Your cashmere turtleneck hanging out the window of your 31st-floor hotel room to get the smoke smell out by morning: priceless.

Jorge and I had our North American rendezvous Friday eve in Toronto, home of Hooters restaurants and Kelly Clarkson music. And Joey and Rolling Rock bottles. Oh, right. Those are the American things the Canadians just pilfer due to getting only a 70 for originality. At least they’ll always have Avril Lavigne.

Jorge was early (it seems he’s actually read my blog before and knows that I slice late people into bologna-sized slices) and looked exactly as he does in the photos on his site. Refreshing. I removed my fake mutton chops before he had the opportunity to see them; I didn’t want him to think I was trying too hard. Jorge limped a little as we walked to the restaurant. I must confess that I had a little bit of a Silence of the Lambs flashback and worried that the “injured” Jorge would lure this American girl into a well with a poodle and a basket of assorted lotions. He didn’t try, but I’m pretty sure I could have taken him anyway.

We plopped down in a pleather booth at the restaurant and were waited on by a young, dramatic gent who may have worked at Medieval Times for a summer or two in the 90s. Jorge handed me an envelope. I suspected he might be from Publisher’s Clearinghouse and scanned the premises for Ed McMahon. That was a no go, so I opened it, only to find two fun photos of Jorge and his Canadian lover (read: Dave) as well as the nighttime snapshot from here. [For those of you who don’t already know, with Jorge comes Dave. I had once thought that they were probably both married simply to disguise a long-term infatuation with one another and Strawberry Shortcake, but it turns out they’re just heterosexual nerds like I am. We would have been the kids who high-fived when we finished our first book of sonnets ahead of the other kids in Language Arts.] Jorge used some technical Canadian jargon like “half carafe” and “Chardonnay” and “cell phone” and before I knew it we were drinking and I was harassing Dave via cell in some city called “Too shy, shy. Hush, hush, Ottowa.”

Within two glasses of wine I confessed that I had asked the cab driver what that large, lake-like body of water was out of my passenger window. Jorge stifled the urge to label me as “stupid American girl” and continued to hang out, wishing all the while his friends would call with a pseudo-emergencie. I’m pretty sure this alone changed his view of me; after that he calculated km/m conversions for me and encouraged my use of an abacus to calculate tip.

After 2.5 glasses, I was singing at the table and Jorge was ordering shots of Jagermeister. I called him a frat boy and refused to do mine, based on the fact that I had to give a presentation to fifty people within mere hours. Jorge persisted like a plantar’s wart, and I ended up taking two baby sips before recoiling like the first time I was felt up. I shuddered and chased it with a familiar swig of white wine.

And then at some point Jorge revealed that his name was actually pronounced George. As in W. Bush.

Crickets.

At 2.75 glasses, I berated G/Jorge for writing haiku about everyone, their brother and even their drunkcles. At three glasses, I was grilling G/Jorge about photography and studying that picture again. Within the same glass of wine, I was overtaken by the beauty and the messages written on those photos, and I did what only Kris does in every touching and/or tipsy situation: I started to cry.

Crickets.

G/Jorge was gracious about it and made some joke about puppies being kicked against barn doors and immediately the mood lightened. Soon his beautiful and newly-coiffed wife joined us (think the rare female creature who is funny and gracious to an Internet woman she doesn’t know who has taken her beau away for the evening) and there was more wine and more giggling. And pictures of myself and of G/Jorge and the Mrs.

And I just had so. much. fun. And was so happy my work dinner plans were called off.

How do I keep getting so lucky? I feel privileged to “know” all of you, blogger people.

Saturday was my presentation. Four of us showed up to present on a panel about research methodology.

And two people showed up to hear us.

I should have had the Jager shots. (Or is it J/Yager?) [insert our waiter’s melodramatic wink here.]

The business of babies

My work travelmate and I have had hours to discuss driving in snow, marvel at the Real World Austin Melinda’s narcissism, and to debate the psychological benefits of chocolate chip vs. peanut butter cookies since arriving in Pennsylvania on Sunday. Over cream of broccoli soup at the hotel restaurant, we stumbled upon this conversation keeper, and I offer it for your consideration.

