Feeling like one slender pig

When my mom was here last week, we did a lot of food shopping. My mom and I are very healthy eaters, both conscious of our weight and the foods we put in our mouths. It's a true treat when my mom cooks for me, because aside from having a homecooked meal, I always know that it will be lowfat (and tasty!) as well.

At the supermarket, my mother went out of her way to look for her new favorite frozen dessert, Slim-a-Bears, a lowfat version of the Klondike Bar. I had never heard of them, but I figured they must be akin to my personal favorite, the Skinny Cows, and happily loaded them in the cart. We each had one that night after dinner, and while I quickly gobbled it up, I detected more than a faint hint of aspartame and decided it wasn't any better than the Nabisco 100 Calorie snack packs I usually have for dessert. It was the only one I bothered to eat. Until tonight.

After turning the heat up to 70 in my apartment, which promptly turned the temperature of the place up to near 80, I had a sudden craving for ice cream. I remembered the Slim-a-Bears in the freezer and went to have a look. And that's when I looked at the package. One bar has 170 calories and 9 grams of fat.

Um, what?

NINE (9!) GRAMS of FAT?! In a "SLIM-a-bear"?! That's kind of misleading, no? I mean, I have no problem ingesting 9 grams of fat - or more! - for a dessert, if I know full and well what I'm getting into. Cheesecake, cupcakes, Toll-House cookies, bring em on! But if I'm buying a diet food, I might actually want one that adheres to my diet, no? My dinner, a Lean Cuisine, had half that many grams of fat. And mind you, it's not like I've never eaten half a jar of peanut butter and called that dinner, but at least I know what nonsense I am ingesting at that point.

Of course I ate it anyway. I had to - I was craving ice cream by then and well, I wanted to take another taste and see if I'd like it any better than the first time, now that my brain wasn't thinking of it as a diet food. And in my opinion? Not worth the 9 grams.

Skinny Cows, by the way, average 2 grams and 140 calories per sandwich. And they are genuinely delicious.

How I spent my Thanksgiving vacation

I'm sorry. Could I suffer from a worse case of writer's block?

I swear, it's not like I have nothing interesting going on in my life right now; but for some reason, none of the thoughts running through my head have made it to print, at least not in a way I'd deem intelligible, or entertaining.

My weekend with my mom was fun. Or, it was as fun as five days could be with two people in a one-bedroom apartment, when one of those people's internal clocks is set to EST and wants to wake up at 5 AM and go to bed at 8 PM, and the other person doesn't. Guess which person I was?

When I wasn't bitching and moaning, we did manage to have a lot of fun. We saw two movies, Borat and Bobby, and had two celebrity sightings straight from TV Land - Meredith Baxter Birney and Danny Pintauro (not together, though that would have been amusing). (I should mention that I've had some good celebrity sightings lately, including Sean Hayes at Fred Segal a few weeks ago and Christian Slater at the airport just a few weeks before that.)

I drove my mom back to the airport on Saturday, did some errands, and then just came back to my apartment and chilled, enjoying the silence. Although, and I noticed this the last time she came, my apartment seems weirdly empty and lonely in the hours most immediately following my mother's departure, almost like the apartment itself misses her presence.

I woke up on Sunday morning, decided I really needed to get my act in gear and book my tickets home for Christmas. I am taking the week off between Christmas and New Years, and taking myself on a tour of the Northeast. I'm flying into Boston on Christmas Eve and staying in town for a few days. Then, on Wednesday or so, I am going to make my way to New York to see the boy, and hopefully make a pit stop in Stamford along the way to see my friend Rebecca. I'll be in NYC for about a day, but then the boy and I and a bunch of his friends are headed up to Vermont for a ski weekend, which I am ABSOLUTELY SO EXCITED FOR, I can't even tell you. I love to ski, and don't get to do it nearly as much as I'd like; to be in a condo with him and his friends for New Years instead of dealing with the usual city scene that night is more than ever could have predicted for myself last year at this time. Although I find it ironic that I live so close to some of the greatest skiing in the country, and I'm headed all the way back to the east coast to do so. But then again, the act of me dating someone in New York only after I moved away is ironic in itself, so take THAT, Alanis Morissette.

