Purell Prayers

Nothing makes me feel more like a nondescript lab rat than working during flu season. Within our cage, it begins with a solitary sneezer and then there are two. Like playing Ten Little Indians, one by one the sickness spreads until no healthy remain. Coughs echo within cavernous cubicles and the weary and beleaguered stalk the hallways with red noses and watering eyes. It's only a matter of time before I join the herd of the afflicted. Unfortunately, unlike with hoof-and-mouth disease where one simply slaughters the sick, in the case of feet not hooves, slaughter is not an option. And when those feet are dressed in expensive Ferragamos, taking sick days is not an option, either.

Here's my plan:

After spending the fourth quarter of 2009 unable to speak due to my bout with the bird/swine/cat/dog/fish flu, I am determined to avoid this round, even if I have to eat an entire organic grove of oranges. Fingers crossed.

First Date Rules

It's one of the current trending topics on Twitter, and as such I have to throw in my wholesome and sage advice for the purposes of boosting my readership. Groveling for hits. What can I say. But it isn't such a bad topic of discussion. Earlier, I drafted a post on executive gifts, i.e. wind-up sushi rolls and mini billiards sets for the desk. Sorry, sometimes the well doth run dry, especially on 5 1/2 hours of sleep.

Rule #1: No "Dutch Courage"
A term originating during the Anglo-Dutch wars of the 17th century as an insult against the Dutch, who were propagandized to only have the courage to fight when boozing it up, it is easy to see how it could easily apply to the dating scene. Going on a first date is quite like going into battle - you can use intelligence to strategize a plan, but ultimately you can never prepare for every contingency. That cute physician's assistant you met in line for paninis at Whole Foods might initially seem harmless, then on your first date suddenly comes bomb number one - he is a recovering meth addict. Bomb number two - he was in prison for two years for distributing ecstacy tablets. You try not to choke on your half-chewed spear of asparagus and manage a feeble, "that's ok" as you look around the table for your white flag. Of course this is the point when you wish you were shitfaced. If you're any kind of dating veteran, you might at this point be in the habit of taking a shot (or two) before a first date, perhaps popping the trunk of your car to take a swig or two out of a bottle of Absolut before pensively approaching the designated battlefield. But you shouldn't. Unless you're dating in order to collect material for a screenplay (as one of my dates was, asshole), you are probably dating in order to find somebody you might consider seeing again. The odds of your date wanting to see YOU again are lowered if you use your trunk as a mobile liquor cabinet, unless you are one of those lucky few who acts completely normal when buzzed or drunk (hate you). Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying you shouldn't drink on dates. I am just saying it doesn't make the best first impression when you stumble up to your date with glassy eyes and rosy cheeks, smelling of eau de vodka before the night has even begun.

Rule #2: Watch What You Eat
Avoid the following: large sushi rolls, spaghetti, burritos, club sandwiches, buffalo wings, soup, garlic fries, shellfish, curry. When your date gazes across the table at you, he or she does not want to witness a burrito defacating all over your plate and lap. When your date speaks to you, he or she does not want to have to wait as you signal with your hands and struggle to swallow a mammoth mound of rice and raw eel. When your date leans in for that first kiss, he or she does not want to be greeted with the fragrance of curry, onions, or garlic. A lot of restaurants post menus online so you can plan ahead.

Rule #3: Keep Your Baggage To Yourself
On a first date, avoid discussing past destructive relationships, substance or physical abuse, sad tales from childhood, or your love-hate relationship with food. Your date knows all of this might exist to some extent, we all have some amount of baggage, but your date is not a member of the FAA asking to see the contents of your carry-on. And if he or she is asking you about these things, beware. If your date wants to know all about your most awful, personal drama then he or she is guaranteed to one-up you in that department and is merely searching for a segue into a confession of his or her own loathesome secrets.

Rule #4: No Texting, No Calls
If you text or pick up calls on your first date, you are an asshole.

Rule #5: Kiss
Why wouldn't you kiss on the first date? Too intimate? We're not 14 here, I'm guessing you're somewhere between the double digits and triple digits (as far as kissing) at this point if you're anywhere near my age and went through a period of excessive binge drinking 4 nights a week. Weed out the slobbering tounge-thrusters or serial peckers in the most time and cost efficient manner.

