes. And I think Captain Observant finally got the message too, because I haven’t heard from him. Except for the time he showed up on my doorstep with some bootleg DVDs.

Kidding.

So what do YOU think? Do I need to loosen up? Or does being an uptight sourpuss suit me?

Go Nuts for Donuts

Ever want to be Michael Vale? You know, the “time to make the donuts” guy?

No? Maybe that’s just me. Because tonight, I was a mustache and a paper hat away from hopping behind my local Dunkin' Donuts counter.

It’s true, I’m not big on the Dunk, but I love me some Donut. And Boston Kreme is my fave. Now, I had no plans to eat donuts tonight (and yes, I am the type of person who would make such a plan in advance), but I was walking down 2nd ave on my way home from work, and I was overwhelmed by the smell. The delicious smell of donuts. Resistance was futile.

Can I help it if one (or three) followed me home?

Now, if the incompetent donut wrangler behind the counter had her way, I would have gone home empty-handed. She made me work for it. She was “listening challenged.” Maybe she got mesmerized by all the donut flavors. Or maybe she was wondering how many Coolatas it would take to fill a bathtub. Or maybe she was still in shock that Adam Lambert lost. I don’t know.

I approached the counter, I looked her in the eye, and in a sweet voice sang, “I’d like a Boston Kreme, please!” After all, I was excited. I was having a spontaneous donut! She nodded (a universally accepted sign of understanding an order), then called out over her shoulder, “A cruller?”

“No,” I huffed, trying to speak more clearly, “Bos-ton Kreme.” She smiled weakly, turned back to the Wall O’ Donuts, paused and asked, “Blueberry crumb?” I immediately scanned the room for a camera, didn’t see one, and shouted, “BOSSS-TONNN KREEEME!”, then angrily pointed my whole arm in the direction of a rack holding about 2 dozen of them.

Her face scrunched up, as she pawed at the rack and dumped THREE donuts in a bag (please see above to witness that I actually only ordered one). I swear I heard the guy in line behind me mutter under his breath, “Somebody’s hungry!” But when I whipped around to glare at him, he was pretending to read his mail. Jerk.

Anyway, I DID get my donut(s). And ol’ Dumbo Ears didn’t have time to spit on them or drop them on the floor, which was nice. But it turns out the bigger test of willpower is NOT whether or not you can resist walking by your local DD -- it’s whether or not you can resist eating all three donuts for dinner (PS: I can, but only because the last one was judging me).

Want to save yourself the humiliation (and calories) of eating actual donuts?

DD has invented a way for us to play with their food with the Donut Creator tool where you can also vote on your favorite pre-designed goodies. I’d imagine one or more will be offered in-store for purchase.

Just make sure to enunciate when you place your order…

A Night at the Roxbury

Can you fall in love with a motel? If so, consider me smitten.

I spent my Saturday night at The Roxbury. Now, hold on to your head-bob -- this isn’t a creepy dance club.

It IS a sleek, chic, unique and totally magnifique motel in the Catskills, owned by two dear friends, Greg & Joseph. It’s like a little slice of Soho in the country (and I DO mean country, on the way in I passed a livestock auction and an Elk’s Lodge hosting a something called “pan cake brkfst” -- I’m thinking they ran out of vowels).

Anyway, absolutely everyone should pay them a visit (and yes, that means YOU). Here’s why…

The Scenery:
I thoroughly enjoyed the 150-mile ride through winding roads alongside babbling brooks and tree-lined hills. I even spent some quality time with nature -- and I have the muddy navy blue ballet flats to prove it! I can’t really imagine myself visiting in the winter (mainly because I don’t ski -- skiing combines everything I hate: runny noses, freezing cold, and athleticism), but I’m dying to do it all over again in the Fall to see all the amazing colors of changing leaves. And if you do enjoy barreling down a mountain at breakneck speeds, I hear Hunter, Windham, and Bellayre are nearby.

The Décor:
I don’t even know where to begin here. You can look at the beautiful photos on their website, but nothing compares to seeing these rooms firsthand. Each one draws from art, TV, movies, fashion and design from the 60’s and 70’s. But not in a lame Planet Hollywood/Hard Rock Café kind of way. Think more artistic than tchotchkes. Every inch has been carefully curated, every detail lovingly assembled into colors, textures, and themes inspired by The Flintstones, The Jetsons, I Dream of Jeannie (the iconic pink genie bottle bathroom is a showstopper), The Partridge Family, and more. And the mirage doesn’t stop there -- the slick main kitchen and living room, the sparkly Shimmer Spa, the futuristic outdoor green glass fire pit, and the custom light fixtures hanging in the entryways (one of which looks a cross between the ornate glass ceiling art at the Bellagio and the Weight Watcher’s Hungry Monster) -- are like a dream. A very stylish, posh, slightly trippy, orange and lime green dream. Am I booking the genie bottle on my very next visit? Yes, Master!

