Spoiler Alert

Good riddance to one bald-ass bitch.

PS-- Did you know that Icelandic people watch episodes of Dr. Phil from two years ago AND Guiding Light from what appeared to be the early 90's? However, they are only one episode behind on Top Model.

Office Politicks

I am taking bets to see which of my co-workers will quit first.

Sure, I'm making bets with myself. But thats fine.

Either way I make money.

Needless to say, I am always "dressed to impress" in the office. Doing my best to make a lasting impression. So when they leave I am poised in the wings, ready to take control.

When I offer to help them with their resume it is simply the friendly thing to do.

When I nod my head in agreement that they should find more fulfilling things to do with their life, it is simply a cubical neighbor helping a cubical neighbor.

When in each meeting they frown next to my grinning smile, it is simply my naturally happy disposition.

So when they tell me they've got a plan...

I have a plan of my very own.

It's 3AM and I must be lonely

I'm not not b/c I'm with First Lady!

We miss Peacockette (First Lady made me spell it like that.) and Urbantrekkie. And we also miss NB and CC even though they SUCK and won't join.

NB and CC...don't suck anymore. We want you in the mafia.

FL and I are drunk. We had 2 bottles of red wine after FL left work at 11:00pm on a FRIDAY. She is lame-o. Totally lame.

(ExPage pecks but he is very fast and I admire it.) says FL

We have to get back to the very important business of watching Brothers and Sisters and commenting on the political landscape of...um...Rob Lowe's character.

Urbantrekkie and Peacoquette...we miss you. And peacoquette, we hope this is how you spell your name b/c we just tried so hard to get it right.

xoxoxoxo
CLIQUE 25 4 EVA

Happy Thanksgiving 2007!

The Mole People

The Mafia came over yesterday to carboload. It was carboloading for the sake of carboloading, not because we're training for an athletic event, or working toward any kind of nutritional goal. On occasion, we pretend we're Eskimos. Mainly because we like Eskimos, but also because we get to establish an extra layer of flesh for the upcoming winter months, concocted of a delicious champagne and croissant base.

One thing you will notice upon entering my apartment is the aproximately thirty two mouse traps set up on the floor. Call me the kid with the dirty fingernails in elementary school, but having thirty two mouse traps in your apartment is awkward and embarrassing. I might as well have a jar of AIDS sitting on my coffee table, next to the remote. The Mafia, as always, are polite, pretending my apartment is the Guggenheim, and the traps, an art installation. But, for all I know, they all went home, vomited, and then three-way called each other and said, "God, she might as well have had a jar of AIDS sitting on her coffee table, next to the remote."

Nevertheless, as we guzzled prosecco, and rolled around in muffins, I knew the dirty truth. The mice, discovered in August, had not left yet. My situation with rodents was not a severe as Ex-Page's, but nevertheless grim, and disgusting. They were still running amok, and they liked making themselves known particularly while I watch The Bachelor.

Dealing with New York City mice was not my first run-in with unwanted rodents. In the eighties, my parents believed they were farmers, even though we didn't live on a farm, and we got our eggs from Quik Mart while my dad filled up the station wagon with gas.

The fact that we lived in the middle of nowhere helped along their delusion. My dad began to buy things like hoes of the garden variety and wheelbarrows and compost and pete moss. My mom measured our growth against the sunflowers. They planted things that we ate for dinner. My brother and I were forced to shuck corn in the garage, like Laura Ingalls and her blind sister Mary. I began to suspect that my parents had re-read The Grapes of Wrath by a campfire one evening, and decided it was a great idea. The Depression was such a good experience!

The summers as I remember them were fantastically hot. Realistically, it couldn't have been more than 75 degrees, but my pale Polish body was unaccustomed to light and heat. I would drip sweat, and fantasize about when it would snow again, so I could wear long underwear and avoid the outdoors.

On a particularly blistering day, my mother decided it was time to start up a sixth herb garden, because we might starve if we didn't have access to more rosemary and basil.

Nevermind that Wegmans was but a short car ride away where you could buy rosemary in a jar and avoid direct sunlight. It was much more adventurous to plant your own rosemary, and involve children in the process.

