I don't care what anybody says...

It was at New York and Company, my favorite store, that I found them. A whole rack of them tucked in and amongst a huge cluster of new arrivals. At first I thought they were a mirage.

Those can't be what they look like...can they?

But they were. Right here smack dab in the middle of 2008.

A whole entire rack of black leggings.

It's not like I haven't been warned. La Lohan has been at it for a year or more. And not in a good way. More like in a, "Holy sh!t, woman, put some pants on!" kind of way.

Somehow, still, I wasn't prepared to be confronted with leggings right here in P to the KY (word!). Because back in the day? I LOVED me some leggings. Seriously. You could make all KINDS of stuff work with a pair of black leggings underneath. Big blouses. Big blazers (or boyfriend jackets). Big sweaters. Heck, BIG TEE-SHIRTS. They could work with pumps (not the tee-shirts, the leggings, I'm not THAT crazy). They could work with boots (mmmm...boooots...).

And just like that? Me and the leggings? Somehow found ourselves in the dressing room together. Also? Cute little tunics. Because that's what you wear leggings with these days. Cute little tunics. The minute I pulled on those leggings and sunk into the long forgotten stretchy cotton goodness that are a good pair of black leggings (come back Express!) ? Ohh. People. Yes..YES...YES!!!

And suddenly? In my head? You know what it was, right? It was...



Remember? Back in the days before Madge was Madge and she had a real face and the faint traces of pit hair and a human belly with a hint of an actual pooch that she wasn't afraid to showcase in a video? Ah, yes. Those were the days. The halcyon, heady early days of the black legging.

So of course I bought them. AND a tunic. None of which was on sale (normally a big no-no in my world these days). [Disclaimer: They are NOT ankle-length. They are calf-length. Because ankle-length IS wrong.]

But the thing is? I had to.

...cause I know. They're gonna make everything all rye height.

Weekend in Review

I wrapped up the work week on Friday by getting a grant proposal to FedEx in just the nick of time. After that, it was a mad dash to my favorite local jeweler to pick up my remixed wedding diamond before the store closed for an extended summer vacation. Because a girl just can't be expected to leave a nice sparkler in the box for long, can she? This one can't, anyway.

I had the stone re-set in a two-tone bezel setting that slides on a white gold chain. I had thought the work would take weeks, but in true Bernard fashion, the work was finished in just a few days. This was both good news and bad news: good news in that that I could begin to enjoy it, bad news in that I was also going to have to pay for it sooner than expected.

Fortunately, my credit card is everywhere it needs to be (and a few places it doesn't). And Bernard, sensing my poor, poor recently divorced but still tragically fabulous vibe, made the whole thing a little more affordable before I ponied up. I'll post a photo soon; in my rush on Friday afternoon I left the camera in my office.

I know. I feel as though I've had an important appendage amputated.

The whole Friday situation left me feeling very parched and dehydrated--a raging thirst that could only be cured by something draft or bottle. Mostly draft in my case. This meant a call to my cousin, Christa, a certain Party Wave, and a night out that after an hour or so we knew had to include karaoke. This was, perhaps, all to be expected.

What we didn't bargain far is locating the long lost Neil from "Running With Scissors" also singing karaoke. I mean, we knew he ran away from Augusten Burroughs after their traumatic and ill-fated affair, but who would guess he would run to Ernie's Sports bar in Paducah, of all places? Apparently to sing overly sincere heavy metal rock ballads slightly off key to a sparse lukewarm crowd of drunks?

Just when you think you've seen it all.

Need a refresher as to what Neil looked like? Here you go:

I'd post a photo of him at Ernie's but, trust me, there is no need. He still looks exactly like his photo above. Spookily so.

Saturday found me at an early morning appt with my stylist, Amberly, and then off for a quick trip to the mall. What? I had a COUPON.

Saturday night was a !Sushi! bonanza.

I continue my Wii Fit odyssey. I haven't quite lived up to my perhaps over zealous 5x's a week commitment, but I am keeping at it regularly. I've lost TWO WHOLE pounds with a mere 10 more to go. I'm beginning to find my Wii trainer a bit addictive and the quest to best my last scores surprisingly motivating.

