Proverbial chicken counting

For weeks now I have faced a near-daily struggle to come up with engaging topics for this blog. After a whirlwind year of changing landscapes, new experiences, and challenging growths, my daily life has given way to a staid normalcy - comfortable, but for the most part, uninspiring. That a good blog does not make. .

So it's kind of ironic that finally my mind is racing with something big, potentially huge, and I can't write about it. It doesn't have to do with romance - I'll still be alone on Valentine's Day thank you very much (although I am prepared with a good blog topic for the day, if I can type through the tears). I'm not procreating or contributing my gene pool to society in any way (that I know of). So you do the math. And then multiply it by 10. Okay, maybe only multiply it by 3 - I'm not moving to Paris to be with The Bachelor or anything, and the thing may not even happen, so I don't want to get too ahead of myself..

Even if it did happen I don't know that I am ready for it. But if it does, I'll have plenty to blog about for another next year.

Grey Matter

Writing this blog has essentially taken over most of my evenings, thereby dropping my primetime television viewing down to about 4 hours per week. Every Sunday I tune in for Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy, Thursdays for The Office, and I might catch a late-night rerun of Friends or Sex and the City on occasion. Former favorites such as The Bachelor have been caught up on friends' TiVo's, while others like the Gauntlet 2 run often enough on weekends for me to catch in between errands. I have high hopes to purchase full seasons of Lost and 24 on DVD, but other than those, I don't really feel like I'm missing anything.

That's probably because what I lack in quantity I make up for in quality. And one hour of Grey's Anatomy satisfies an entire week's worth of need for television companionship. In a single hour, my heart strings get tugged, tear ducts get jerked, and I'm left pining for another hour with the closest friends I've never met. I've blogged before about the attraction; I just want to know how many more weeks I have to look forward to saggy baggy elephant eyes and feeling like a loser because I just care about imaginary interns SO MUCH.

Ode to Maria on her 30th Birthday

De ne ne ne ne ne neh!
Well we're moving on up (Moving on up!)
From the upper east side
And for your birthday I have a sur-prise!

Happy birthday to you
My dear favorite Schlomo
I hope you enjoy anagrams of
"Maria Jose Palomo":

A salami rope mojo
Maam, Joel is a-poor
Ear jam, soap I loom
Ammo oops = jail era
Major ape as I loom
Ape is major moola
Jam oar so impale? O!
Alas, major pie. Moo.
Moi, pajama looser.

And my personal favorite:

I, Jo, rap some Alamo!

It's a great place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there

On the way home from the airport last night, I figured out that I've traveled from NYC to LA or vice versa 21 times in the past two years - ten round trip flights and a single one-way when I moved here last March. An unofficial frequent flier, I've become quite adept at navigating the system: I've learned the good airlines, the better seats, the best terminals, and so forth.

Hands down, my favorite airlines are Jet Blue and Song. I like Jet Blue for work, because it flies out of Burbank - a homey, easy-to-navigate airport that is best reached by car service when the cost can be expensed. If I'm footing the bill, I prefer Song from LAX which is more convenient; but otherwise, both are inexpensive, on-time, offer plenty of non-stop flights, and have seat-back satellite TV with at least 25 channels for my in-flight viewing enjoyment.

The TV's are where Jet Blue has a wing up on Song, with nearly 40 channels versus Song's 26. Of the 40, my favorite is VH1 Classic - a substation of VH1 that plays only music videos from the 1970's, 80's, and early 90's. On Tuesday's flight I caught gems from REO Speedwagon, Poison, Eric Carmen, De La Soul. Then LL Cool J came on with "Going Back to Cali", and I mentally thought, "Ooh, this will make a good title for my return blog post," seeing as I am always so exited to leave New York and well, head back to Cali. But strangely, this trip wasn't like that.

Maybe I was just really excited to see my friends, or maybe I was too-eagerly looking forward to my press event, but I arrived in New York oddly manic, admiring the city skyline like a tourist as the sun set behind the Hudson, taking note of how low the clouds seemed and how the air hinted of a possible snowfall. Sure, I also noticed how gray the sky was and how dirty the street signs were, but I practically had a skip in my step as I walked the seven blocks to meet my friends for dinner. Grinning like the village (or in this case, midtown) idiot, I actually caught myself smiling at strangers.