A group of restaurant staffers assembled for a meeting at the table next to us. The head chef assumed his spot at one end and began eating while the others found their chairs. Two hostesses sat down on opposite sides of the table. Three other important-looking women – the type that distribute colored graphs at meetings via manicured hands – pulled up chairs, leaving one empty at the head of the table. And a last woman walked up to this grouping and assumed the clear spot as meeting organizer. She arranged her paperwork in neat rows, called the meeting to order, and led the group through the printed agenda. And she did all of this with an infant on her lap.

I find myself torn. On one hand, I am filled with pride that woman can achieve this. Mostly gone are the days when a mother would have to abandon work aspirations so she could stay home to raise the family’s children and get dishes spic and span clean. Believe it or not! she can now direct feature films, play professional soccer, or teach the Kreb’s cycle and provide a close, nurturing relationship for her child without the authorities being alerted. And she can do so without quite the former stigma of giving her child over to a non-family member for the greater part of the day.

On the other hand, I have dependents, and although they are tinier and hairier than most humans, they vomit to excess and they do demand regular feedings and care. But I know it isn’t well accepted to take a sick day for a vet visit or to bring a cat with a leg injury to the office. Or what about someone requiring more constant care, such an ailing parent? Would it be acceptable for a parent, usually cared for at all times by an in-home caregiver who called in sick for the week, to come to meetings with one of your colleagues?

Your thoughts please.

My other theory regarding the origin of all of the good calls.

Hello, this is Onstar.

(crying) Hello? Hello!? Help us! We’ve been in an accident.

Ok, ma’am. Stay calm. (Pausing for breath.) Just stay with me.

Ok. (Breathing deeply.) Ok, you’re right. Ok. We’re all ok.

Do you have a headache? Neck pain?

(Exhaling.) No, sir.

Are you having an aneurysm? Any signs of deep vein thrombosis?

I’m sorry?

Gangrene? Psoriasis? Tetter?

No!

Menopause?

(Crying.) Is this a wrong number?

No, it’s just. (Sighs.) It’s just that, you know, you could turn it up a little.

What? (Sniffles.) Can you send the police to help?

Yeah, yeah. I’m getting to it. But I haven’t made my “sweet call” quota for Onstar - you know, the meaty stuff like a grammy getting pinkeye on the 405, not crap like people locking themselves out of their cars . . . you know?

Ok, listen. We need someone to help us . . .

Well, there was that one really good call where the woman thought she was having a baby in a Ford Focus, but it turned out to be gas, and I didn’t have the tape recorder on anyway . . .

I can’t help you. You. are here. to help. me, rememb . . .

. . . I just can’t go back to working at Dippin’ Dots, you know? I’ve just gotta get a call on one of those commercials.

Ok, jackass. Can you please just send the cops here to help me and my kids?

That was reaallll nice. Could you say that one again? Well, without the jackass? And could you maybe get the baby to cry a little?

Thanks, Nor'easter, for shutting me up in a PA hotel whose business center denies me access to blogs and as of today my email.

Yes, MS Explorer. I see the error. No, refreshing doesn't help and it's not my cookies.

Take your snow and go someplace else. It's beautiful and all, but I'm missing precious blog time.

On being a blog snob, or blob for short

I’m a critic about quite a few things, but lately nothing has piqued my snobbery quite like blogging has. Casing the joint that is the blogosphere, I find myself screaming these questions at Bug and Cricket, who have chosen wisely to spend most of their time far from the PC.

When did the blog world turn into six degrees of craparation? I find that with almost unfailing accuracy, I can make it through only so many blogs, linking via blogroll from one to the next, until the quality of said sites plunges. I ultimately end up at a blog pimping stretch mark cream (oh yes, someone really does link to those) or another that hasn’t been updated since Mickey Rourke was attractive. Has recipro-linking gone too far?

Why do some really crappy blogs get so many readers? My sister experiences a similar phenomenon while attending our hometown church at Christmas. The girl from high school with three eyes and the one huge boob always shows up with a man on her arm, while my sister passes her single peace. One probably shouldn’t think whore so much in church, she reports back.