Plane tickets booked, I decided to take advantage of the (kind-of) nice day yesterday by going for a hike in Runyon Canyon. I got to La Brea with no problem, and then sat in traffic, at one single stop light, not moving an inch, for 35 minutes, as everything north of Sunset closed down for the Hollywood Christmas Parade. ARRGH. When I finally turned around, I decided to pop into Target, but that was a complete madhouse as well, although I did manage to buy everything I needed and still get out of there in half the time that I had sat in traffic. I do believe things happen for a reason though, and I think I was supposed to not hike yesterday, because, instead, I went to the gym, and had the best run I've had in a long, long, time. I ran almost 7 miles in an hour, and while my time used to be much better, I really haven't had the patience or the desire to run so much at all lately. I left the gym feeling invigorated, that things had worked out the way they were supposed to.

I came home to a suddenly COLD apartment, turned my heat on for the first time all year, and settled in for a cozy night of Whole Foods and Desperate Housewives. As I curled up on my empty couch with a glass of wine in one hand and a new photo album to start in the other, I thought to myself how much I truly have to be thankful for. Even if I can't always put it into words.

Happy Thanksgiving

I don't have too much to write but I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. My mom has been visiting since Tuesday, so I've just been taking it easy, letting her cook for me, accepting her offers to get my morning Starbucks, and going to bed at 9 PM to accomodate her inner clock which is inconveniently set on Eastern Standard Time. I have so much to be thankful for this year, I wouldn't even know where to start.

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday.

I may not have all the answers, but for once I asked the right question

By all accounts, I am a very private person.

When good things happen, I rarely shout it from the rooftops; when bad things happen, I tend to suffer in silence, letting only a few close friends in on my misery. I've learned to open up more in the year and a half since I've lived in LA, but I think that my need for privacy is a personality trait that's just going to stay with me for as long as I live. And I'm okay with that.

At some point though, things become too big, too much a part of my daily life to not mention. Like the fact that, over the past few months, I seem to have found myself in the midst of a long distance romance.

I had been putting off writing about him/it/us for a number of reasons, the main reason being that he reads this blog. Back in February when I created a MySpace profile, I posted a single link to Lori MacBlogger, thinking that it would be an easy way for old friends to reconnect. I didn't expect to start dating any of them. But I also didn't expect that someone I had known for ten years already, someone whom I knew both in college and in New York, would decide to reach out to me after I had been living in LA for a year. And quite happily, thank you.

But he found me through MySpace back in August, and has been reading this blog for just as long. You may recall that I took three very long, very drawn out work trips to New York this summer. Because the universe has an interesting sense of humor, John contacted me the week before my very last trip. I was there for 12 days; because of our schedules and a little game I like to play called "hard to get", it wasn't until the 10th night that we got finally got together. But the 10th night was pretty damn good and we managed to meet up the next night as well, my last and final night in New York until just this past weekend.

I came back from that trip, happily humming Simon and Garfunkel, complacently assuming I would never hear from him again. Summer fling, don't mean a thing, right? But then he kept calling. And emailing. And we spent a good few weeks going back and forth, getting to know each other, testing the waters. Somehow it was suggested that he come for a visit. The next thing I knew, I was frolicking in wine country, taking pictures of San Diego sunsets, and figuring out how to blog about him without really blogging about him.

Because what if I said something out of turn? Like, that I was "dating" a guy in New York, if he only thought we were casually hanging out? (You know, because flying across the country is so casual. Clearly I have the Relationship Intelligence of a moron.) What if I jinxed things by writing about him, just like I did last time? What if writing about it actually led to talking about it, and OMG!, I might actually have to have an adult conversation! About a relationship! It would be MUCH better to ignore the situation completely and talk about parachute pants.

But no, I decided that when I went to visit him this weekend, if the coast looked clear, we would have THE DISCUSSION. The big, bad, blog discussion, so I could regain my creativity and write about real things again. Or, in a worse-case-scenerio, know where we stood so I could move on with my thoughts and blogs. In a nutshell, blogging about him or not was a metaphor for my comfort level with the whole situation, so you can probably gather by now that I am fairly comfortable with how things turned out.

Of course, that's not to say that I'm not still afraid of jinxing it. I've gone out with far too many guys who have said one thing one day, instilled all sorts of positive thoughts and plans for the future into my head, only to change their mind and break up with me two weeks later. For the record, that has happened twice in the last three years alone. So you could say that I am nothing now, if not cautious. But it's a risk worth taking, and I wouldn't be honest with anyone if I didn't start including him in what I write about my life. Because somehow, he has made himself a part of it, and I rather like that.