The Bed:
Sleeping on a cloud doesn’t do this bed justice. It’s more like sleeping on a fluffy marshmallow, on top of a pile of feathers, on top of a puff of air, on top of a bowl of cotton candy, and then, oh yeah, the cloud. Add the 42in flatscreen TV (did I ever tell you I sleep with the TV on?) and it was a little something I like to call, Slumber Heaven. Zzzzzzz.

The Snacks:
You know that main kitchen I mentioned earlier? It’s stocked full of goodies all day long. You’ll find croissants, cinnamon buns, scones, yogurt, and OJ in the morning. Want a little something to nosh on while perusing the DVD library? Try a wasabi peanut. Feeling the chilly mountain air? Warm up with some white chocolate hot cocoa. Need something stronger? There’s wine and bubbly in your mini-fridge, and you can even order a cheese platter, perfect for midnight snacking. What more could a hungry girl (or guy) ask for?

The Hosts:
I was honored to receive the red carpet royal treatment -- I might as well have been wearing a tiara (which, incidentally, they do have on-hand if you are so inclined). But it wasn’t just MY stay that Greg and his staff wanted to make unforgettable -- they went the extra mile for everyone. You’ll never EVER find more thoughtful hosts. Seriously.

In Short:
I am in awe.

It blows my mind that they haven’t been doing this for decades, but the fact is The Roxbury has only been around for 5 years. Greg & Joe gutted a dilapidated strip of efficiency apartments and transformed them into an award-winning oasis. It’s plain to see they are doing what they were born to do. And since they are far too modest to brag about their extraordinary achievements, I’ll do it for them.

Oh, wait. I think I just did!

So, which room would YOU stay in? Take a look and write your favorite(s) in the comments below.

Predictions (aka The Mush)

Nobody really wants an endorsement from me (see Top Chef ringer Fabio, for example).

But since I watch about a million TV shows, I can’t help but have some favorites in the many reality competitions that are coming to an end this week and next. Even though I know it will ultimately be their doom...

Below are my picks to win. Feel free to read this through your fingers, like you might watch a traffic accident:

The Amazing Race
True, this one wrapped on Sunday, but my money was on Margie & Luke, the bionic mom and deaf son duo. They were actually in the lead for most of the finale, but bit it in the end over a particularly vexing surfboard puzzle. I was sad, but not surprised, when Phil Keoghan, my 2nd favorite reality show host (my 1st being The Bachelor’s Chris Harrison), stood on a bluff in Hawaii and informed us that the pair came in 3rd. Poo.

Hell’s Kitchen
To tell you the truth, I don’t actually care who wins this one tonight. Personally, I’d like to see chef Gordon Ramsay get right up close to the camera and shout, “Suck it, Donkeys!” then storm off the set. I guess I kind of liked 400lb Robert earlier in the season, before he was sent home with chest pains. Since I’m picking, though, I’ll go with Paula. Who’s that? Well, she’s mousy and plain and doesn’t have the personality God gave a rock. But the other finalist has a serious mullet and I just can’t abide by that.

Dancing with the Stars
I’ve loved Gilles & Cheryl from the beginning. While this Sex & the City shower guy could have chemistry with a doorknob, the fact is he’s a terrific dancer. And Cheryl’s a great choreographer. So together, they’re pretty sizzling. She’s already won a mirrorball trophy or two (and made me love a country song against all my better judgement), and I think she can do it again. I’d also like to state for the record that if Gilles ever leaves his wife, he can paso doble his way over to my deluxe studio apartment any day. Ole!

American Idol
Ok. If Adam Lambert in all his guyliner and black-nailpolished glory doesn’t win, I WILL stop watching this show. (Until next season when Evil Ryan Seacrest sucks me in. Again.)

Check back on the comments next week and we’ll see how I fared. And share your own predictions below!

Love

On Wednesday night at 9:48pm, I became an aunt for the very first time to a beautiful baby girl, named Grace Elizabeth. She surprised us all 3 weeks early, but I think she just really wanted to make a dramatic entrance on her first Mother’s Day.

Mission accomplished.

While she is just one of the many babies being born in my life right now, of course, she is by FAR my favorite. She is 6lbs 10oz and 20 inches of pure joy. Here’s just a few of the thousands of reasons why:

1) From the minute I saw her, less than an hour old, she was pink. Perfectly pink like every little girl should be.