I think my heart physically ached at dinner, and when they asked if I would ever move back, I really tried to think about it. I actually considered what it would be like to live that life again - a year removed, the travel itch scratched. I thought about re-connecting with a recent job opportunity and exploring the possibility of taking it. I did miss the easy familiarity of the city streets - hailing cabs, meeting on the corner, knowing where to find the closest Starbucks. Of course, those city streets were exactly what caused me to flee - sidewalks crowded with annoying pedestrians, damning grates that swallowed every high heel, unfortunate weather affecting every outfit, every hairstyle, and practically every daily decision because there is no escaping it on the city streets of New York.

And so the answer is, unfortunately, still no, I'm just not ready. As if to prove my point:

After my event yesterday, I picked up a smoothie for lunch and walked back to the hotel. Behind me was one of those rehabilitated drug addicts in the bright blue city uniform, his garbage-collecting path following mine up Lexington Avenue. I couldn't pass the wide-ass in front of me walking hand-in-hand with her obese child, so for six blocks I walked with him behind me, his stinking, trash-filled motorized cart going vrrm VRRM, vrrm VRRM. As we approached the corner of Lex and 57th, roadwork caused every car in the intersection to pass over a metal lid, vrrm SLAM, vrrm SLAM, vrrm SLAM. The obese kid starting whining, then screaming.

Quite possibly the longest New York minute of my life, I had a sudden urge to push the obese woman and her kid into oncoming traffic VRRM! SLAM! SCREECH!, and remembered why I needed to move to LA.

Dear Hollywood, thanks for the mammaries

I was busy staring at Elizabeth Perkins when this aired on Saturday night, but props to Defamer for sharing it and even bigger props to Drew Barrymore for sharing a bit of her good humor. Honestly, though, if anyone is going to fire their stylist... Okay, okay, I promise this will be my last post on Golden Globe fashion -- well, at least until the Oscars. Um, maybe just the Grammy's.

Before we get away from the celebrity subject, I have to tell you about how important I am - I'm officially rubbing shoulders with people rubbing shoulders with the D list! (Does that make me a double D?) I personally know two people on Perez Hilton's website: I met Zvi at Tracy's party last weekend and I worked with Sara Jaye a few hundred years ago providing gift bag items for some of her clients, most often for BCBG's Fashion Week after-party. Sara was always so nice and made sure I could attend the parties as a VIP, so it was to my benefit to donate whatever discontinued merchandise I could scavenge from the beauty closets.

My first BCBG party was held at Stephen Baldwin's bar (Luahn?) circa September 2000; I spent the night ogling him and yummy Liev Schreiber. Apparently not knowing my place on the food chain, I actually tried to flirt with Liev, if for no other reason than to be able to say that I did so, though he wasn't having any of it. Another time I donated a number of products for auction at Shannon Elizabeth's Animal Avengers charity party, and I got a personal introduction. Anyone who doesn't know Shannon by name probably knows her by face, or at least by torso, as she's best known for the role of Naughty Nadia, the foreign exchange student in American Pie. She seemed genuinely nice and warm and glad to have us there, but for the entirety of our short conversation I felt like a teenaged Jimbo focused on one thing: "Um, I've seen your boobs".

Lest my head get too inflated with the silicone of self-importance, I'm off to New York tomorrow for a quick (28 hour) work trip. I'm looking forward to it - dinner with the girls and a grueling work schedule should provide a nice respite from this Hollywood affliction, boobs-on-the-brain.

My Own Private Orange County

Sometimes I feel like Al Bundy, caught in the present, stuck in the past. Only instead of trying to recapture the glory of a high school football championship, I'm just trying to find my way back to the Carrier Dome.

Sigh. I'll just say it: I've been missing college lately. Yep, I'm going to be 30 years old and I still revel in nostalgia of my life ten years ago. Could anything be more pathetic?