We were at dinner when we had "the discussion"; although, to be fair, the discussion had been taking place, naturally, in bits and pieces all afternoon. Like a schoolgirl asking her crush to the Valentine's Day dance, I nervously asked, "So, can I blog about you?" I didn't even have time to hold my breath in anticipation before he broke out in a huge grin and said, "Of COURSE! I have been WAITING for you to write about me!" And we both burst our laughing, partly with relief, and partly at the absurdity of the question: Can I blog about you? It felt like the adult-hipster equivalent of the junior high standard: Will you go out with me?

Just another way, I guess, that I am acting more like an adult and less like a silly schoolgirl.

Your turn

Well, I've shared a lot this week!

I'm headed to the airport in a little bit, but no, not for TomKat's wedding in Rome. I'm simply headed off to New York City for a long weekend - the first trip in forever that hasn't been for work.

Since I won't be here to reveal anything else about myself for a few days, you tell me - who are y'all? How did you get here? What's your story? And how long do you think Tom and Katie will last?

Please, discuss amongst yourselves. I'll be back on Monday.

Yes, Carly, I do think this song is about me

That last post was meant to be from the heart, but truthfully, I'm feeling like a bit of a fraud. Oh sure, I'm much happier than I was then, much more mature and roll-with-the-punches, but that vanity thing still plagues me. And while I don't want to throw myself a pity party here, were I to be really honest with you, I would tell you that I am in no way happy with the physical part of myself right now.

I had my annual checkup the other day. They weighed me. I weighed exactly the same as I have for the last five years. But I know my body is different. I notice that my stomach, which used to be pretty flat, is now wider, lower. My hips, of which were on the small side my whole life, have suddenly grown into average, turning my body into a true hourglass that does nothing but remind me that, CRAP!, time really is running out. My butt, from the side, resembles a small shelf, from which I might have wanted to hang myself had I woken up to this body that day back in 2003.

No, these aren't the results of all the Snickers I ate last week, or even from my lack of a trainer. I'm guessing part of it is age, part is all the driving I do whereas I used to walk, and another part is that the diet pills I was taking for the last seven years have suddenly gone off the market. Yes, you read that right. It was nothing major, just the best kept diet secret ever: Sudafed. Legal effedrine. Now only available without the effedrine. Because the secret got out. So I've been cold turkey for two months and actually quite thankful that they finally took it off the shelves because I don't know that I ever would have stopped, otherwise.

And maybe that's the difference. If they took it off the market three years ago, I might have just found something else. Now, I'm like, eh, bummer, but you know, my health really is more important. (Wow, that sounds mature, even for me.) Three years ago, I couldn't see myself much past the exterior at all. I defined myself so much by my looks. I still do, obviously, to an extent, but, well, maybe the difference is that I'm just tired of trying so hard.

I caught my reflection in a store window today, and saw a woman looking back at me. It's not the person I think of as myself, not the sexpot avatar blinking back at me on my Yahoo email account. It was a woman dressed in my clothes with my hairstyle and, while I recognized her, I immediately turned and looked away.

So maybe I am struggling a bit with this aging thing. But struggling is the wrong word. I think it's more like growing pains.

Low point

The following was taken from my written journal (the one I've practically abandoned since the start of this blog) almost exactly three years ago. I remember sitting on my couch, that Sunday morning, knowing that I needed to make a change in my life, but having absolutely no idea what that change was. Reading it now makes me laugh out loud, if only because I know I have come so far. But, back then, I didn't even know in which direction to head.

Sunday, November 16, 2003

Aah, the joys of another Sunday morning spent alone. Waking up with a hangover, regretting my food intake at last night's party. Looking in the mirror and being absolutely horrified at what I saw. Bags that have unpacked themselves for a permanent vacation under my eyes, deep creases by my mouth, sagging skin that I know from years in the beauty business is a result of the loss of collagen, probably exacerbated by nine years spent in a tanning booth. When did it become necessary to put on a full face of makeup just to walk half a block for coffee? I'm not talking about simply lip gloss and some concealer - I mean, foundation, blush, bronzer, mascara! All to walk to Starbucks to stand in line behind some jappy girl with her husband's money clip, a single band of diamonds on her left ring finger, counting and re-counting her dollar bills which she can't keep straight because she is simultaneously talking to her mother on the cell phone about "how unreasonable Daddy can be." All I can do is stare enviously at her Ugg boots - which incorrectly, or at least, unwittingly - have bunched her pant leg on one side. Everyone knows that the correct way to wear Uggs is either with a short skirt or over skinny pant legs - not over flared pant legs that will bunch up. Every girl in NYC has a pair, and I find myself wanting a pair, even though I do not have any skinny-legged pants and despite the fact that they are soooo ugly! They are the Birkenstock of boots! But back in HS I wanted Birkenstocks to be cool, but couldn't afford them. Thank God! Now, I can totally afford Uggs, but for some reason would consider myself a fashion victim - a wannabe - if I succomb to my own internal pressure. Maybe b/c I fear they'll be so out by next season that I'll have dated myself. Then again, I thought the Louis Vuitton Murakami hand bags would have been dated by now, but clearly I was way off on that. I should just spend the damn money and buy the boots, but I'm not quite ready to do that yet.