The fact that my workouts typically end with me jogging around in a circle in my living room while immobilizing my breasts by pressing them to my chest with my hands as the dog gallops confusedly (and loudly) along behind is just serves to up the fun factor a notch. Yes, friends, soon I may even be able to do a whole push-up.

An event so big it requires TWO blog posts.

Misbehaving at the reception. You'll appreciate the severity of the situation when I tell you it was still light and very early when this photograph was taken.

First dance to "At Last" by Etta James. You'll be happy to know I refrained from singing along (in a nasally Chicago accent like I did that one time).

The reception hall. That is the white rose petal chandelier you see in the center of that sea of Japanese lanterns. This photo, while lovely, does not do it justice.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you...The Cake. 'Nuff said.

I did mention there were Geishas, right? Lots and lots of them bearing trays of delicious Asian treats. But MOST importantly? Later on, they served Saki. Lots and lots of that too. Which was fortunate since I was in need of much Saki. Because it famously goes so well with Tequila.

Lastly, a Bizzyville Super-Snap for Jan pictured here (left in the tux) who is, for the most part, responsible for all the photos in this post (except this last one that I snapped during my final thirty seconds of sobriety).

They Did

Apologies for my tardiness getting this posted. At some point Saturday night, it seems, I decided that drinking my weight in tequila was a really, really good idea. And I weigh a lot these days, just ask the Wii B!tch (who I completely ignored all weekend).

This behavior, not surprisingly, had the effect of putting me totally out of commission for the whole of Sunday. Or as I began to refer to it, I was "In the nursing home." Being in the Nursing Home meant that I crept out of my darkened bedroom only for those essential items: Tylenol, Diet Coke, junk food (in very small doses). Usually during these tentative ventures, it somehow worked out better with only one eye open. And my hair. Oy. It gave "bed head" a whole new meaning.

I was released from the Nursing Home some time around 5 p.m. having acquired the ability to walk with both eyes open and tolerate a head band and spectacles. I was almost fully recovered by the time Design Star aired. (8:00 p.m.).

The par-tay responsible for my delicate condition was the commitment ceremony of Laura and Bianca held on Saturday night. It was a first-class event complete with Geisha's and a chandelier constructed entirely of white rose petals the likes of which, I'd venture a guess, most in attendance had never seen. Certainly I hadn't.

The ceremony itself was unexpectedly sweet, even for a jaded divorcee such as myself. And, if you're counting, this would be my third ceremony of amore this summer.

The whole event, formal as it was, forced me (twist my arm!) to acquire a new little black cocktail dress and sparkly strappy sandals. These items were, eventually, much much later that same evening, complimented by local fashion maven William Sledd who I finally met for the first time when we actually collided at the bar of a local watering hole.

We bonded when I offered to buy him a drink and he told me he preferred shots, so I dutifully ordered us up two shots of tequila because--oh heavens no--I hadn't had anywhere NEAR enough tequila by that point (some time passed 1:00 a.m.) on Saturday night.

After that? Things get a little fuzzy.

Whatever Happened To...

I was a little surprised tonight to find the face of the long-lost Debra Winger--aging but still prettily recognizable, her curly brown hair now shot with a bit of gray--staring back at me from the pages of this week's People Magazine.

Winger, you may or may not recall, made an abrupt departure from the movie industry at what was, arguably, the apex of her career. After huge successes with some of the biggest films of the 1980's and 90's like "Terms of Endearment", "Urban Cowboy", and "An Officer and a Gentleman", Winger walked away from it all and into a life of relative obscurity.

Leaving fans like me going...WTF? Come back! We love you Debra!

Winger's disappearance eventually inspired a documentary film released in 2002, "Searching for Debra Winger", written and directed by (another girl you gotta love) Rosanna Arquette. Arquette explores the age-old question of the choices and sacrifices women face in order to make it in the youth and beauty obsessed film industry. Apparently, Winger wasn't so pro on being told she needed to lose a few pounds or about having the quality and appearance of her skin rather than her actual acting ability determining her career options. Go figure.

And then there's the teensy little question of motherhood. According to Winger,

"Anyone that says having children isn't a sacrifice is pretty much lying or not taking care of their kids."

Sing it, sister.

Winger has two sons, Noah now 21 by first husband Timothy Hutton, and Babe, age 11, with current husband Arliss Howard.