As my mom mentally plotted out her herbs, sweat poured down my face, I could feel the SPF 57 liberally applied ten minutes earlier melting away. I just knew my mother loved her herbs more than she loved me. Why else would she torture me like this? In another life, she would serve as an interrogator at Guantanamo Bay, but in this one, she birthed children and then made them plant rosemary. I desperately wanted to call my grandparents and inform them of this grave injustice and have them wisk me away in their minivan and take me to Dairy Queen. But alas, they were embarking upon their eleventh trip to Pennsylvania Dutch country to buy more apple butter and no face dolls, leaving me to put up with my own parents and their farming ways. I just knew that if my grandma was here, she'd call me in the house, and lovingly feed me hot chocolate and pierogis.

Instead, I was instructed to go get a bag of pete moss from the shed.

As I staggered across the lawn, I couldn't quite figure out when exactly Buffalo started having the same kind of weather as Africa. I made a mental note to myself that I never wanted to expose my own children to anything horrible like a shed or a riding lawn mower for that matter. Inside the shed, I shifted the bag of pete moss to get a good grip. I weighed eighty pounds, and the bag weighed eighty pounds, what could possibly go wrong? As I attempted to lift the bag, a tiny pink mole appeared, stared at me, and then crawled out. I screamed so loud my parents thought I had stabbed myself with a rake.

Most moms would realize a mole crawling out of a bag of pete moss was a horrible thing for an eight year old to witness. Most moms would feel guilty about it, and then go buy the eight year old an American Girl doll.

My mother re-assigned me to another duty in the garden. Weeding.

My brothers got to weed when they drove the riding lawn mower into the creek. Weeding was a punishment for them. For me, it was a consolation prize. Where the image of the mole lurking could play over and over again in my head.

As I pulled weeds, the sun beating down, I might have hummed a Negro spiritual, I can't quite remember. I do know I had an epiphany. It was my Scarlett O'Hara moment, but instead of fashioning myself a hoop skirt out of curtains while running around Atlanta, I vowed to move to a city as soon as I could, so i would never have to deal with rodents crawling out of unexpected places.

The exterminator comes tomorrow.

Writers' Strike

I don't know about any of you but the writers' stike is really putting a cramp in my year. According to TV Guide - thanks Ausiello! - LOST may not be back on until 2009! What am I supposed to do until then? Sit on my couch, twiddle my thumbs, drink my Smirnoff Twisted Apple - so good, it tastes like apple juice - and debate (inside my head) whether Juliet is good or bad? Make up fake scenarios about the return of Cynthia Watros's Libby? And don't forget that MICHAEL was coming back!! This is a nightmare.

I can live without those housewives for a little bit. Not those bitches from Orange County, the other ones. The real ones. Although I have to admit that this season, DH has been almost captivating! I can probably live without the Walker family but come on, you know you want to know if Uncle Saul really IS gay. And will Kitty really get married? But no LOST? Seriously? No guessing whether what we are watching is a flashback or a flash forward? And can I go back to Juliet?? Who IS she?

I can deal with not knowing if Henry leaves NYC to go be a dad. I don't really care if Alexis ever talks to Bradford again. And will Claire ever go back to jail? Who cares. Well, that's a lie, I totally care - Judith Light is fantastic.

What about those Darling's that I have grown to love in the past month? Who did kill Nick George's father? Will we ever find out who Ted Moseby's wife is? Will Leonard hook up with Penny for real? Will James the gravedigger get to use BOTH the immunity idols? Will Kourtney fall apart b/c she is clearly anorexic? OH, actually Survivor is reality, so we will get the answers to both of those questions. I feel a bit better.

But what about George and Izzie? Is that for real? Ava and Alex? Is THAT for real? And Dr. Hahn...total lesbian. But will we find out?

No more Penelope or Bronx Beat? Christmas is coming up. What am I going to do without the Target lady smelling my candles?

I guess for now I'm going too suck it up and deal with the fact that there may not be any Christmas candle smelling this year.

Quote of the Day

Obviously, you guys know me, and therefore know that quotes move me. I've recently been feeling that there are ideas, projects, creative things that keep encircling my mind, but i seem to keep putting them off or fear starting them for some reason. However, today I read a quote that seemed to speak to me ...