Rule #6: Don't Head Back to His/Her Place Unless You Are Prepared To Just Do It
"Want to head back to my place and just have a glass of wine and talk, no pressure? I just want to get to know you better." Translation: "Wanna head back to my place and have half a bottle of wine and DO IT?" Be real. Ignore reality, and you wind up ending the night with a pissed off date who calls you a tease as you storm out the front door with your things. Unfortunately you forgot your favorite earrings on the coffee table. You'll never see them again. And they were really cute.

What are your do's and don't's for the first date?

How To Fuck Up A Proposal

The following is not staged. It's a video made by my co-worker's friend as he proposes to his girlfriend.



This clever fellow must be quite the jokester. He first proposes to his girlfriend with an empty box which he "accidentally" drops over the pier as a joke (had it been me, this would have been the point where I became physically violent, I think that's about as funny as suicide). Oh but don't fret, he has the real deal in his pocket!!!
He gets on one knee and professes his live via poem (I would have gotten pretty angry at this point as well) and comes out with the actual ring. He proposes, she says "yes." Happily ever after? The universe didn't think he was funny either, and in karmic retribution, he accidentally drops the real ring into the ocean. Shit. Custom made. Uninsured. This video makes me cringe.

I'm bummed I didn't find the ring in my salmon last night. I hope their wedding goes more smoothly.

How To Make A Party Fun

A splendid birthday party complete with penthouse, buffet, cigars and champagne. Well-groomed wealthy circulated, some familiar, some new. Furs and diamonds and air kisses. Polite chatter about formula one racing and helicopter skiing. A night where you wouldn't consider stopping at one birthday cake, why not two, three...

Thus far it had been a pleasant evening. Good food and conversation under a silk-draped tent. As I finished up my salmon (I'd greedily gone back for seconds, out-eating both men at our table, but it was gooood), I was elbowed by my friend. I looked over to see a belly dancer. Well, more like a hot girl in a bikini top. Uh-oh.

We watched as the belly dancer did little with her belly and a lot with everything else. The most entertaining aspect was looking across the room at the other guests' expressions. Priceless. The crowd demographic was mostly Caucasian and Asian, ages ranging from 30s to late 70s. I was witness to varying expressions of discomfort amongst the women, most with frozen tight smiles and eyes darting about, unsure of where to look. A sliding scale of enthusiasm amongst the men depended on whether their wives were watching or not.

The men got up one by one to dance with Ms. Gyrate, some completely unfazed and more than willing to shake what their momma gave them while others were purple and protesting, firing off an obligatory series of mechanical hip shakes before scurrying back to the safety of their food plates and glasses of merlot. Soon the dancer had accumulated several bouquets of currency fanning about her waistband.

Half an hour later, she started going after the women, at which point my table decided we desperately needed a cigarette break downstairs. I was sober, and my friends were almost sober. Sober sexy dancing with a belly dancer in front of forty isn't something I think I'm capable of. Unless you bribe me with cookie dough.

Note to self: add instant fun with a belly dancer.

Tweaking News!

Introducing the Starbucks doubleshot® Energy+Cofee LIGHT in VANILLA LIGHT *cue angels singing* Isn't she pretty?

I accidentally happened across this glorious find at a random 76 station. It has 30% of your daily calcium and 9 grams of protein and comes to a total of only 130 calories!+!! Why didn't I know about this before, is it new?

TMI Friday

Photo Credit: beanma.com

TGIF. Never were truer words written. Working 13 hours days has started to take it's toll on my personality. I'm a scraggly ball of fraying nerves and I find myself getting increasingly belligerent behind the wheel. Yesterday I flipped off a woman from behind before switching lanes and repeating the gesture from the side...double tapped. In my defense, she performed a highly illegal maneuver that almost got me railroaded, and nothing pisses me off more than a near miss at being slammed by 4 airbags.

What do you get when you put nine women (one pregnant) and one man in a room? Hilarity. An 8:00 am conversation about breast feeding proved too much for the solitary male. He has quietly endured weeks of debate over boys and fad diets, but apparently he has a line and it was crossed. Eyes wide and hunched over at the word "breast feed," he quickly scrambled out of the room for the next ten minutes and reluctantly returned after pausing at the door to assure the topic of conversation had drifted to something else. If I hadn't already had my morning coffee, I would have also recused myself, as hearing about the "Hooter Hider" nursing cover made me shift in my seat.

