Some of the Real Creamery Goodness I've Been Meaning to Tell All Y'All

Hot damn it feels good to be back. Suffice it to say that I've found 16 ways to stalk via the Information Superhighway each and every person I know . . .

Bwahhhahhhhhahhhhhahhhhaaaaa! I'm just kidding. I'm over it. And here is my warning: I'm back to being me, and should you choose to read further, you may at any point from here on out read things about me that may - should you know me - make you feel angry or uncomfortable or frustrated or turned on.

Wait, that last one can't be right . . .

And by reading on, you who know me in the Real World: DC also heretofore and E Pluribus Unum certify that you will 1) accept that this is my space, 2) that mocking my love of Falco's Rock Me Amadeus is really just childish, now isn't it? and 3) that Tampax tampons are clearly the inferior of the major brands.

Enough about that. A few completely random but nonetheless very important things have been running about in my head. AHEM.

ON HOUSING. One rather depressing day, when I was trying to pull myself out of a funk with a beauty of a spicy takeout Thai dish and a walk to Eastern Market, I became physically stuck in my apartment. Not the drunk kinda "I can't figure out which one of these rectangles in the wall is my portal to the outside," but the ONE-HOUR LONG kind of jam that is MY WOOD DOOR HAS SWOLLEN TO MAD PROPORTIONS, and not knife, nor hanging on the bullheaded handle with sweaty palms, nor misdirected spells of "I wish you were never adopted!" directed at Bug and Cricket were of any assistance.

The effing thing didn't budge until in a Bailey Salinger-like emotional stuttering frenzy I phoned my father. Naturally after his first ten words the door popped open just as if the edges had been slathered with a mixture of Crisco and my humiliation.

I spent one hour on the cell bitching about the trauma and another three quarters of an hour downing a $6.99 bottle of Chardonnay from the corner store.

Because this episode apparently didn't max out the fun of being the last 32-year-old renter on the planet, my central air began pumping out HEAT Sunday afternoon despite every available dial being set to "Did you not hear me, asshat? I said really, Really cold." Sadly, I didn't realize that something was wrong until 3/4 of my face had melted off, which is most unfortunate for that big work meeting today.

ON TELEVISION. What else? Since we last spoke, I discovered the plain truth that Grey's Anatomy is the best thing to happen to the cathode ray tube since Court TV. McDreamy, you can buy me love any day. On the flip side, NPR revealing that Tina Fey is leaving SNL is akin to me someday finding out that I'm pregnant with something other than a third cat.

Last, can someone tell me when Inside the Actor's Studio became such a sellout enterprise that MARTIN LAWRENCE became acceptable talent? This is worse than 80-year-old Hicks pimping Foci on those Ford commercials. Ugh.

BUT MORE ABOUT ME. I lied. One more thing. Am I the only gal who looks at those e-Harmony and Match.com promos and thinks, Now wait one second! Klingon McSpocksalot and Cyclops found happiness and regular intercourse in this universe, and I - with my perfect penmanship and lack of snorting and swallowing when I have a cold and relatively symmetrical eyes - am still a single woman?

NOTE TO SELF. I probably should have stopped with Martin Lawrence.