Anyway, I'm 27. How did that happen? My four best girlfriends have remained the same since I was like 20 - and going back to HS, as far back as 16, or even younger. For some reason, I still feel 22. So why don't I look it? : (

To put a positive spin on things, maybe this year I should throw myself a big bash with the theme, "Two whole years before I'm 30". Give myself a two year license to continue to act the way I do with no excuses. I'll settle down when I am 30.

God, if I look the way I do now, I can only imagine what I'll look like on the first Sunday morning of my 30th year. [Quite good, thank you very much! - Ed.] Maybe I should take the $150 I would have spent on the Ugg boots and put it toward a plastic surgery fund, to which I'll present myself as a 30th birthday present.

I've come so far (backwards, downwards?) since the days I used to be utterly confident about my looks, secure in the knowledge that I had a better body than most other girls my age. My body is still fine, but I'll never be 21 again. No matter what the age, though, I can't seem to escape the vanity that plagues my mind with these concerns, letting a good Sunday morning go to waste because I am feeling sorry for myself because I am single. Worrying that, by sitting on the couch writing this, I am contributing to the spread of the width of my butt. Soldiers are dying by the dozens every day in Iraq, and I worry about the size of my belly or the depth of my smile lines.

I'm just wondering what's wrong with me that I never seem to have a boyfriend. I mean, I have dates. I probably could have a lot more dates, but dating is depressing because I never like anyone enough and end up in these "pity" situations that I then have to wrangle out of. And then, every once in a while, I get my heart broken. Dating - lots of fun.

I am a laugh-a-minute this morning. I'm not even really depressed - just cynical. I'm also so jaded by everything, after living in NYC for five years, that it's more natural to look at the negative. Or, maybe I just need more coffee. I can head back to Starbucks in the hopes that Jappy Girl is gone and in her place will be a cute boy from the gym who is alone and decides to talk to me. I don't even care if he tells me how he always sees me and worships me - just a hello will do, and a new gym friendship to be formed so I can stalk him thereafter.

Love,
Lori

What's so funny, is that, really, not that much has changed. My Sunday mornings are pretty much spent alone and my smile lines are still there. I don't have a diamond wedding band or a money clip or skinny jeans - but for some reason, now, I am pretty sure none of those things would make my life any better. (Uggs, on the other hand, HAVE made my life better. I'm wearing them right now. With my pajamas. You have no idea how much better life is when your feet are toasty.)

But other than that, and the fact that I hardly ever put more than lip gloss on when heading to Starbucks on the weekend, something significant HAS changed. I am happier, for some reason, more content with the stupid smile lines (hello, Restalyne!) and knowing that Jappy girls with Longuysland accents don't bother me. I have mellowed out, and whether it's LA, or growing up, or burning myself out on skepticism, I'm just happier. And so thankful for it.

I left my brain in San Diego

So, nothing happened at the gym yesterday, but the rest of the day was a comedy of errors. Buckle up.

I was to start my day with a 9AM appointment at Acura for my 60,000 mile tune-up. Until now, all my tune-ups have been pretty simple, taking only a couple of hours during which I sit and catch up on my magazine reading. I thought this would be the same, but it turns out that it was to take the entire day, and as such, Acura would hook me up with a rental car, free of charge. Sounds great, right? Well, it was, except that I've only rented cars twice in my life and the idea of driving something I wasn't familiar with kind of stressed me out. Nevertheless, I wasn't about to spend the day at Acura, and so, flustered, but cautiously optimistic, I walked across the street to Enterprise.