And because I love finding random junk on the web, here is my new favorite commercial. Meet "The Kush." Apparently there are women out there who find it impossible to sleep because their breasts are touching. Ok...first off, who are these women? I can't think of anybody I know who has confessed this problem to me, and trust me, I've heard pretty much everything. Second, this product is not only expensive, but unnecessary. $55.00 for a piece of plastic that looks suspiciously similar to something that many women already possess... I would also like to know whether a similar product exists for men who have difficulty sleeping because their balls touch. I also like that it is available in three different colors - nude, mocha or ebony. Why?



And, as always, the best part is reading some of the viewer comments. My favorites:

"Why don't you just save your money and buy a spice bottle from the grocery store?"

"Is there a man boob version"

"Why do they offer it in different skin colors? Do they expect people will think it's part of your body or something?"

"I'm only 12 years old and what is this?"

"I can easily craft that for my girlfriend with a knife and some woods for 0 bucks." "Yes, I'm sure your girlfriend is gonna love putting a hard, splintery piece of wood between her breasts."

cryingwife.com

This guy sets up a video camera to record his wife's reactions to movies. I wish I could have sat with her during Hotel Rwanda, I had to be carried out on a stretcher. Below is her reaction to Dawn of the Dead, hilarious.




After Back to the Future...





Crying Wife Dot Com

The Art of Oversharing

An open letter to all casual acquaintances, temporary co-workers and complete strangers: I do not care to hear about your history of substance abuse, your blossoming teenage daughter, your series of devastating miscarriages, your father's death from cancer or your roster of daily medications along with their undesirable side effects. As a general rule, unless we've reached a level of familiarity where I would willingly share your straw over a rootbeer float, I just don't give a shit.

I'm not callous. I am a highly emotional person, actually. I've cried during episodes of Celebrity Fit Club. I figure that qualifies me as caring, yes? So it's not that I'm without a heart. I'm just fed up with the brazen and widespread misuse of oversharing.

Oversharing. The phenomenon with the distinction of earning it's own acronym, the famously overused "T.M.I." for Too Much Information. T.M.I. was spawned as a response to the raunchy, the nasty, the freaky, the weird - "omg tmi!!!" - a proper response to all things you must feign disapproval about in order to not be judged. But you secretly don't mind. It at the very least makes for good gossip ("Hey. OMG did you hear about how Jean De Baptiste got really wasted and hooked up with his sister-in-law. Awwwwkward.") As an added bonus, you as the relayer of such information look fabulously normal in comparison, plus you will be fleetingly popular with your listeners, so use this to your advantage.

The problem occurs when people incorrectly use T.M.I. There are rules of operation. Not meant for use with information that will tend to depress or bore. What am I supposed to do with the story about your osteoperosis? Nobody else wants to hear that. Neither did I. It wasn't salacious or shocking or even a hint of revolting. It was a buzz kill. And now my internalized value system is telling me I should feel sorry for you. Only we just met. It's just not right. Plus there is no proper, easy response. After hearing the lady next to you on the bus has osteoperosis, you can't exclaim "ahhhh! T.M.I.!" That would only make you an asshole.

The rules to T.M.I.-ing are relatively simple - so easy, even a caveman could do it. Please adhere to the following rules: #1) Transmitting the information cannot last more than 90 seconds; #2) It cannot be about a disease or medical condition unless it is elaphantitis or something caught between the sheets and treated by a round of antibiotics; #3) Do not share stories if they involve loved ones whom you respect. These stories invariably only interest and amuse you. #4) Death is never a sound topic for casual oversharing. Save this for bartender, at least he's paid for listening. #5) A good general rule of thumb. Pretend whatever you're about to say involves Nick Lachey. Would it make perezhilton.com? If so, you're golden. Nick Lachey wakes up naked in the bushes v. Nick Lachey has a bone spur. Make sense?

That's just my $0.02.

When I Fall, I Fall Hard

Happy Friday. My morning today began like most others. It began with me hitting the snooze button four times, leaving me without enough time to finish blowdrying my hair. On a mission to avoid rush hour traffic, I filled my famished tank with only a $7 snack and made a second thought stop at 7-11 to grab my Doubleshot^® and $10 cash back for parking. Rocking out to En Vogue along the 101 South ("Free yoooo miiinnd and the rest will follow!!!!!"), I screamed at a yellow school bus before exiting, parking, and nodding blankly at the parking attendant who greeted me with a thirty second monologue in fluent Spanish. No habla Español...