2) She has very long fingers, so delicate you can’t even believe there are any bones in them. But she’s strong too, especially when she does not want to stick her arm inside her onesie, or keep her fingers inside her mittens, or her feet inside her socks. No doubt she will be tall, and artistic with hands like she has.

3) She has the most adorable dimple on her right cheek, just like her daddy. And watching my little brother (who’s a very big 6’5”) care for this little peanut is so sweet and gentle, it brings tears to my eyes in the best possible way.

4) Her hair. As a baby, I was bald until I was about 9 months old (I’ve made up for lost time, tenfold). My brother, on the other hand, was born with a good amount of black hair, that later turned orange-ish (the Turnip Phase, as it is affectionately known in my family), which then settled on the most gorgeous platinum blonde by the time he was about 3 months old. His daughter, is the perfect middle ground -- light blonde downy fuzz around the edges, and silky soft light brown hair all over her head. No turnips here -- that must be my sister-in-law’s good influence!

5) I remember the stories of the day I was born, hearing that my grandmother and my father got soaking wet in the hospital parking lot from all the rain that day. The same thing happened to me the night Gracie was born as I was leaving the hospital. The downpour made me smile and feel like my grandmother, her great-grandmother, was still here, watching over us.

Lots of surreal memories swirl in my head from a day that began with a 5:30am phone call and ended at 3am the next morning when I fell asleep on my brother’s couch in Connecticut. I remember seeing “Deadliest Catch” playing on the TV in the unfamiliar hospital waiting room as I sat alongside a concerned father who would later be sent home for the 3rd time as his single daughter left with false labor pains. I remember getting text message updates from my brother throughout the day and night, which I then relayed by phone to my parents all the way in Florida and by email to my aunt in New York, realizing what a blessing technology can be, wondering how people ever managed without this kind of lifeline. I remember getting cash from the ATM and offering it to my brother, as if he was going to tip the doctors after delivery for a job well done.

I remember sitting downstairs with him in the small window of time he had after my sister-in-law was given an epidural, as he ate a turkey wrap in about 3 bites -- looking in one second like a little boy, and in another like a grown man -- his face full of awe, excitement, and exhaustion. I remember as a new mommy, daddy, and baby slept in the hospital, I came back to their quiet house, with everything still frozen in the bright disarray of a surprise 4am water breaking. And finally, I remember that their cat saw this as his opportunity to mess with me by throwing up all over the house (fyi, the cat and I are still not speaking).

I sat in the hospital, waiting for the news, my mind wandering to the other newborns in the nursery. There were 7 altogether, including Gracie, 3 girls and 4 boys. I couldn’t help but wonder if all these babies, were bonded in some way -- linked for coming into the world at the same time, laying side by side. I wondered where life would take them, who they would become.

As I leaned against the glass, I wished them health, I wished them happiness, and I wished them love.

Germs Make Me Sick

So I’ve been trying to mind my own business with this Swine Flu epidemic (only occasionally staring suspiciously at those who so much as sniffle). And I’m ok with my odds. I mean, how many millions of people live in NYC? Eight maybe? And there’s only been a couple of hundred confirmed cases of the dreaded flu in the whole entire US. I can live with that.

But do you know what stat really makes my skin crawl? The fact that the average desktop computer carries 400x more bacteria than the average toilet seat.

Hold up.

You mean MY keyboard? The same one I’m using to type on RIGHT NOW? Dirtier than a TOILET? Are we talking a public toilet, or the one in my house? And what about my mouse? Or my phone? Or my desk?

Blech. It’s enough to make me call in sick to my stomach.

We just moved offices at work, so I took the opportunity to give my keyboard a good shake shake shake. And it’s true -- it was not clean, but it wasn’t exactly a budding Chia Pet of Filth either.

I freed an inordinate amount of gray fuzz, a bunch of eyelashes (?) that I can only assume were mine, and slightly fewer poppy and sesame seeds than you’d find on an everything bagel.

Nasty gunk? Yes. Worse than a toilet? Not quite.

Of course, the biggest biohazards are what you DON’T see. For instance, it doesn’t matter that you wash your hands after you use the restroom. Chances are, you touch something on your way out -- the faucet, the paper towel rack, the door handle -- that’s just littered with bacteria from people (dirty dogs) who haven’t. That sneaky bacteria is just waiting to come along for the ride back to your desk. Which I’m sure it does.

Wheeee!

Another major culprit is eating lunch at your desk. Wayward crumbs encourage bacteria growth, which IS unfortunate because Dining al Desko is something I do pretty much every day.

Suddenly, my office is a bacteria cafeteria.

Well played, old germ. Well played.

The moral of the story? The 5-Second Rule is now officially off when something falls on your desk. Turns out, you’re much safer licking a toilet.