According to the People story, Winger has resurfaced to promote her recently released memoir, "Undiscovered" a book that reflects on her years away from the spotlight. Here's an excerpt from the preface:

It is a beautiful spring day in May, and I am pruning my boxwoods. I planted them seven years ago with the intention of having a major topiary experience, but most years I find myself editing them to their most essential square. When pruning boxwoods, it is recommended that you not cut into the leaf. You must find the "Y" in the twig and cut it from there, otherwise you risk harming the shrub's growth. I find this small yet precise move, leading to a large overall effect, very familiar.

A dozen years ago the question of where I was going got louder than anything else in my head. My life had taken a certain trajectory into the world of films and stardom when I was quite young, and I hadn't stopped to question it. But in truth, it was like wanting a pony for your birthday and getting a big shiny merry-go-round instead.

Although I have participated in the odd film project here and there over the last twelve years, I had no real desire to hop back on that merry-go-round. I watched others as they grabbed for the golden ring and felt fine out in the country on my pony. It is a strange experience to be so in a certain world, and then not. I tried to imagine how to start anew.

I collected doors: odd ones from barns, farms, homes, and from my travels. I have dreamed of them in the forest, imagining myself walking through just the right one when I need a boost. I see them as thresholds to newness. Transformations can begin with a start.

Once, my friend and mentor James Bridges found me hiding under the covers, as I often did when I finished a job. I always felt that the roles I accepted must be inextricably linked to my life if I were to keep finding the passion to fuel each job. I had been to the desert making a film, and now everything in my life looked different. He quoted, "She took to her bed to lose her looks."

Charles Dickens, I think. It always made me smile. I could never quite decide if it was about the way the world looked at me or about the way I looked at the world.

I am always searching for the next door, the next role, the next change.

But right now I am pruning boxwoods, twelve to be exact, and I am wondering just how long it will take my mind to stop chattering and allow me to write. A fat red robin with the most laughably blue eggs in its nest is flying to the mud beneath the mailbox, hunting worms like letters from the earth. I want her to come and write this preface.

This morning in May, I am cutting boxwoods, pre-face and after-words on the threshold of my slender volume, with no instructions, directives, or map -- just a sort of pruning of a dozen years to their essential square

.
***


As a bonus, Winger assures People she's never had plastic surgery and never will. Says Winger, "There's too much money spent on it. They should have a bucket out there in L.A.: If you're tempted, just put your money in this bucket instead, and all those causes you love--we'll just send it."

Thought You'd Want to Know...

This isn't late-breaking news, but it's news at least I hadn't heard before. Apparently, the mainstream media has often failed to make much of the story because of the extremely objectionable language involved. Which is exactly why everyone needs to know that, according to a book by Cliff Schecter called "The Real McCain: Why Conservatives Don't Trust Him and Why Independents Shouldn't", McCain called his wife, Cindy, a c--t in front of a group of reporters back in 1992.

The story goes that McCain's wife playfully twirled his hair and said "You're getting a little thin up there," to which McCain replied,

"At least I don't plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you c*nt."

Nice.

Not everyone's ignoring the story. The incident inspired a video that is currently popular on You Tube called "He Said it First". Here's a version with the c-word censored:




I can't imagine why the press is suddenly too squeamish to report this story since, if memory serves, they gleefully recounted the story of what then president Bill Clinton did to Monica Lewinsky with a cigar on a daily basis at right around that same time.

I haven't seen this very widely reported...

Governor Beshear reverses a decision by Ernie Fletcher and reinstates a ban on discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation (for state hiring officials). The ban, originally signed into law by Paul Patton, was reversed by Ernie Fletcher.

"Experience, qualifications, talent and performance are what matter," Beshear said in a statement.

Go Steve! Get the full story here.

Baby Steps

So, you're welcome for the chuckle on me about my Wii age.

Apparently, the news that I'm physically sixty years old has amused a great many people, if my real life feedback is any indication.

And then there are my online commenters. Helpfully letting me know their own Wii ages are several decades south of my own. Oh no! Don't try and cheer me up! Really.

It seems to me I have two choices. And they are : 1) Do nothing and apply for Wii social security (and possibly, by then, Wii disability) in two years or 2) Get off my prematurely decrepit arse and train with the Wii B!tch as well as on my own.