While on the phone with my boyfriend, I trudged up the familiar steps in front of my towering downtown office building. What happened next I'm sure is something everybody has experienced at least once. My foot caught on the top step and I face planted into the concrete to the horror of the business suits and trench coats surrounding me. Not a little trip, the kind of sprawling stumble that leaves you beached on your belly with your things scattered about you in a crescent. A most undignified flop. I took a minute before getting up. I did the cringing "I'm okay" wave as thirty people felt the need to rush to my side and ask if I was hurt. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. But it did hurt. The older I get, the more this type of thing just hurts. To my horror I even teared up a little as the woman next to me babbled on regarding her intense concern. I brushed it off, and hurriedly continued my ascent up the maze of escalators towards security, wanting to die.

A security guard asked, "Hey snoopy, what's your name?" Snoopy? I figured she must really like me or something, I mean I am really friendly as I swipe my key card at the kiosk. I always say "hi!" That made me feel a bit better, you like me, you really like me à la Sally Fields.

Twenty minutes later, two suited security guards entered my office and asked me if I could come with them. My heart froze and my mind scanned its recent history for an infraction I may have committed, but could think of none.

"We just have to ask you a few questions." Ruh-roh. "Ma'am, could you please stand with both feet apart and put your hands behind your back?" I complied and began to feel panicked. "Just kidding! Relax. You don't have to stand like that, hahaha! So, we have footage of the incident this morning and needed to ask you some questions about it." Oh god, footage? Incident? That's a great way of putting it. A permanent record of my grand entrance. I imagined a security guard at 7:15 am staring at his monitor over a steaming cup of caffeine when he sees me prance up the stairs before diving head-first into the cement. "Ahaha! Hey guys! We've got another one! Ooooo-eee that had to hurt. You gotta see this, hold on 'n lemme rewind real quick!" Nice. The security guards proceeded to ask me my name, my height, my eye color, my age, my weight (really? pft, I lied anyways), my address, my phone number. They took record of my outfit. "She's wearing boots. Huh, I would have guessed heels," one said to the other. "Uggs" I corrected. "Were you in a hurry this morning?" I paused for a second. "Tell the truth!!!!" the guard admonished. "Er, yah, sort of." He continued, "would you say you were distracted." "I have no plans on suing you if that's what this is about," I offered. "Yeah, people say that then a year later, you'd be surprised," he replied, "please answer the question, it's procedure." "Not really distracted, no, but I was on the phone." They wrote that down. "Are you in any pain?" "No." "Do you need medical attention?" "No." "Hey, we forgot to write down she's wearing a black shirt. Write that down. Now we're going to have to put all of this in a file for our records. If you need any medical attention or have any questions, here's my business card. Have a great day and - be careful!"

Has the world really become that litigious? I know the answer to that question is "yes," so I get it, I do. But I would have preferred to just forget about the whole thing. Now my moment of embarassment is filed away under "Trips and Falls" in the management's cabinet of potential plaintiffs. Guess I'd better watch my step.

Star Gazing

As the more superficial of us LAers diligently work off our holiday rolls along the muddy trails of Runyon Canon, we are besieged by a new kind of roll. Rather than at our waistlines, however, this roll is red and unrolled to pave the way for a promenade of plastic celluloid stars.

Awards season.

Like a plague of locusts, every lister in the alphabet descends like a dark cloud upon Hollywood to flash mega-twat, well-practiced smiles and politely clap in exchange for alcohol, loot bags and a bid to be best-dressed. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the mortals, awards season means not being able to book a hair appointment until mid-March and facing road blocks on V.V.I.P. streets like Hollywood Boulevard. During our routine wait for our skinny lattes at Starbucks we have to overhear gay stylists talk shit about various celebrities they are styling, proudly and loudly referring to said celebrities by their first names - Hillary, Meryl, Kate, Anne. We get it, you've skipped the 9 degrees are in the pan frying with the Bacon, congrats you are totally cool. Paparazzi hunt in packs for someone to photograph and crowds of European and Asian tourists follow closely, nipping at their heels with camcorders and camera phones frozen at 90* angles. Prepare to elbow your way into Il Fornaio, Paris Hilton is inside. It's a real pain in the ass, I tell you.