Paperwork was easy and only took a minute, and I chose a basic Nissan. Just as I was about to get in, however, I suddenly remembered that I had left an important bag in the trunk of my car across the street. I had bought new jeans the week prior, and had planned on taking them to the tailor directly from the dealership. A little embarrassed, I walked back across the street, took the bag out of my trunk, and re-crossed back to Enterprise. I then sat down in the new car, turned the keys in the ignition, and suddenly realized that I had left my house keys attached to my car keys, back in the car across the street. BACK to Acura, fetched the house keys, and re-crossed, red-faced, once again. How did I even make it out of the house this morning? I wondered.

Even after that big debacle, it was still only around 9:30 - too early for the tailor - so I decided to do my food shopping and just relax for a bit. By 10:30, I figured that they must be open (everything opens at 10:00 on Saturdays, right?) and so headed to the place in Brentwood. I pulled in to the shopping center at 10:45, gave my keys to the valet, and saw metal gates where an open door should be. Frustrated, and exhausted by this point, I turned around, retrieved my car from the valet, and started to drive away. All of a sudden, as I'm turning onto Wilshire, the valet taps on my (moving) vehicle to tell me the tailor was about to open. I pull BACK in the lot, hand off the keys, and bring my jeans in.

The woman in charge took one look at the tags hanging from my brand new pair, and said, "So, you're going to chance it?" "Chance what?" I asked. "Shrinkage," she said. "If these haven't been washed yet they are going to shrink and then the hems won't be where you want them. I've had too many customers go through this and I end up having to turn their jeans into capris." Oh, I thought. Then how the hell will my ass ever fit in them? And why have I never had this problem before? Regardless, I didn't want to risk it, so I headed out of the store thinking that maybe I should have just stayed home that day.

Fortunately, the rest of the day got better and passed without incident. Acura even called to tell me that my car would be ready sooner than expected, around 4:00. I went to the dealership straight from the gym, still consumed with thoughts about the stupid trainer drama, dropped the Nissan off, and picked up my Acura, beautifully silver and shiny from her day at the shop. Came home, relaxed, took a shower, and started getting dressed to go out for the night. Wondered to myself what jeans I should wear. And suddenly it hit me:

I had left the new jeans in the trunk of the Nissan that I had dropped off four hours earlier.

UPDATE 11/13: Enterprise has my jeans! I'll pick them up tomorrow. Whew!

Gym drama, part infinity

My debacle with Equinox just keeps on going.

I'm not sure where I left off, but I had been set up with a new trainer, Keith, to take Kevin's place. Keith was okay, fine, but our personalities didn't really click and I didn't think he was as good of a trainer as Kevin, but I figured I'd give it a few sessions before I made up my mind. By the end of the second session, two weeks ago, I decided that I just didn't like working out with him and didn't want to do so again. When he asked me if we were on for 10 AM the following Saturday, I told him that I was going away that weekend and that I would be in touch. I wasn't going away, but I figured I could just let this one go and take a break from training for a while until I found someone I could feel really good about.

Last Saturday came and went. I saw him in the gym and was pretty sure he saw me, but figured if anything was mentioned I could always say that my trip got cancelled. Nothing was said. At least not until yesterday, when I received the following email, a copy of which was also sent to the training manager:

Lori,

Per our conversation regarding schedule, I was under the impression that we had a workout scheduled for 11:00am last Saturday. Apparently there was some sort of misunderstanding or miscommunication.

Aside from that, please know that it in regards to training, it is my policy to require that all my clientele purchase a minimum of twelve sessions in advance; I require this commitment in order to set aside the time in my schedule to provide you with the best possible service.

If you wish to continue to train, or you feel that this policy is unnacceptable for you, please do not hesitate to let me know, and I will be more than happy to refer your requirements to another trainer.

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Regards,
Keith

Um, what? First of all, we never had anything scheduled. I've never even worked out with him at 11 AM. Second, due to my issues with Kevin, I asked Keith the very first time I trained with him if he had a problem training me only once per week. He said he didn't, and I think that might have been an ideal time to mention his little policy about buying a 12-pack. This email was the first I had heard of any such thing. And I find it interesting that he copied the training manager on it, since as of two weeks ago, the manager was on my side, apologizing profusely for Kevin and offering me free sessions. Something has obviously happened since then; I have no idea what.