Why do some write about every, little, single, humdrum, minute aspect of the everyday? I don’t care about you waking up and eating Meuslix (or were they Bran Flakes?) or about you slipping off your pink slippers and then getting into the shower. Unless your Cheerios rose to the surface of your milk and spelled out “do me,” your slipper had a half-pound wolf spider in it, or you walked smack into the clear shower door, it’s just what we all live. I don’t want to see a movie about the routine parts of someone’s life. This is why I avoid Woody Allen flicks. And Seinfeld.

This is in praise of the flava you all (yes, you) bring to the experience that is blogging. I am moved in some way every time I read about you staring at the frisky grandparents in the apartment across the way, the sick joy you feel when your arch nemesis trips in the board room, and the raw emotion that envelops you when a loved one passes away.

Know that your sites make my day.

10 Things I Learned from Rendezvous-ing with Four Fabu Ladies who also Write on the Internets

(Or an ode to Jurgen, Maliavale, Nabbalicious, and Kim)

10. It is so not pronouned Jurgen, as in the hand cream used by young men nationwide. It's Yurgen, using the Y made popular by such phrases as Yan Can Cook and Yo Mama.

9. I am the Mrs. Garrett of yet another social group, leaving the party early enough to catch Murder She Wrote and soak my bunions before bed.

8. Contrary to old Information Superhighway tales, bloggers do not have visible horns or fangs. The jury is still out on third nipples.

7. It may not be a bad thing to be the only one sans camera for such a meeting. 8 X 10s of Kris scarfing mozzarella sticks are highly overrated.

6. I don't have an accent.

5. A mini-bottle of hairspray is a must for your Macguyver social kit. Kim just might be able to take Stacy in a Battle o' the Bangs v. 2.0.

4. Nothing I've ever said about you is as funny as what these women came up with.

3. I was just kidding about number 4.

2. If you use the "I was talking to the cabbie" excuse to explain your late arrival, not a soul will suspect you were having difficulty stuffing that body into your freezer.

1. Jorge had better be prepared to bring it next week when it's Bloggers Gone Wild: Canada, as it will be pretty damn hard to top meeting these four beautiful, exceptional women.

Go ahead, use me.

Hone in on the weakness; use it to your advantage. I'm an unworthy adversary for your highly-advanced cathode ray tube.

I have had it up to here with the manipulation. I can take it from my mom over cold au gratin at Christmas dinner, but the onslaught of "feel good" shows has left me maxed out emotionally.

I know Katie and Slade can relate to the Extreme Home Makeover Phenomenon (currently being researched at the CDC alongside Ebola and the Avian Flu). The show should come with an inhaler and a box of Kleenex.

And here we have Bobby Lou. And everything would be okay for Bobby Lou, 'cept for the fact that he goes to second grade with no head. And his mother has seven arms without fingers; his father is a donkey.

And his sister is made of Jello.

A logical response? Well, that's just craptastic. I wish them well. I have $LMNOP,000 in student loans on a useless undergrad degree, and a skin tag I'd really like to have removed before my next sexual encounter.

But as we all know, that's not what happens. You weep openly, you indulge in your guilty dairy pleasure of choice, and you watch it again on Tivo the next evening. But not before you watch Nightly News.

Now why do you think Brian Williams exists?

No, young ones. He wasn't created to broadcast live in a nice cable knit about the fleecing of America or to keep New York City's spray-on tanning beds in service. He's there to make us feel.

He's part of Their plan. The plan to make me weep even though Katie Holmes chose to have a mute birth. To make us bawl at Katrina victims and that woman with an axe in her head and our collective futures given the eenie-meenie-minie-mo of the Supreme Court, all before his 22 minutes are up.

And finally (bear in mind I never thought it would come to this, TLC), I offer up A Baby Story/Wedding Story/Makeover Story/Perfect Proposal. Why don't we take the abadoned Iraqi-soldier wife without bicuspids, the 20 something unable to conceive without baboon eggs, and the Extreme-Home-Makeover reject with only a stump for a ring finger, and transform their visually awkward lives? Ugh.

And don't even get me started on Rudy.

This, my friends, is why 20-, 30- and 40-something women - and yes, even Rene Russo - are watching Laguna Beach. It's television without the baggage.

Commitment is on order this week

The beau set me up perfectly. We spent a beautiful Friday night together, the kind of evening that reminds you just how connected and at ease you are as a couple. Without a word, the beau spent an entire sleep spooning me in my claustrophobia-inducing bed. This speaks commitment.