After a lot of deliberation (and you know how I like to deliberate), I'm going with Option #2. It's a painful and very extreme choice, but it is the one I have made nonetheless. To this end, I am implementing some lifestyle changes that I'll be referring to here as "Baby Steps" or B.S. Pun intended. (And being the movie buff that I am, you know that any similarity to Dr. Marvin's "baby steps" program in "What About Bob?" is also completely intentional.)

Baby Step One is:

1. Replace my usual Blueberry Pop Tart breakfast with Kashi sticks-n-twigs cereal, skim milk, and fresh fruit.
While this is an extremely difficult adjustment for me, it is even worse news for a certain furry girl. Who wakes up every workday morning with a big smile on her chops and paces impatiently about the kitchen while she waits for the Big Event. Which, in this case, would be the moment I sit down at the dining table with my usual breakfast: hot buttered Blueberry Pop Tarts.

The ritual is for me to dispose of my unwanted crusts (which hello, Kellogg? nobody eats the crusts! time to develop a crust-free tart--it's only been forty years now!) by tossing them in an arc across the room and directly into her eagerly waiting gullet. Often the crusts are swallowed without even a cursory chew. And FurGirl is, by now, embarrassingly adroit at not letting a badly tossed crust hit the floor. Somehow, I just don't see her leaping her 88-lb butt around like a trained circus animal with quite so much bright-eyed, floppy-ear-bouncing gusto to catch an unwanted whole grain twig. Unfortunately, we'll be seeing about that.

Baby Step Two is:

2. Yah. Exercise. Thirty minutes a day. Five days a week.

So, I hope everybody's happy now. Here I am, a divorced virtual 60 year old with a soon-to-be depressed Golden Retriever (who is herself nearing age 49 in dog years) on her hands. But, I'll be fine! Don't worry about me. I'll just be here sucking on my Geritol and looking forward to the MacNeil Lehrer Report.

***

On a serious note...I'm afraid I simply can't post without at least mentioning the horrendously over done coverage on Tim Russert. Shades of my Ted Kennedy post, I think. Only this time? The subject was, so unfortunately, really dead.

For the record, I think Russert was probably just what he seemed: a great father, an outstanding journalist, a gifted debator and interviewer and, in a world where decent guys are fewer and farther between, an incredibly decent guy. He made a heck of a contribution. Certainly his death is news.

But, for the love of God, the hours and HOURS of coverage that were devoted to the story? Ridiculous. Again? Most of the "coverage" was NOT NEWS. The news was: Tim Russert died. And he was a great guy who will be missed. Everything else? Was just wallowing. Embarrassing wallowing, if you ask me. Hal Boedecker of the Orlando Sentinel summed it up nicely: "The self-indulgence was breathtaking."

And I'm going to go a step further. On into the realm of pure speculation because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want to. I think Russert himself would likely have found the coverage inappropriate.

Please, American media, stop embarrassing yourselves.

Wii Fit

Just as I was gearing up to begin, as threatened, the C25K program and thinking so hard about it that smoke was beginning to pour out my ears and the sight of tennis shoes and sweat bands--any tennis shoes and sweat bands--was triggering the faint fluttery beginnings of a panic attack in my chest, just right in the middle of all this pre-warm-up activity, the Wii Fit happens to me.

I ask you, who among us is not powerless against the mighty hand of fate?

Certainly not me. I've had no choice but to bow to the gale force winds of destiny, temporarily and very reluctantly shelve my pre-C25K plans, and begin a Wii Fitness routine. Which I did, if you can believe it, TODAY.

What's that you say? You don't believe me? Why, I can't imagine. Here is the Wii Me contemplating my first stamped work-out day:

Think my Wii Me is looking a little squishy? You'd be right. I may have, ahem, exaggerated my actual height when I initially created my virtual self. Today, during the preliminary phase of my first Wii work-out, I necessarily had to come clean about my actual height. It was a sad, sad moment as I watched my Wii Me slowly shrink down to a length that much more closely approximated my own. There was even a sad little shrinky sound effect. Or maybe that was just in my head. Anyway.

According to the relentless calculations of the Wii Fit, my "Wii Fit Age" is (brace yourselves) a startling sixty years old. Which, as we know, is a number that is decades and decades and decades (and decades) beyond my actual years.