I "replied to all" that I was not sure why he thought we were on for the week prior, when I had been clear about my plans to be out of town. I said that I was surprised to hear about his policy and that I wished he had mentioned it back when I asked him about training me only once per week. I said that I was also surprised that not buying a 12-pack was a big deal since technically, I'm paying more per session now than if I bought in bulk, but that I understood where he was coming from as a trainer looking to book regular clients. And then I said that given that, thanks anyway, but I would take a break from training for a while until I could find someone else who could better work with my schedule.

That was yesterday morning, 8:30 AM. I haven't gotten a response yet from either. I am just now about to change and head to the gym, and I'm interested to see what, if anything happens.

I just don't understand. Why is this all so hard? I'm practically throwing dollar bills at them (hundred dollar bills, in fact) and they don't want to take them! What do I do? Put the money in a liposuction fund? Oh, well, actually, that's not a bad idea. Recommendations for new trainers and plastic surgeons are welcome.

A different kind of heartache

One of the things I have always loved about my career is the opportunity it has given me to meet and interact with so many interesting people. When I worked on the agency side, I juggled anywhere between 5 and 15 clients at a time, each with their own personalities, stories, and agendas; while most would simply exist as business relationships, interactions with no greater depth than the media updates I would provide, some became close friends and confidantes with whom I still keep in touch.

At my last job I formed a very quick and tight bond with one client in particular. Other than our jobs, we had little in common - she was a blond, married Midwestern girl who had just given birth to twins. Yet we formed an inexplicable friendship; inexplicable only because I don't know exactly what we always had to talk about and yet we could never stop talking. Even in the coldest, most bitter of winters, she made my trips to Minneapolis warm and fun.

When I first started on the account, she was on an extended maternity leave, because her twin boys were born with a myriad of problems. About four months into her pregnancy, Natalie found out that Logan had a bad heart (on a scale of A to Z, a W) and Owen had a bad stomach. In the three-plus years since their birth, both have undergone more surgeries and treatments than any of us would dream of in a lifetime. Logan (the heart baby) was born without a spleen, which means he is extremely prone to infections, and almost every heart surgery he's had has come with great risk. There have been far too many ups and downs for me to relate here, but the short of it is that they are both delicate little things that, despite the hardships, are growing into strong, beautiful little boys.

Natalie has documented the entire account in her own blog, which I am linking to now (without her knowledge or permission I might add) as just last week, Logan underwent a Fontan, a pretty invasive heart surgery. (As if there is any other kind?) Since the surgery, Logan experienced a collapsed lung, kidney dialysis, and, well, just read here - I can't even begin to explain.

I'm writing about this now because Natalie has been asking, all week, for everyone's prayers. I am not a religious person, and prayers coming from my mouth seem, at least to me, artificial, like they don't count because I'm not properly affiliated with religion or God. But if you all pray, or would feel comfortable doing so, I hope you can direct some of your prayers their way. In her words, "If you've never prayed, we need you to start, and if you have been, pray harder."

And I will pray that someone is listening.

Confidence

I know, kids, I know. I'm filling in the blanks, but it's not the Lori MacBlogger that you know. I'll get there soon, and when I do, you'll thank me. In the meantime, I need to gather my thoughts and write things I feel safe with. Are you with me?

Until then, I went to a party tonight. Pretty last minute, invited by someone who knows I need to think bigger, get out there, do everything I thought I was meant to do when I moved to LA. It was the first year anniversary party for a gossip website, and it brought in enough D-list celebs to make me happy. And when I got there, I was surprised by how many people I actually knew. Not because they were on TV, but because they have crossed my path in the last year and a half. And I wonder what it is that I worry about, why I fear that the best professional years have passed me by, when I can clearly work a room of strangers and make a night of it, regardless of my job title.

I really can't touch this

Just when I've finally gotten used to the look of leggings and have accepted that cigarette pants might actually look cute on some people (note: some people who are not me), Women's Wear Daily goes and tells me that MC Hammer pants are coming back for Spring '07.

I think it's safe to say that you won't be seeing me in much of anything besides skirts and sweats for another year.

I be up in the gym just working on my fitness

My November horoscope claims that I will make "remarkable breakthroughs" and reach a personal "fitness best" this month.

I hardly see how that's possible seeing as the only muscle I've developed this week is my jaw, from gnawing at all the fun-sized Snickers in the "Halloween leftovers" bin outside my office.

Well, I guess that would be remarkable.

Tiny white flag of injustice

When you pluck a gray hair, and then it grows back, rather than getting swept back softly with the rest of your curls, it stands up straight at a 90 degree angle, a defiant soldier in a battle you inevitably won't win.