To me now in my state of disenchantment, awards season is as glamorous as the red duct tape that holds down the corners of the Ronald McDonald red carpets. But when I first came to Los Angeles, I, like most of the world, was completely celebrity-obsessed to the point of running around the aisle and jumping up and down with glee after Debra Messing barked at me in a costume shop.

My first awards season in Los Angeles was pure magic. While in line at the post office, a 70-something man in a baseball cap asked me if I wanted to party with Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriends. Initially I figured he was just being lecherous, but I did give him my email address. What arrived in my inbox was an invite to his Oscar party, including the instructions to bring a cute girlfriend, emphasis on the girl, underscore the cute. "Do not bring any guys!" As it was being held at a ritzy hotel, I figured the worst thing that could happen couldn't be that bad. Plus I believe one should never say no to an invite that includes an open bar.

My friend and I arrived at the hotel and were whisked into a crystal ballroom where we immediately sidled up to and made friends with the open bar. I was drinking appletinis at the time, thinking they were a sign of sophistication, while my friend ordered vodka double shots straight up. As we looked around, we didn't recognize any celebrities as this was a strictly D-list event. The crowd was congealed into clique formations. Feeling a bit outcast, we treated our awkwardness with a prescription of hard alcohol and soon we were stumbling about collecting business cards from boom operators and millionaire matchmakers.

While ordering my sixth appletini at the bar, I came across a charming gentleman in a tux and bowtie and instantly fell in love. My newfound love, his thuggish buddy, my friend and I then jointly embarked on a photoshoot with our digital cameras, spending the next fifteen minutes capturing the evening from various angles. They then insisted that we take pictures with their buddy "Louey," who the next day we realized was Lou Diamond Phillips, probably the only "real" actor in attendance that evening.

When my betuxed darling suggested my friend and I might wish to accompany him and his friends to the Vanity Fair party, I dove head first into their white limousine dragging my terrified friend with me. After seating ourselves in the back we realized perhaps we (or I) had been a bit rash as we were met with verbal abuse by what we later decided was surely a member of the New Jersey mafia. "FUCK YOU! YOU DISRESPECT ME GETTING IN MY LIMO WITHOUT AKNOWLEDGING ME? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? YOU FUCKING AKNOWLEDGE ME WHEN YOU GET INTO MY LIMO, DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM???" No. But there didn't seem to be much point in saying so. The entire limo was silent.

We rode around in the limo for what seemed like an hour, picking up various happy drunks along the way who each received verbal thrashings from the angry man in the white tuxedo. We were finally dropped off across the street from the Vanity Fair venue and then proceeded to scramble about in our stilettos as the mafia men attempted to ditch us. My friend was resolute in not letting that happened and dragged me behind her as I sobbed over my failed romance. Finally one man turned around and yelled "how much money is it going to take to get rid of you two broads?" Yep, he said broads, how totally mafia, right? I responded by sadly smearing my mascara around my face with the back of my hand and my friend, blinking with annoyance, said, "$50.00!!!" "That's it?" he replied, taking out an impressive roll of money and handing the cash over.

As we rode home in a cab, my friend turned to me and said, "Ugh. I should have asked for $100.00."

I would later come across my elderly host in a law school textbook. Apparently he is a well-known Hollywood crook with ties to the mafia. Lesson learned? Nope.

Something To Think About

My iPhone and I are still very much in the honeymoon phase. I received mine a little over a month ago as a Christmas present, and ever since I haven't been able to bear to take my eyes off of it for more than eight hours of the day, tops. I sleep, big spoon, with my iPhone in my arms.

One of my new hobbies is to watch people's wireless networks pop up on my screen as I drive around LA. Sounds boring, but as somebody with strong stalker tendencies, it serves as a satisfactory form of amusement whilst in traffic.

What a person chooses to name his or her wireless networks says a lot about that individual. "Go Fuck Yourself" is somebody who really hates network squatters. He has lot of online gaming to do and is constantly downloading gigs of pirated anime. You want to try and slow down his network? Go fuck yourself! Then there's "Same Ol G," a 30-something Caucasian UCSB graduate who works in marketing. There is, and never was anything "g" about this guy. "Ali luvs Matt" belongs to Ali, who will probably be single before Valentines Day when Matt, her boyfriend of three months uses his new iPhone at her place and decides she's a liability.