I was so traumatized by this knowledge that I took the novel step of immediately picking a Wii trainer:

and then actually working out, banking a blistering fifteen wii minutes of work-out time toward my ambitious goal: not being a sixty-year-old anymore. Until I actually am one, anyway, which I don't know if I mentioned? Is DECADES away.

Other than all this trauma, my weekend has been lovely. I made chicken enchiladas on whim from a recipe I ran across in the July Real Simple. They turned out wonderfully (Arty) even if I do say so myself.

Of course, there has been shopping. But absolutely necessary shopping. My recently begun love affair with loose tea made it critical for me to buy the cutest teapot ever at TJ Maxx:

A girl just can't go on boiling her tea water in a sauce pan, for heaven's sake. And along with being cute, this one whistles and everything! Which makes me incredibly happy every time it happens.

SereniTea Now (Because girls just wanna have lunch.)

I've come across a new favorite lunch spot in Paducah. And those that know me well know that this doesn't happen very often. I'm a voracious luncher (all the best dish comes out at lunch, doesn't it?) and I have my favorite spots and they don't change real often.

However, a newly-opened and delightful exception is "SereniTea" owned and operated by Erin Coale. Located between Broadway and Jefferson on 5th Street in the imposing and statuesque old elk's lodge, SereniTea is a charming combination of girly eatery, shopping experience, and tea house.

Erin, a certified tea expert, features a different exotic loose-leaf perfectly brewed iced tea each day. Happily, these teas are also available for sale (just ask my debit card and refer to photo above--those are dried hisbiscus blossoms). On the menu you'll find a delicious daily quiche (asparagus, mushroom and sausage, veggie) or chicken or tuna salad or luscious tiny individual ham and cheese sandwiches on biscuits--your choice served with a bit of fresh fruit on the side.

And don't pass up the homemade dessert--today it was strawberry shortcake--the real deal--with flat sugared shortcake (like God intended), ice cream, fresh strawberries and spanked heavy cream. Heavenly, I assure you.

After lunch, you can meander through an eclectic selection of gifts, soaps, candles, candies, teas, and tea accoutrement in the breezy historic space that features mega-high original stamped tin ceilings and all the early 20th century trimmings.

For the little girl in your life, Erin has a room set aside for tiny tea parties complete with a roomy but miniature table and chairs, itsy bitsy tea sets, and a selection of munchkin sized wide brimmed hats and feather boas. Just the thing to inspire the younger set to appreciate the ritual and brush up on their "pleases" and "thank-you's". And make big girls hearken back wistfully to their own tea parties and simpler times. And go all sigh-y. Over that pink tea set with the black polka dots in particular.

But since you can't go back, or even fit your finger through the handle of that tiny tea cup, you need to grab your girlfriend and your debit card and seize the day by stopping on in to Serenitea Tea House for some lunch and that long overdue big girl chat.

Open Tuesday-Saturday 10:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
121 N. 5th Street
270-450-0749
serenitea.tea@gmail.com

Tell Erin I sent ya.

'Cmon! You know you want to know...

(Some facts about me, the Chihuahua:)

Your single most amazing trait, dah-ling, is that you are charming and gregarious and gorgeous and lively. Oops! That was more than one. No worries, dear, it wouldn't be the first time the rules have been bent for you! Your charisma, combined with the fact that you can really dish out a good yap when push comes to shove, means you have no problem putting on the dog in order to get what you want. But it's not all about you! N-n-n-n-no-ooo! You simply adore your best friend and love your family to pieces, enjoying every precious little teeny tiny moment you spend together. And children? Well, you love the idea of them, but don’t necessarily need them hounding you day and night, right? Come now, honey, let's face it- children just do not appreciate a good sweater.

***

Take the quiz and leave your breed in the comments or leave a link and post in your blog. We'll discuss.

Traumatized

Gopher. Mary-Anne. Horshack. The Fonz. Nellie Oleson. JJ Evans Jr. Laverne and Shirley. Beaver Cleaver. Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche.

If they're a TV star of yore and they still have a pulse, they were likely at the TV Land Awards, and, inexplicably, often hoisted above the crowd on a steel cable. (You tell me.) My apologies for furnishing a link to the photos. It's like you don't want to know, but you can't help yourself.

Oh, also inexplicably featured: Vanessa Williams floating on the aforementioned steel cable above the stage as the cast of has-beens wave around what look to be flashlights made to look like...I don't know...torches, maybe? Seriously.