The morning began like so many of our lazy Saturdays. Unwashed hair piled on top of my head and glasses in place, we sat on the couch laughing about family vacations of the future. He suggested brunch. We set off in our grungiest into the bright, unusually warm morning, and gorged ourselves on greasy buffet eggs, French toast, sausage and some of the best home-fried potatoes around.

He ended the meal with an offer. Let’s just go try them on for size.

Don’t be silly, I said. There are so many things we need to do today.

He was convincing. I soon found myself stumbling, my hand in his, across a sleepy Pennsylvania Avenue into an otherwise empty store. It soon became clear that the beau had been there before. He made his way to neither the biggest nor the most expensive choice. Still, he knew what would be just right.

He looked me in the eyes. It’s time. Let’s do this, he said, excitedly. I smiled.

And so we did.

The King bed arrives in two weeks.

Embarassingly edible (I felt too bad to call it Bumping Uglies)

Nardac has pulled off the meme of all memes (and for that reason, it is the last one I will ever complete - I don't believe we can ever really top this question). This killer forces pristine, reserved, bashful, austere, etc. young women like myself to choose shamefully shaggable men, beckoning fellows we'd bag at a moment's notice (with or without bags over their heads). Please note that I adore all of the following fellows, but have overheard at many a Vanity Fair soiree and Sonic drive in that others may find them less than appealing . . .

Olive you, Oliver. This long-lost 5th Baldwin brother was the only man sweatier than Matthew McConaughey in A Time to Kill. If you haven't seen him in Huff, as a coked-out, womanizing father-to-be and best friend to Hank Azaria's main character, you haven't truly known wanting to sleep with a coked-out, womanizing father-to-be. Mmmm. Anchorman hair.

I'm no Desperate Housewife, but this guy has got it. There's something about this poor woman's Paul Newman that just does it for me. You don't know how Far I'd go to See these biscuits. No? Too much?

If you've read my blog for a while (Hi Mom) you know that I have an unnatural, tri-state-area-borne obsession with Billy Joel. Don't ask me why. Sure, he has bug eyes. Sure, I can't be entirely certain that he isn't the father of the Georgia Runaway Bride. But he's got a way about him; his are the songs that I roll down the Sentra windows and sing without inhibition to in the summertime. As long as he doesn't croon anything from the River of Dreams album in bed (unless it's Lullaby, and then it might feel a little too much like he was doing it with Alexa Ray), we'll be in business. Keep the faith, Billy, Christie 2.0 loves you just the way you are.

Here he is, Mr. Paul Giamatti, in all his American splendor. I love his twitchy ways. His wild eyes and untamed tresses. Oh, and did I mention his love of wine? You did read the title of this blog, didn't you? Well then, you probably know he wouldn't have to ask twice to get me sideways.


Crickets.

And last but not least, Colonel Harland Sanders.

Well, if he does chicken right . . .

They have wings, but do they fly?

I abhor grocery shopping. I avoid it more than I do the long, scraping tool of which dental hygienists are such fans. As in all other environs, I want to yell to the gods when a bratty child grabs several boxes of Rice a Roni and defiantly hurls them to the ground. The great vinegar debacle cleanup is always in aisle nine; nine times out of 10 I just happen to be there too. Six weeks ago a pit stop for cleaning products turned into an episode of COPS: DC as two women hurled insults and canned goods at each other across checkouts 7 and 8. These are my Calgon moments.

All I wanted today were four bags of groceries. Four bags is a self-imposed time and weight limit that will prevent me from a) crossing a drama threshold that might prevent me from e’er Safeway shopping again, and b) acquiring purple battle scars on my fingers and wrists as I balance bags from my car to the apartment.

I had my agenda, and I moved swiftly through the aisles to complete it. Pasta. Tomato sauce. Salad dressing. A child performed cart balancing acts near the pickles to impress her cell-phone occupied father. I kept my eye on the prize. Gerbera Daisies. Frozen dinners. The Lean Cuisine area looked like the aftermath at Filene’s on Bridal Sale day. One entire case was bone dry and its interior lights were turned off. I grabbed what remnants I could, found milk with an expiration date later than tomorrow! and made my way to the checkout. I had spent only 20 minutes in the pit.