Well, I suppose that's only half the story. While I did love college and would love (LOVE) to be 21 again, what I really miss is my Syracuse connection. As I've posted many times before, my social life for the past 7+ years has been centered around other alumni, even though we may have been 300, or now, 3000 miles away from campus.

I went to an old friend's birthday party on Friday night. He, I, and one other guy were the only 'Cuse graduates there, but it was the most fun I've had in a long time. Well, it was the most fun I've had since two weeks earlier when I went out with three other girls from my year - my Freshman dorm, actually. And those two nights were the most fun I've had in LA since I moved here last spring and hung out with the Delt boys on a regular basis, falsely encouraging me to think that my social life in LA would be little different than in New York.

Was it something in the water? Or, more likely, the beer? Why is it that nearly 8 years out of college I haven't made any friends that come close to the relationships I have with my fellow alumni?

Socially, I'm active. I have enough friends and acquaintances to provide me with plans most Friday and Saturday nights, as well as the odd weeknight in between. But while generally fun, the nights feel empy, devoid of connection or the belly laughs I share with my Syracuse friends.

I settled on this admittedly lame topic because I've been having a bit of writers' block lately, finding it difficult to come up with meaningful subjects to write about beyond Chanel screw-ups (it got even worse after Reese, if you can believe it. Remember what Mariah wore? Well, Karl's office was hoping you'd forget. And then there was the small Natalie Portman/Debra Messing issue. But I digress). I know its not some of my best writing, and I know it's SO uncool to miss college when "30 is the new 20!" But there it is.

As for my exciting, non-Syracuse-centered Hollywood life, I saw Elizabeth Perkins at dinner last night. She's as cute as ever and I wanted to run up and give her a Big hug.

The reality of fashion

When did fashion stylists become part of the daily lexicon?

I had never heard of the concept until entering the PR world, and it wasn't until my last job working in fashion that I fully grasped the scope of their responsibilities. Of course, that was 2004 - the year Star went glossy, spawned numerous copycats, and tabloid photographers multiplied like wet Gremlins. With celebrities seemingly never safe from sartorial judgement, the need for stylists grew beyond fashion shoots and awards shows to being kept on retainer for the occasional stroll down Robertson Blvd. So, that, I get. But does mainstream America? And do they care?

Someone must think that they do because I've read more about stylists in the last few days than I've ever read outside of the daily trades. Reese Witherspoon fired hers after the Golden Globes for dressing her in the exact Chanel dress that Kirsten Dunst wore to the same show three years ago. And passing it off as vintage. This is national news? Personally, I would be more upset at Chanel than the stylist, but I guess only one of those is replaceable. And it's not Chanel.

Then I see that Rachel Hunter has a new reality show coming out called Style Me, which has a group of Apprentice-like, Project Runway rejects clamoring to get Rachel on whatever best-dressed list will have her. This could end up being a decent show, who knows, but if nothing else, will officially introduce the flyover states to the concept of stylists the way Queer Eye did for the concept of gays.

On a side note, I actually met Rachel once - when she wasn't best-dressed, and was, in fact wearing little more than a hospital gown and a smile. Make that a frown.

For years my old company represented a hospital whose one of many claims to fame was their offering of designer hospital gowns. Each year the hospital would commission a famed designer to create a gown line that would help patients feel more comfortable both physically and emotionally during their stay. It was a wonderful premise and we got a lot of publicity in the first year. By the second or third year, we had to up the ante (because do-gooding, don't you know, isn't newsworthy) so we held a hospital gown fashion show headlining Rachel Hunter.

I didn't work on the account and only had to attend the show and drink free champagne which wasn't a bad deal in my book. But the girl who did claimed that the former Mrs. Stewart was a bit of a diva and wasn't exactly thrilled about modeling in a hospital gown at a second rate club for second rate news outlets. Maybe she thought it was a low point in her career. Thank goodness she has since appeared on Dancing with the Stars, and now, Style Me, to save face.