Design Fever

I spent the weekend in a shopping and decorating lather. The wooden retro shelf pictured here was bought for a song from from the local Surplus City. What do I consider a song? FIVE dollars in this case. (Take that Decor Direct Girl!) It was the last of its kind in the store and the display sample to boot. I could hardly believe my luck.

Looking at that photo really kicks up my OCD, because it looks a little out of kilter. The crookedness is caused entirely by the way I was holding the camera though, it's actually totally level and currently sitting atop my stereo speaker although I have plans to wall mount it soon. I had to merchandise it (Christopher Lloyd) before I could assign it a permanent space on the wall.

My second find was this groovy retro-style night stand:

I'm using it as a coffee table and I'm thrilled with the way it blends stylistically with The Couch, not to mention the additional storage space the two large deep drawers add to my living room situation. FINALLY a place for my remote controls (they currently number four). Total price? Thirty-five dollars, also at Surplus City.

Having spent most of the weekend in the design mode, you can only imagine my shock to learn a mere hour ago that the premiere episode of Season 3 of HGTV's design star was TONIGHT. But for an extremely luckily-timed perusal of the guide, I wouldn't have seen it at ALL. Fortunately, I caught the show only five minutes in. (Whew.) The whole season looks to have been filmed in, of all places, NashVegas, practically right in my own ding dang back YARD.

HOW, I ask you, oh how did I not know this? I'm slippin', that's for sure. This whole having a job thing is seriously cutting into the online reindeer games. (Not that I'm complaining. I really do love my job.)

Obviously, I will likely not spend as much time recapping the show this summer as I did last. But, still, Season 3 looks at least as promising a Seasons 1 and 2 AND the first challenge looks pretty amazing.

The contestants (nine of them) were given a budget $100,000 and what looks to be a pile of lumber and a some army cots and sleeping bags. Their assignment? Build the design headquarters in which they will be living for the remainder of the competition. Yah. Good one. Mean time, the design star wanna-be's will be sleeping al fresco at the construction site until the structure is complete. Time limit for the challenge? One week. I can't even imagine.

If you missed tonight's episode, you can easily catch up here , meet all the contestants and view their audition videos. My preliminary favorite is Matt Locke, a thirty-eight-year-old from Colorado who blew the judges away with his elaborately engineered design board. But, as we know, there's no telling how the whole thing will end up. Tune in next Sunday on HGTV at 8:00PM CST.

Speaking of design competitions, I'm actually switching from Com-shaft Cable to DirecTV in order to finally be able to experience Season 5 of Project Runway on my very own couch. Although I'm finding it very difficult to find any info on the upcoming season, I do understand that episode one will air sometime in July, so for once, no more waiting around for the DVD's to be issued...woohoo!

I have managed to find some rather strange, even sometimes cryptic videos from a Latin designer who may or may not have been cast in Season 5. I suppose it could be a hoax. You can see the shortest video here.

C25K

I've been reading Carrie's journal since, I don't know, before her oldest child was born. I think he's seven now. Man. That's just freaky, isn't it? I don't remember how I stumbled upon the site. And, honestly, I don't know what keeps me going back. Don't get me wrong, Carrie is a fine writer, but in the end I have very little in common with her. Carrie is younger than me, more conservative, and a stay-at-home Mom. It's funny how you can get drawn into someone's life, isn't it? One compelling entry and seven years later there you still are. Or there I still I am anyway.

Carrie has given birth to two little boys in the last seven years and, in the process, like many of us, put on some weight. For the last year, she's been committed to a faithful diet and exercise regime and, as of now, has lost a total of 100 pounds.

You can experience her transformation and see her before and after and some in-between pictures at her photo set here. Be sure and observe the last photo in the set. I'm not sure you could tell she's the same person if you compare her today to some of her pre-weight loss photos.

Carrie's entre to the running world, like that many others, was the Couch to 5K Program. If you've been living under a rock and never heard of it, Couch to 5K or C25K, is an extremely gradual progression of jogging/walking work-outs designed to take even the most inactive of couch potatoes to a place where they can complete a 5K run in eight weeks.