I located the shortest line and grinned openly at my savvy. I HAVE THE POWER! The guy in front of me clearly lived as I did, and kept it to a three-bag rule max due to what appeared to be some sort of insane tendency to commute by bike. We were not so lucky with the couple in front of him. Price check. Not on batteries, not on Twinkies, not on Windex. No, no. On Poise maxi pads. This is the moment most women dread; I for one would have offered to pay up to 200% of the full price or would have thrown my ample body onto the register rather than have the cashier hold those babies up proudly for all to see.

It wasn’t to be so. We soon learned that the woman was willing to wait for the discount and, joy that the store didn’t have runners to check prices. The cashier must venture into the wild, over babies and bananas, and do it herself. She walked to the back of the store (where feminine hygiene items are hidden, much like adult DVDs at the video store) and returned only after I had consumed the covers of every magazine in her line (is Paris REALLY going after Mary Kate’s ex?) Five minutes and a likely measly 30-cent discount on the pads later, we were back in business.

Price check. I’m sorry, I didn’t rewind my real-life Tivo again, did I? This time the item in question was a whole-roasted chicken, and something was apparently wrong with its hefty price, too. The cashier left again, this time heading to the OTHER back room where they keep the live chickens and cows and hot dogs before their imminent demise. And we waited. Oh yes, we waited. Just as I was about to turn to the mini-horoscope books, the cashier returned with two shiny chickens. The group compared their buttery exteriors and prices, one was finally chosen and rung up, and after only twenty extra minutes the couple could finally SCURRY HOME AND COVER THREE POUNDS OF CHEAP, GLISTENING CHICKEN WITH DISCOUNTED MAXI PADS. Amen!

As fast as I could, I threw my four plastic bags and 15 pounds of cat litter into my car (only to find an unopened box of cat litter from my last foray into Hell) and maneuvered one-way streets and poorly placed stoplights to my home, where I discovered that a neighboring assnut had parked his Saab across two sacred street spots.

I should have known and I will never ignore Its will again. As Nature intended, I will eat my black bean burritos at the dive down the street, order General Tso’s via my cell, and amass Subway club cards by the dozen. And I will open a geriatric-intended Peapod account even before hitting the age of 32.

WWJD?

I can't be entirely sure, but I'm guessing the one sticker He'd put on his truck wouldn't be of Calvin and Hobbes peeing on Satan.

Several thousand square miles of Jersey ozone were sacrificed for the taking of this photo.

That’s right. Touch it. Don’t be afraid. This Glamour Do is brought to you courtesy of two parts spiral perm solution, one part Aqua Net in that shiny baby blue bottle, and a dash of Love's Baby Soft, so you can smell me all the way from your 5th period Shop class. Eat your heart out, early-years Oprah; because two shoulder pads were apparently not enough, I had to have four of ‘em. Yeah, they like it on the late shift at the diner.

Oh hey there, Blaine. I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heeTeh with somebody. No? Apparently the white sequined dress with two-tiered poof, sugar hose in the Hanes plastic egg, and white Dyables heels don’t do it for you . . . Vince DiMaglio so totally said I look like that chick in Footloose. But me thinks he just wanted to be dancin' in the sheets. Not impressed? Well Jon Bon seemed to like it down the shore at Asbury Park. Yeah, we danced to Toy Soldiers. Suck it, Martika.

Gotta go. I’m meeting the burnouts at the mall to play Centipede later. I’ll call you from the pay phone as soon as Mrs. Garrett drops me and Duckie off.

Sha-la-la-laaaaa.

CLICK HERE TO WITNESS THE RAW AWESOMENESS OF THIS YEAR'S WINNER!

EDIT: The black bar was simply a reference to Glamour magazine Don'ts, not an attempt to hide my single, fantastic eye. Should you want to see my face in its entirety, I make the pages of Star regularly under the name Krisclops.

Take one down, pass it around, 100 bottles of wine on my wall

In hindsight, writing the first 99 posts was easier than this list of 100 things about me. Here's to the first 100 entries and at least 100 more.