Snark aside, Rachel was hot as ever, and I'm sure she wouldn't be hosting her new show if anyone had ever thought she needed a stylist in the first place. Get someone who needs one (or at least a better one) to host - Mariah Carey, Bai Ling, BRITNEY! - and then we might really get an understanding at the magic a stylist can achieve.

Hollywood High

How much, exactly, do you think Hollywood is like high school? Forget the Paris/Nicole/Lindsay clique for a sec, but among the royalty - the actual actors - are celebrities just a bunch of drama nerds fighting for street cred now that they can afford Botox and trophy wives?

Monday's Golden Globes seemed like the most awkward prom I could imagine. The mixing of film with television is like cheerleading with band - they both contribute nicely to the football game but would never tailgate off campus together. The Beverly Hilton just held such a motley crew, I have to wonder how closely the politics at that "intimate" dinner resembled that of the table status at my high school cafeteria.

When Felicity Huffman gave her heartfelt acceptance speech for Transamerica, she seemed oddly insecure; I wondered if she was secretly scared that mighty Gwenyth would think her a dork. Pregnant Gwenyth, of course, was probably more worried about if she looked fat. (Um, she did.) Back in the bleachers, I can imagine Eva Longoria trying to rally her slighted Housewives into a group brawl against underdog winner Mary Louise Parker; but, that same vision has Julliard graduate Marcia Cross brushing off her Freshman-nominee co-star before they make it to the student parking lot or after-party at Trader Vics.

It's just so easy to assume that celebrities, by virtue of their shared profession, all know each other and party on weekends at Clooney's house on Lake Como. Despite what the tabloids may tease, I want them to get along! But when they're all packed in the same room for a high-pressure, possibly career-changing, four-hour photo-op, it's easy to pick up on the most basic of insecurities that remind us that celebrities are human too. (Even Mariah, I suppose. Do you think she and Geena D. get their chipmunk special from the same derm?)

Detailed Golden Globe coverage, for those who care, can be found here.

Told you so!

Awful Plastic Surgery didn't listen, but a few weeks ago I speculated that Howard Stern had gone under the knife. This morning, he admitted as much. Now if only he could explain the haircut...

Oh, photos

Having just gotten a digital camera this summer, I realize I'm a little late to the party of online photo sharing. (Fashionably late, of course.) I knew about sites like Ofoto and Snapfish, but never took the time to learn how to use them, and frankly, I hadn't taken any pictures so fabulous that I felt the need to share. Until now, I've been satisfied uploading to my desktop, posting to the Bravenet photo album at right, and emailing select photos to friends on occasion.

Then, Saturday night was Tracy's birthday. It was a great time and we all acted wildly immature, probably in denial of or maybe in spite of the fact that 30 is staring us in the fine-lined face. I took some great pictures, which I've posted at right, and finally took the time to learn all about Ofoto, a process which happily took all of 4 seconds. (The first thing I learned is that it's called Kodak Gallery now. Oops.)

For $2.15 ($1 of which was postage) I was able to order prints so I can continue adding to my library of old-fashioned, scrapbook-like albums. (For the record, I have about 12-15 albums full of photos here, and another three at my mom's house that were too heavy to have ever made the move. I really like pictures.) Then, as I was browsing through the gallery I realized that I had access to old albums that friends had shared with me throughout the years. I spent a good 45 minutes browsing through these, laughing at memories long since forgotten.

One of my favorites was this from 2002:


















This would be me celebrating my third Halloween in that pink wig, along with my friend Rob who is paying no attention to me whatsoever. I think we were sharing the couch with a large bottle of Belvedere. Sadly, I lost the pink wig that night.

That was a great party actually, and everyone had the most creative costumes:

Then I came across this one, from Society5 in 2003:

That's Maria, Trista, and Kris in front, and me whispering a very important secret (I hope that was all I was doing) to my friend Brendan in back. Along with this album I have a series of albums from some guy named Josh who I'm guessing must have promoted these parties at the time. They all feature the same groups of people - or people that all looked the same - in some sceney bar enjoying the NYC scene. I remember that this was around the time that we started to tire of that scene. I was surrounded by my best friends, but we had all been to one too many post-Syracuse parties and the formula was starting to wear thin. Either the city was getting old, or we were.