I've been flirting with the idea of comitting myself to C25K for quite some time. As I told my girlfriend when we are at the theater to see SATC, "I've been thinking about that Couch to 5K Program..." And, when my friend looked at me expectantly, I finished, "...I think I'll just keep thinking about it."

It was good for a laugh.

But seeing Carrie's photos tonight, and knowing how much self-discipline and determination it's taken her to buckle down and lose a hundred pounds, makes me feel guilty. Guilty about the extra measly twenty pounds I've been gaining and losing and, often, ignoring since I quit smoking seven years ago.

So, yah, I am now beginning to think seriously about giving the program a try. It just might be time for me to take a big girl pill. In order to become a smaller (healthier) girl again.

Don't expect any unflattering let-it-all-hang-out photo sets out of me.

But I'll keep you posted.

egOprah

I'll just go ahead and confess right now that I got my toes done yesterday.

Not only that? I got my toes done before vacation too.

The truth is that I'll probably get my toes done again this summer. And I'll keep getting them done until the weather turns too chilly for open-toed shoes.

Not that I can afford it or anything.

I'm a recent convert to the pedicure. Recent as in the last couple of years or so. The truth is, crazy as it sounds, I used to think that sitting in a throne-like chair and thrusting your feet into the face of a stranger and paying them to massage your feet and clip and paint your toenails was just all...a little too much, you know? It just seemed so bourgeois and a little icky.

And it seemed that way right up until I sat in a throne like chair and thrust my feet into the face of a stranger and they massaged my feet and shaped and painted my toenails. After that I was all,

"AHHHH SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE AT LAST I'VE FOUND YOOOOOUUUU! AT LAST I KNOW THE MEANING...."

You get my drift. I know of no other beauty process that is quite so enjoyable. I mean, getting your hair cut and styled makes you feel a whole lot better in the end, but the process is kind of boring and annoying and sometimes even painful. An eyebrow wax? Please.

But a pedicure? It's all pleasurable and soothing and relaxing and in the end? REALLY cute soft, sexy feet. Not to mention greatly expanded shoe options: peep-toes, flat sandals, strappy high heeled sandals, even bare feet look snazzy when your toes are "done".

And, yah, I could do it myself and, yah, they'd look just as cute but. A girl just has to reward herself sometimes, doesn't she? And even if I do get arrested for accidentally writing a bad check to the pedicurist, I ask you, how cute will my feet look in those prison flip-flops?

[Note to self: Call the ex-man and tearfully suggest he subsidize Pedicure Recovery Program in order to help restore my shattered self-esteem and quash my extreme loneliness since the big D. All of which is, as he well knows, totally his fault. It could happen.]

Okay where was i? Oh, right, The pedicure. Which isn't, if you can believe it by now, not actually my point.

My point is this. Ever since I've been getting pedicures, I've noticed next to every pedicure throne is, among other publications, a copy of Oprah Winfrey's "O, the Oprah Magazine" placed conveniently on the side table for my reading pleasure. And the first time, I was all like, "Hey! That's Oprah! Oh...it's her magazine!" and then I read it nearly cover to cover while getting my pedicure and it was all good.

Next pedicure? Same thing. At first I was, "Oh, darn, it's the same magazine. With Oprah on the cover. Again." Still, I picked it up thinking there may have been an article or two I missed last time around only to realize...no. This is a whole new issue. With Oprah on the cover. Again.

The third time? I was prepared. And beginning to grasp the truth. Which is that Oprah is on. The Cover of. Every. Single. Issue. Of her magazine.

How long has this been going on? Well, there's this year. And last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And, don't get me wrong. I like Oprah. Girlfriend is nothing short of a phenomenon and she has, through her book club, almost single-handedly resurrected the ancient past time of actual READING OF BOOKS for legions of people who never would have considered it otherwise. Her charity work is amazing. And her show still often manages to be interesting even if she is sort of turning into a caricature of herself ("Everybodygetsacar! Everybodygetsacar!").

But every issue? EVERY issue? For EIGHT YEARS?

Not even Martha Stewart currently feels or has felt the need for that kind of monotonous one-note overexposure. Does Oprah really think that if she relinquishes a cover that people will forget it's her magazine? Or that they might forget what she looks like?

Not likely on either count.

No, I'd go so far as to say that even if Oprah never appeared on another cover of "O the Oprah Magazine" people would still be pretty clear the "O the Oprah Magazine" is a magazine belonging to Oprah. With an O.