"One of the reasons why so few of us act, instead of reacting, is that we are continually stifling our deepest impulses." -- Henry Miller

I know I do this just to get through the day, just to make my mind stop questioning, worrying, etc. every moment of the day. I try to numb it -- through TV, work, social events, and the like; but what really inspires me, and when i really feel at my best is when i'm creating something. whether writing a letter, creating a journal entry, even posting on this blog makes me feel accomplished and therefore alive.

so, thanks for listening to this and giving me a place to discuss the big and silly matters of my life.

When the cat's away

I kind of hate the saying, "when the cat's away," mostly because i don't like cats, and i definitely don't like thinking of them as being in charge ... so let's change it ... when the boss is away ...

on this dreary, slow Friday it took all my energy to merely get myself out of bed and to work, and i am now spent for the day. my boss is on a mini-holiday in west palm beach and i am taking advantage of every boss-free minute.

the day started by ordering coffee for the department courtesy of THE MAN, which then extended to lunch, again, courtesy of THE MAN.

since work causes copious amounts of stress, (and knots that seem to have permanently attached themselves to my shoulder), i figured a fitness center massage was in order during the work day as well.

eventually, this tough day will conclude at the Ice Rink in Rockefeller Plaza at the Korbel Elite Curling Competition, where I will schmooze with pseudo-sports writers, and of course, lots of complimentary champagne.

oh yeah, as i type this, i am listening to my ipod via my boss's sweet bose sound system whose new home is on my desk.

who needs west palm beach when you can vacation right here at the peacock?

yes, i'm being a freeloader today, but every other day i pay a high price for being here. THE MAN owes me this day.

Flushed Away

Here's the thing.

Does anyone like to go to the bathroom at work? I mean, really?

Maybe it's just me.

My place of employment is an octogenarian. In fact, I deem work Octogenarian. God bless the buiding in all its splendor, but damn the place is a crusty old man. With improper plumbing to say the least. My floor is the worst offender of the lot.

So how in the world can that make the bathroom at work better? It doesn't. We call Facilities at least once a day, and here's why.

In the not-to-distant past I was said bathroom during the early evening hours. And I was not alone. I hear footsteps on the cold, hard floor, then the lock clicks on the door two stalls down.

Fine. Great. Everthing's good.

Until mere moments later I hear a flush, the panicked scream, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..." There's the slam of a door opening and the clickety-clack of a guilty perp fleeing the scene.

Still in the prime of Summer I look down at my flip-flopped feet and see dirty bathroom water rushing towards me. It creeps along the floor at a record pace, daring me to remain untouched by the in-san-i-tary of it all.

Will I make it?

Will I survive?

More imporantly,
Why can't the building fix the god damn plumbing situation?!

Thanks to quick reflexes and the sweltering heat that put me in an easy cotton dress, I escape in one clean piece , but will remain forever in fear of Stall #2.

You can never go home.

You just can't. You might think you can but you're wrong.

I went to homecoming this past weekend. My college - Prayalot University - decided to host our 5 year reunion during homecoming, which kind of annoyed me because by this weekend we were really at 5 and a half years. I was asked to join the homecoming and reunions committee which I dutifully did, although I didn't actually do any of the work required. I just wanted it to say "Reunions Committee" under the "Hi my name is ExPage, B.A 2002" sticker I would be given. I volunteered to work the check-in table at the pre-game tent party, even though I had already payed $25 to go. Call me Super Alum. I checked in no one I knew. No one from my class showed up. Except the people I dragged.

The football game sucked. Don't they all? Well, at a D3 school they do. Right before the new Homecoming King and Queen were announced, I sat down with a former classmate of mine who was at the game with her 2 beautiful daughters. Maisie was 4 and Ashley Lou was 1. I informed Maisie that all the candidates for king and queen were fakes. Yours truly was the real king. I was homecoming king in 2000 with my beautiful queen - and now former roommate - Queen. I pointed out Queen to Maisie and informed her that in addition to me being the REAL king, Queen was the real queen. Maisie turned to her mother, and I kid you not, goes, "Mommy, I thought Jesus was King."

Prayalot University.

I took a gulp of the Coors Light that I had skillfully hidden in my back pocket, smiled, and went back to my perch on the bleachers.