Finally, this is one of my all-time favorites:

That's me and Kris on the back porch of our beach house in Point Pleasant. We were taking a break from House Olympics, an all-day affair that had us competing in three-legged races, the dizzy bat, an obstacle course, and water balloon fights. It was Labor Day weekend, we were both miserable, and I decided the next day that, rather than face another summer at the Jersey Shore, I needed to move to LA.

Six months later, I did.

The self-fulfilling prophecy of Bobby Wheeler

The concept of "celebreality" TV is sad; Jeff Conaway on VH1's Celebrity Fit Club is heartbreaking.

A shadow of the free-wheeling Bobby Wheeler (Taxi) or hickey-giving hottie Kenickie (Grease), my former childhood crush has done more, in one hour, to scare me away from drugs than any ABC after-school special ever could. His once-chiseled face is slack, his sharp tongue slurred. Neither is a result of age (in fact, he's still quite the hottie at 55), but overuse of prescription meds and who knows what else from a 30 year ride on that rickety Hollywood rollercoaster.

Sure, I don't know him from Adam and I tend to get attached to TV characters more quickly than I do actual live people, but it impaired my enjoyment of the show just seeing where this was all headed. I mean, of all the has-been, (I'm being generous by calling them) quasi-celebs on that show, he's the only one that was ever truly talented. Before he was Kenickie, he WAS Danny Zuko.

I guess it's not so much because I'm sad for him, but that it's one more sign that my childhood is really over.

Thanks, VH1, for the memories.

Inbox, meet Delete

1/10/06 - From the friend-of-a-friend: "Anyone interested in my old VW camper van? Alas, I must sell it. It's an '85 VW Westfalia, brown, with a pop top, fridge, stove, sink - the works. The front seats swivel around and it actually sleeps 4 really comfortably. It's the raddest camping-mobile around."

The funny part is that he's really truly like this.

1/12/06 - From the grooming editor of a popular men's magazine: "I have been using the hand soap and LOVE IT."

Um, okay LOVER, then write about it.

12/22/05 - From a friend who's also a publicist: "Actually, it looks like Brian Austin Green may be renting out the space for a private party.... so we're a no go. I think Ian Ziering is supposed to show up to, but keep that on the DL."

A party with David Silver and Steve-O? Put me on the list for the PPAD (Peach Pitt After Dark)!

1/12/06 - From another friend and yet another publicist: "Doubt it and you'll do without it, but BELIEVE it and you'll achieve it!"

He's in sports marketing. We're not really that close.

Everything I wanted, nothing I needed

A few months ago I vented my frustration at the lack of a decent salad bar in Pasadena or anywhere in the greater Los Angeles area for that matter. Since then, I had all but given up on my lunchtime takeout options, and actually got into making yummy healthy sandwiches at home. Sure, that's much more vanilla and I have to think of more creative excuses to leave the office mid-day, but I rather enjoy doing it and my tastebuds are just as pleased with the arrangement.

Then, yesterday, I didn't have time to prepare lunch before work, so ventured out with my coworkers to try a new place that had opened within the last month or so. Lo and behold, inside this new establishment stood the ghost of my lunchtime past - the long-awaited, sorely-missed salad concept of "You call it, we toss it" was now in Pasadena!

Thirty choices of fresh vegetables, meats, cheeses and legumes lay spread before me, mine for the picking and proper mixing with my choice of lettuce: romaine, mixed greens, or spinach. Salad dressings were limited but reasonably so, and the most important part was that they poured it for me. Two small servings of raspberry vinegarrette, fully tossed in with the salad to ensure every morsel was perfectly coated with fat-free goodness. It was the exact same order I placed nearly everyday in New York and I was literally giddy with excitement. (My co-workers must be glad I don't join them too often).

Ten dollars later (funny, it was never that much before) I sat with my salad, oddly dissatisfied. The vegetables were fresh, the food exactly as I had asked for, but it was bland, boring - more vanilla than any homemade sandwich. Dare I think it - have I moved on?