Generally, conventionally hot men do not appeal to me in the slightest.
I spent part of my sixth-grade year living in a thatched-roof cottage in Belgium. The smell of both bananas and popcorn make me sick to my stomach.
I can't for the life of me truly understand the law of supply and demand.
I never cry as hard as I do at the end of the movie Rudy.
No matter how hard I try to think otherwise, I find both Julia Roberts and sushi to be grossly overrated.
I eat McDonald's fries so seldom that I get mad when the ones I am served are lukewarm and/or droopy.
I can't stand it when women think their only tool is their sexuality.
I horded toilet paper rolls and garbage in my younger years.
I can bake a mean rum cake.

I have ridden a camel in Tunisia.
At times I think I would rather take my life in my own hands than die a slow and tortured death from illness.
I eat one Cadbury Cream Egg per year, and I savor each and every bite.
Low water pressure infuriates me.
I think few things are as beautiful in their color and intricacy as the face of a cat.
I consider Diet Coke, Coke Classic, C2 and Coke Zero to have been created at the hands of a diety.
You couldn't pay me enough to work in sales, the theater or NASCAR.
Tom Cruise's kissing in Top Gun never ceases to disgust me.
I have peed in my kitchen garbage can while intoxicated.
I am a firm believer that naps should be instituted at all adult worksplaces and that roast beef should receive an NC-17 rating at all delis.

My first concert was seeing ZZ Top at the Meadowlands.
For much of high school, I attended church youth group only to meet boys.
My first flashbulb memory is of Samantha Smith dying in a plane crash.
I perspire excessively and suck at sports equally to excess.
My first star sighting was of Katherine Helmond outside of a Boots drugstore.
I have never used the word rad in a serious context.
I thoroughly researched leaving my doctoral program to become a pastry chef.
I have never boarded a Metrobus because I'm intimidated about the process of paying the fare.
I have colored my hair for almost half of my life.
I wasn't seriously kissed until I was 17 (and was seeing Silence of the Lambs at a movie theater. Ugh.)

I fear I'll never escape living paycheck to paycheck.
I have thought about how I'd turn down being asked to be a godmother.
I am afraid to swim with my face in the water.
I was voted Spirit Queen and Class Flirt my senior year of high school (year unknown).
I regret not having transferred to another university in undergrad.
No desire exists to have a tattoo or piercing below the ears.
Sometimes while pumping gas I inhale fumes with great pleasure.
My beau and I engage in revolting baby talk. Pet names include, but are not limited to, Boo Radley, Boo Diddles, Diddler, Sugar Snap, and Short Stack.
Beyond tuna fish, I have no interest in ingesting seafood of any kind.
I own a Spice Girls CD.

I am obsessed with the fact that I might have horrific body odor.
Few things make me want to maim another human being as much as the beau's choice of mouthwash does.
Behind dogs and cats, my ideal pet would be a seahorse.
I can't stand elitism and those with a sense of entitlement.
When I was in 8th grade, I made a daily trip to the HS via short bus to take French.
Voting for third-party candidates in the present political climate frustrates me.
Once a friend's mom asked us to take our tops off while we finger painted; I'm still uncomfortable.
Others have reported that I uncontrollably say "jugs" when changing my clothes.
I am revolted by yellow pit stains but don't often flinch when cleaning up cat vomit.
I secretly wish I could sew my own clothes.

I once lived in a hotel by the Place de la Concorde for six weeks.
I love to eat at Hooters.
Last week I looked up how much it would set me back to purchase a soda fountain machine for my apartment.
I only own five bras.
I saw a lamb's head at a butcher shop as a child and cannot erase the image from my mind.
I have a social phobia of playing softball.
I think purchasing Vogue is a waste of money.
I used to work in a day care center.
Due to a family superstition, I can never mix the colors red and white at my wedding.
John Mellencamp's lyric "I cannot forget from where it is that I come from" sends me into an editing frenzy.

I have pretended to be sick to get to the front of a women's restroom line.
I love shopping at Staples; an array of colorful Post its makes me want to explode.
I have never watched TLC's A Baby Story without crying.
I firmly believe that sports teams should only be able to win any given title once in a decade. Then more teams would get a turn.
I understand how people become addicts when I'm eating Salt and Vinegar chips.
I find it difficult to understand why some fiancees keep the ring after a broken engagement.
I have owned more hermit crabs in my life than DVDs.
I love the smell of wood burning in a fireplace.
I bite my nails.