This got me thinking. I personally never change my network name from the standard "Netgear" or "Belkin45" but you might be different. I'm sure you don't mind if people catch a glimpse of your network name when driving around outside, they are strangers after all and will never know who you are. But be at least slightly cautious. I want to know what the person named his/her network "marystwat" was thinking. First I guess I hope this isn't a religious reference. But Mary, wherever you are, unless you have several neighbors named Mary, everybody in the building thinks about your, ahem, several times a day and thinks you're a slag. Is it really all that?

I washed my car yesterday, just in time for the rain. Of course.

My Thoughts On The Latest Techno Wet Dream

Everybody is buzzing, twittering, and blogging about the iPad. I naturally must follow suit. To me, the iPad, or as I like to call it, the iMaxPad is much like the personal feminine hygiene product - a bulky device that will make you walk funny during use. I'm disappointed it doesn't include wings for leakage protection.

I consider the iPad the Hummer of PDAs. When you whip that thing out (can it even be whipped out, perhaps dragged out of your bag with the aid of a crane) everybody will judge you. Everybody. Why'd you buy that thing, jackass? The iTouch and iPhone wasn't big enough for ya, huh? Feel more like a man now, do ya? Well, do ya punk?

The following are my grievances against the iDiaper:

1. Where Do I Put It?

Bravo Steve Jobs, bravo, the iPad weighs a mere 1.5 pounds. And only 1/2 inch thick, if only I could get that skinny. But what about the 9.7" monitor? Magazine size, according to Apple.com. Where the hell do I put this thing? It won't fit in my Speedy, plus my keys and switchblade would totally fuck up the screen. So what, I have to get a laptop bag for the iPad? That's kind of dumb. Or will there be an iBag at the bargain price of $89.99 for me to tote my iPad in? And importantly, will it be cute? Marc Jacobs might be available. I still love Marc Jacobs even though he never approves the Myspace comments I leave him.

2. Landscape vs. Portrait

Does Steve Jobs really expect me to be flipping this thing around in public? I have a hard enough time looking cool without tossing an iPad about, which I imagine would make me look like I was steering an imaginary pirate ship on the high seas. Yarrrrrr! Soon enough I'm sure Youtube will have videos of people juggling iPads, kinda like those super rad sign holders you seen on the corner of Santa Monica and Bundy. Only I'm sure an iPad would have a harder time recovering from kissing the street.

3. No Flash

Yes, I know there are people out there who argue Flash will soon be no more relevant than an electric pencil sharpener, but we're not there yet kids! Maybe we will be a year from now, but I want the ability to watch Facebook videos now-now-now! That's the whole point of these stalker devices. My iPhone already pisses me off every day by telling me I can't use Flash, why would I want to get the same bad news twice? That would be like two people in a row telling me I'm ugly. Once was enough, thank you. I get it.

5. Price

Starting at $499 for Wi-Fi only. Ok, well nobody is going to get that one. To really use this baby you're gonna want the 3G, so we're looking at $629 minimum. Oh and then you're going to have to purchase the 3G data plan, yet another monthly headache to keep in mind. Maybe I'll spring for this when I can list all of my Mac devices as dependents on my W-4.

6. Sorry Alt+Tabbers

Only one application at a time. But I like to listen to my iTunes on when iGoogle! Apple, Apple, have you not heard of A.D.D.?

7. What's The Point?

It's made for consuming content. I have my Macbook at home, my Dell at work, my iPhone for in between. So when exactly am I going to be using this thing? I can't really think of any other time I need to be consuming content. During a bubble bath? On a park bench? In line at Sprinkles? I suppose if I bought an iPad, I might make a few special trips to Starbucks just so I could feel there was a purpose to my purchase, but again, then I'd run into the whole issue of looking like Captain Hook while everyone sits back and hates me over their soy lattes. Plus there's the whole privacy issue - I don't want the the world to look over my shoulder and discover I spend my free time reading Bodybuilding.com and posting in an *NSYNC fan forum.

So that's my take. What's yours?

I Rule

Day 15 of the diet. I will confess I had one moment of weakness involving 6 pitchers of beer, but aside from that I've been a bastian of willpower.

I just wanted to take a moment to brag. Now I must go, I'm watching the Bachelor.