Don't get me wrong - I'm still excited to have this new place as an option, and I plan on making it my first choice on those days when a sandwich won't cut it. But, now that I got what I wanted, it doesn't - literally - taste as good as the wanting.

Training since Powder Puff

Well, I didn't get a lump of coal in my stocking or gain five pounds, but the holidays did leave me a big fat credit card bill as a token of their - pun alert! - presence. Aw, Santa, you shouldn't have. Regardless, I am excited to have two more reasons to open my wallet this winter, and that is to support my friends in training for the Adidas Vancouver International Marathon with the New York City Chapter of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

Cara and Laura, two of my oldest and dearest friends from college, both former AZD's and present day media mavens, are together training for this event to raise money for leukemia, Hodgkin and non-Hodgkin Lymphoma and myeloma. I don't know exactly what that means either, but they've both kindly set up websites to educate those of us whose awareness of the diseases doesn't extend far past Party of Five. Mmm, Charlie.

Laura, who writes for Self and has one of the largest and most naturally colorful vocabularies of anyone I know in person, has launched See Laura Run, an equally colorful blog which offers links for more information and hopefully regular updates of her progress. I told Laura that for the sake of our friendship (okay, just my $25 donation) she wasn't allowed to "Kona-out" on me and stop writing at the halfway point. Go, Laura, go!

When Cara's not juggling 8 accounts at her PR agency, she writes freelance articles for some small random paper called The Wall Street Journal. She was in Australia last week but still managed to put this together. God knows when she finds time to actually run, but she's been running longer than even Laura's vocabulary words, so I have no doubt that both will cross the finish line without any dangling participles.

While it's extremely admirable that they are training for a worthy cause - as I run for the narcissistic charity case known as "my saddlebags" - I'm just excited to connect with more New York friends through the big bad world of blogging. I have said that my blog has kept open lines of communication that might otherwise have gotten tangled in that busy mess called "life", and I hope my friends find the same sense of satisfaction I feel when sharing something new. And if they don't, well, I hope they raise a lot of money anyway.

Good luck, girls! May you be engineered to the exact specifications of championship athletes! (DaSilva/Klineberg/Nike, 1996)

Ode to Greaux-face on her 30th birthday

(To be sung to the tune of Hold On to the Nights, because I heard she had a thing for Richard Marx. Me, I've never heard of the guy. Or bought his music. Twice.)

Just when I believed
I couldn't ever miss you more
I remembered the day you and Cara played on the fuzzy AZD floor
We were all smiles
And I heard from you the sound
Of "Mush your face in the ground"
Just for awhile
Can we be not be turning thirty?

Hold on to the nights
Ten years of memories
From Tin Schmizzy to 44's
Here's to ten more

How do we explain
The night of Cinco de Mayo
Dancing in vain
With Mytoken and his friend Ryan
What happens now
Is switching against the rule?
It's not too late to play the fool
I don't know how
To not have fun with you-ooooh

Hold on to the nights
Ten years of memories
From Halloweens to July 4th's
Here's to ten more

Well, I know that turning 30 isn't the birthday that it seems
But I think that this is the decade that we'll both realize our dreams
Everytime I think about you, I am utterly aware
That I'm lucky to have a friend like you, no matter where....

This is Karl Lagerfeld's fault

Ah, Hollywood.

The new Us Weekly cover boast's Lindsay Lohan's diet secrets, while Vanity Fair's dishes the real scoop: bulimia. Meanwhile, Allure has a two page blind item that all but names her and her famous stylist as arbiters of clenbuterol, a dangerous drug only legally approved for use on asthmatic horses. (Asthma - sounds familiar). Responsibly, the Today Show picked up the story so that now the rest of us non-Allure readers can fit into sample sizes with the ease of a Google search.

All just in time for us resolution-hungry January dieters!

We're all puppets, don't you see...

War of the Roses

If the Rose Bowl is considered "The Granddaddy of them all", then I feel like Grandpa has overextended his visit this year and I'm ready to get back to my own life.