If Guy wouldn't kill me, I'm pretty sure I would full-on make out with Madonna.
I'm allergic to Tide detergent; as a child, I was allergic to most food preservatives and cats.
I've never gotten a pedicure.
I despise all jokes involving flatulence.
I wish with every fiber in my being that I could live overseas within the next five years.
I have never ridden on a motorcycle.
I almost always just feel sorry for strippers.
When I see a picture of Nancy Kerrigan I wonder why they didn't smack her in the teeth too.
I'm afraid of Lasix surgery but have no problem rubbing the surface of my eye with my fingers.
Cocos isn't cocoa to me without marshmallows.
I took classical piano lessons for 10 years.

I will wake up/make time no matter day or night to see a meteor shower, comet, eclipse, etc.
I love to cook but rarely do so.
I once worked as a pharmacy tech/cashier/lottery, wine and cigar salesoman, all at the same establishment. Did I mention that security cameras were focused on the employees at all times, not the store patrons?
In 10th grade, I shaved off most of my right eyebrow.
I have cheated in a relationship.
My favorite flower is the gerbera daisy.
I have no tolerance for true intolerance.
I worked for two years within barb-wired walls.
I used to seriously kick ass at both Frogger and Pitfall. Seriously.

I am considering using Rogaine for women.
I can still remember the first time I got the wind knocked out of me. I thought I was dying.
I was by my grandfather's bedside when he passed away.
You will almost never see me in a pair of jeans.
I have never bought myself a piece of fine jewelry.
I have used a men's urinal.
I once ate four hot dog buns before realizing the rest were covered in blue mold.
I lost the 8th grade spelling bee on the word villain.
I went to the eye doctor in elementary school complaining of seeing things. Turned out it was the reflection of my eye in my glasses.
I enjoy reading Maxim.
Sometimes when I look at my cats I can't help thinking about the one we dissected in AP Bio.

Oh, and by the way, only one of these things isn't true.
I never did shave my eyebrow. Go Neil!

Sunday confessional: benders and beaches

I have spent the last four days living out my Robert Downey, Jr. fantasy while on holiday and apologize for being out of touch. Once again hopelessly devoted, Chardonnay and I spent our first reunited night mesmerized by one another and Lost; an entire bottle of white went down my hatch before I even saw Jack and Kate in theirs. I have little memory of what happened in those 60 minutes of quality programming, but do recall that we ordered chicken nuggets from a DC delivery spot and that they tasted like that faux-ltry manufactured by Morningstar Farms.

My cell phone blared out Miss Independent at 5 am on Thursday. I was on a flight to Memphis by 7 and yet another to Fort Walton Beach for a noon arrival and days without cell phone service.

Note to Memphis: it might be best to take some of the money you spend on Elvis paraphernalia and upgrade the gateway to your city from 80s high school to something more palatable, like, say, double-wide chic. Your airport is so archaic I half expected to see Jon Cryer working in the food court or the Heathers girls smoking in neighboring bathroom stalls.

And while we're taking notes: Southern belles. There are indeed others of us in your Subway line/DC 9 aircraft aisle/GD general vicinity. Please stay to your side of the hall, pick up the pace, or move out of the way. I guess it takes more than a sale at Talbots to get you moving.

The trip was flawless. Florida was all that I remembered it to be: breathtaking clouds, beaches with red tide, and undesirables sans shirts buying beef jerky at the Tom Thumb convenience store. Happy occasions and sunshine also bring out the best in people. A shout out is deserved by the new friend who snagged a full bottle of Pinot Grigio from the unmanned rehearsal dinner bar; as we all know, sometimes just one plastic Dixie cup won't do.

The vacation has been a whirlwind of poolside relaxation, an increasing number of daily naps, and even more glasses of vino. I have laughed harder at myself and others in these few days than I have in weeks. I have spotted the fins of dolphins from the front stairs of the bed and breakfast, eaten overcooked hush puppies, and lost some tan lines while creating new ones. And I have not checked email once.

Back to DC today. Providing Bug and Cricket have not gotten too frisky in my absence, I have an intact bottle of Merlot on top of the fridge. And if all is right with the world, that forgotten episode of Lost still awaits me on Tivo.

EDIT: Effing newfangled technology. In my infinite tipsiness (tipsyness?), I didn't record it. Looks like I'm the one who's lost now.