So, Oprah, if you're reading? And, like everybody else, I'm sure you are, it's okay. You can step off the cover now, okay? We see you, we know you're out there! Yes we do! We're aware it's your magazine, too! Really.

Maybe you could offer your bestest, goodest girlfriend, Gail, with whom you invented the Life-Changing Girlfriend Road Trip and then proceeded to ram the whole experience down our throats as if nobody had never taken or considered a Girlfriend Road Trip, a cover. As, you know. A Life-Changing Girlfriend Gift!

But however you have do it, Oprah, do it soon. Because enough is enough, already.

(Maybe you could reallocate all the time necessary for hair and make-up for a cover shoot for a nice, relaxing pedicure. I'm just sayin'.)

Bill Strikes Back

On the heels of the Todd Purdom piece in July's Vanity Fair that I linked to a few days ago, the Clinton Camp issues a bit of a defensive response. Seems they're taking it personal-like. Get the scoop at Ben Smith's Blog.

SATC: The Review

Somebody (thank you!) reminded me that I sorta dropped the ball on the big Sex and the City premiere this weekend. I did hit the theater on Friday night, as promised, sans hat (of any kind), and having indulged in a fruity girl drink (but just one--no more riding around toting open beers and half drunk margaritas in my bicycle basket. damnit. i miss u key west!).

I'm happy to report that the theater was packed to the brim with scads of girlfriends half of whom were saving seats with their big purses for their girlfriends yet to arrive (or in the girls room). SUCH a girl thing. (Does a guy ever save a seat for another guy? No. And...even if he wanted to? What would he use? His wallet? I think not. Please make me stop with the parentheses.)

Anyway, the movie. Was...okay. The quality and content was for the most part on a par with the TV show. At times, not so much, but it has to be a bit harder, after all, to write witty repartee to fill two plus hours as opposed to thirty minutes. And anyway, nothing was going to live up to the hype. Unless SJP were to, I don't know, actually shit a Manolo Blahnick in the middle of 5th Avenue. Which...not to spoil it for you, but that doesn't happen in the film.

It was wonderful to see all the girls back together again and fun to be among a large crowd of enthusiastic women (and about three gay guys) who spontaneously cheered and applauded upon seeing the opening credits. The clothes were mostly divine and I don't think it's a spoiler to say there are positively scrumptious wedding dresses featured from the world's top designers. At the center of the story are some watered silk royal blue Manolo pumps with jewel encrusted buckles that are. To. Die. For. I'm beginning to tear up at the memory of them.

On the other hand? Also prominently featured was the dreaded gladiator sandal. God, what is WRONG with people? I don't care what anybody says, this is a dreadful fashion trend and not, in my opinion, flattering on the spindliest of gams. These shoes nearly made SJP's spaghetti noodle legs look beefy and you know that's saying something.

If you're not sure what shoe I refer to, here's a sample:

Gag me. Seriously.

It brings to mind my violent aversion to the El Camino...thing back in the day. I mean...was it a car or a truck?

In the case of the gladiator...is it a boot or a sandal? A soot or a bandal? It looks as though it USED to be a boot or a sandal. Before the nuclear holocaust. But now? Now it's something in between. Something horribly wrong. It's a new strain of mutant shoe. And, God help us, it seems to be spreading.

But I digress. Overall, I recommend the Sex and the City the movie just for the sheer fun of it because we all need a heapin' helpin' of over-the-top fashion (with the exception of the GS) and sex now and then. I mean, you gotta go, right?

But have a cosmopolitan or some-such fruity drink with your girlfriend(s) before the show and buy your ticket online ahead of time so you won't be rushed. Then you can snicker at all the poor sods in line like we did.

[Editors note: More spacing issues at the beginning of this post. ARGH! Damn you blogger double-space glitch! Damn you to hell!]

What's Up with Bill Clinton

Do NOT miss reading this fascinating piece on Bill Clinton by Todd Purdom in the July issue of Vanity Fair. "The Comeback Id" takes a look at Clinton's jet setting lifestyle, his health, his philanthropic work, his post-presidential financial dealings, and his sometimes volatile outbursts on the campaign trail stumping for his wife. Love him or hate him, (and I fall firmly into the love category), Clinton is one fascinating character. Read the piece right here.