You Know Your Schedule is Out of Control When...

...you actually plan to take a meeting while in the shower.

I was joking when I suggested that between the gym and my first meeting of the morning, the only time I had to meet with my boss was while showering. I thought she'd joke back that I could forego the shower and go to my first meeting ripe with the fresh scent of my morning run. But no, the joke she shot back was so much more insidious in its thug-like ability to instantly hijack the only moment of serenity in an otherwise psychotically busy day.

Tomorrow's post-workout inventory? Shampoo...check. Shower gel...check. Boss standing outside the door with a cup of coffee shouting strategy over the sound of rushing water as I wash my hair? Check me into the funny farm, because that's just crazy.

I'll Have The Pessimist Special, Please

How is it you can see a friend in the next town twice a year and never miss them, but let them move two time zones away and you miss them before they've even reached the interstate?

Carlye and I went to Whiskey Park to say goodbye to Jeremy before he leaves for his next assignment. We didn't hang out all that often, but we could have -- anytime -- and I guess that's what makes this so hard. As long as he lived and worked a jog away, we were okay not hanging out every weekend. Now that the option requires a week of leave and a three-hundred-dollar plane ticket, I'm kicking myself a little.

*sigh*

So many goodbyes in this line of work. Just when the roommates and coworkers and bosses all balance perfectly, someone has to go and ruin it by moving on with their life. That's when the good times and best friends start to roll away from me and all it takes is one rainy day with bad traffic to make me wonder why the hell I got into this in the first place.

I suppose I could just be thankful I have so many good people to miss, but...nah. That'd be too easy.

I Wonder If He Offers Financing...

I went to see Mr & Mrs Smith last night and left pondering one preoccupying observation. It has nothing to do with the almost too-quippy dialogue, the cheatin'-husband behind-the-scenes drama or the sizzling sexual chemistry and lightning fast action. None of these are anything but distractions from the movie's singularly profound revalation; that Angelina Jolie beat the odds the become the genepool lottery's biggest jackpot winner of all time.

Face it -- there's no woman in America who wouldn't want to be her and there's no heterosexual man in America who wouldn't want to do her, and chances are there's a huge number of either gender who'd donate a favorite appendage to attain both.

What is truly astounding is that most of what makes her so perfect is impossibly real (and as far as I know, impossible to replicate in silicone), and therefore must be the result of the blessedly generous DNA mix of her rather ordinary looking (and in Voight's case, I'm being kind) parents.

How does
  +  
= ?

I have seen thousands of less attractive people result from far more portentous unions. The odds that left the rest of us with Aunt Rose's big thighs, Grandpa's giant schnoz, or dad's second cousin's chicken lips suddenly converged in divine harmony over the zygote that would be Jolie and blessed her with better than the best of what both parents had to offer. The rest of us are left sucking in our cheeks and pouting our lips at our arbitrarily unexceptional reflections, wondering if plastic surgery could advance to the full-facial transplant stage in our lifetime.

The only explanation I can imagine is the one I use to rationalize Madonna's Billboard longevity, Bill Gates' technological clairvoyance and Richard Gere's entire film career. I believe she made a deal with the devil in exchange for her immortal soul somewhere around 8 or 9, just before her first documented red-carpet appearance. I believe before that, she was a stringy-haired, muddy-complected, myopic fat kid who made it clear to the nether-powers-that-be she'd do anything to be hotter than Elizabeth Taylor, Brigitte Bardot, and Marilyn Monroe all smushed together. She bartered eternal damnation for a lifetime of pillow-lipped, sloe-eyed, feline sexual power, and the man downstairs saw an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

I'm telling you, it's the only truly plausible answer; even the devil wants to do Angelina Jolie.

If Art is Life I Want My Money Back

It is Day 3 of the interminable misery known as The Diet, and I confess I'm a little crankier than normal. In an attempt to distract ourselves from the pain gnawing at our guts, Carlye and I popped in "Little Black Book", which I picked up at the gas station of all places (it was a long wait, so it was that or the peanut butter cups).

It's a typical story, although made infinitely more watchable by Brittany Murphy's gravely giggle and -- I can't believe I'm even thinking this -- ultimate believability. It's not an ingenious plot; Girl meets boy, girl suspects boy is cheating, Girl stalks boy's attractive ex-girlfriends, two-thirds of whom are narcissistic, neurotic, delusional or all of the above. Girl bonds with token "cool and easygoing" ex, thereby creating much pathos when Girl's blunders are gleefully exposed on a Springer-format talk show hosted by a downward-trending Kathy Bates in Sally-Jessie drag.

In the end, the Girl doesn't get the boy. She doesn't even get the backup boy, her college sweetheart whom she bumps into after the dust settles. Despite being married to a very pregnant lady, he still finds it in his heart to tenderly touch Girl's hair and tell her sagely, "Go find your happiness." So she drives purposefully off into the New York autumn sunset. Just not with a guy.

Instead, she lands her dream job with Diane Sawyer, a pretty poorly disguised attempt at subverting the patriarchal monopoly of "happy ever afer" endings. I didn't buy it. Only a man hater or a lesbian would suggest that Prince Charming and broadcast journalism are interchangeable, and Girl was definitely neither of these.

Shit, if I wanted an ending with no lover and a messy, open-to-interpretation ending, I'd just watch my own life for a change.

Weight Loss Program Promotes Oral Sex

Why else would "beaver" be listed among the food groups? And at 1 point per serving, which I don't really understand. Is that 1 point per beaver or per meal? Do the points increase with larger beavers? And what if the dieter doesn't swallow?

I think it's time I wrote Weight Watchers a letter. Between that and the unpardonable lack of cinnamon rolls on the menu, it's time for some answers.