I work in Pasadena. Today is/was the Rose Bowl Tournament. Monday was the Rose Bowl Parade. Tuesday was the newly-minted Pasadena Food and Art Fair, some marketing ploy devised to keep people in Pasadena during the unusual stretch of time between the parade and the football game. Call me a spoiled brat, but this long-winded patriarch has me on the verge of dementia, fed up with the parking and traffic congestion, pedestrian tourists, and overzealous football fans that let out whooping Howard Deanisms whenever the mood strikes.

It's just like being back in New York.

The difference between men and women, part infinity

Now that I've been here for close to a year and have decided to stick around for at least a little while, I made it one of my new years resolutions to put some love back into my apartment. You may remember that I spent my first two months in LA obsessing over decor, but by the time Memorial Day rolled around and I had the basics (as well as a day job), I decided to put home decorating on the back burner.

Which partly explains why I have no matching plates, glasses, or silverware.

When I moved in, Ted was (too lazy to pack) kind enough to leave me with a number of items for the home, including odd plates, cups, silverware, and pots and pans. Being Ted, there were no more than two of matching anythings, but frankly, without a dishwasher or a dining room large enough for dinner parties, flatware just did not seem a priority for me. Plastic everything suited me just fine - at least until I had friends over a few weeks ago and was mortified by my mismatched presentation.

So tonight I stopped by World Market to browse their dinnerware section. Overwhelmed by my options, I left with only a bottle of wine but possibly more disdain for the minds of men.

In front of me on line (in line?) was a man. A grown man, at least ten years my senior. A grown man with the foresight of a man ten years my junior getting ready for his first second date with an actual woman. Why the sarcasm? Because, as I am guessing Ted did, this man was purchasing everything - the plates, the wine glasses, the silverware - in sets of TWO.

World Market is like the poor man's Pier 1: if you can afford two, you can afford four. I say, go for eight and pray for friends. Of course, if you're anything like me, something might break and you'll need backup. But this is apparently how men think: in the moment, for immediate gratification. Us women, on the other hand, us Venus-dwelling domestic divas who worship goddesses Oprah, Martha, Nigella, we PLAN. Sometimes too much. But that's what we do.

When I was 21 and moving into my first college apartment, the first thing I bought was a set of 10 white china plates from Macy's Cellar. On the same day I bought four juice glasses, followed by four tall glasses, followed by a set of four matching coffee mugs, and capped them all off with a 25 piece silverware set. Not because I was having dinner parties in college or even having people over for coffee, but because when we weren't hosting keggers in the apartment I got off on the idea of having matching place settings.

Nearly nine years later my standards remain (although I did pass the keg-as-coffee-table phase a long time ago). Back in the spring, I bought a 12-pack of wine glasses from Bed, Bath and Beyond, as well as two sets of coasters - the purchase of which was predicated by a considerable amount of thought. Four seemed too few, and eight possibly too many, but better to have more than less. Or worse, mismatched coasters. So I bought two sets, for 8 total coasters, and even though I - to this day - have still never hosted more than three people at once, I am secure in that I never need worry about coasters (or wine glasses) again.

Given that men are the ones who turn boxers inside out for another wear rather than do the laundry, you'd think they'd have caught onto the idea that more dishes equals less dishwashing. Then again, that was probably a woman's idea also - some wife too fed up with her husband's dirty dishes to also deal with his laundry. "No really, honey, it's only dirty on one side." Now, THAT'S planning.

Swingers think Disney the greatest place on earth; soccer moms, not so much

Christmas Day I tried convincing two of my cousins to come out west for a visit, suggesting that nearby Disneyland would make a great day or weekend trip for their kids. Who knew that sister theme park Disney World also offered fun for the whole family?

Brew 7 in da house

And speaking of unofficial alumni networks, our bartender on Saturday night was in my dorm Freshman year. Can this city get any smaller? I love it though, and that just reminds me of why I had to move here. No, not for the unemployed actors, but to maintain a lifelong connection to Syracuse.

That just sounds backwards, but really, it makes sense on some level.