Five things I keep forgetting to tell you and Happy Birthday, Mom!

1. I’ve drunk the iPhone 4 Kool-Aid and it’s delicious! You may recall my complaining about the HTC HD2 phone (a.k.a. piece-o-shit brick) I got right before my trip in May. Well, after spending literally hours on the phone with tech support, I was finally able to get out of my contract with t-Mobile. I really wanted to stay with them; I was quite happy and never had any problems. I felt like I was breaking up with a boyfriend who was nice enough, but who I simply outgrew. Yes, I know you’re trying, but you’re just not keeping up with me.

OMG, the iPhone 4 rocks. There is no comparison on speed and ease of use. That said, if anyone is interested in buying a barely used HTC HD2 complete with the car plug-in battery charger thing, I have one I’d love to sell.

2. I saw a woman in a burka in Kohl’s. She scared the crap out of me and I’m afraid I visibly jumped. I’m glad we didn’t make eye contact because I think I would have burst into tears. As much as some days I wish I could don one of those ultimate fat-hiders, my heart breaks for the women under all that cloth.

3. The Higher Elevations jewelry website is back up and running. Soon after I added the link to the column at left, my friend Susan Doherty (who I’m staying with while I’m back east) did some upgrades to her site and had to shut it down for a while. But it’s humming now—check it out! She makes beautiful stuff—nobody ever notices my chicken skin neck when I’m wearing one of her creations.

4. I still love Facebook! I have both a personal profile and my Bastard Husband page. A few weeks ago I heard from a distant cousin who’s living in New Zealand (!) and who I haven’t seen in probably close to 40 years. So cool.

Here's my current profile pic of me and my grandson, Connor, taken a couple of weeks ago when I arrived at the Albany airport from Las Vegas. He's on his tip-toes--not quite as tall as me yet.

(Twitter, however, can still kiss my ass.)

5. The deadline for your How Am I Normal? submission is upon us. I’ve gotten some fantastic stories of nutty childhoods—this is going to be a fun book! If you don’t quite have your act together, but would really like to submit a story, email me and let me know when you think you’ll have it ready by. Full submission guidelines are here.

And finally…

Happy Birthday, Mom! Yep, today DeeDee Idaho is 76. I don’t even know where the hell she is—somewhere in Montana, I think. After suffering with agoraphobia and spending years sacked out on the couch, she’s making up for lost time! Last time I talked to her, she was telling me of her plans to go whitewater rafting. Jesus H.

YOU can be on the Oprah show!

I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed the Be on the Show link on Oprah.com. Like comedians and bloggers, Oprah’s always on the prowl for material and turns to her viewers to help her out.

I check the link now and then, and a couple of years ago I submitted a story that actually got some attention. They were looking for women who dress inappropriately for their age and I came up with some kind of funny b.s. response, probably on a Friday night after my second beer. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I’m sure it had to do with Vegas cleavage, short skirts and vampy heels not typically seen on grannies.

Several months later I got an email from one of Oprah’s producers wanting to coordinate a time for a phone interview. I talked to her soon after and, upon her request, sent a picture of myself. Evidently I wasn’t inappropriate enough—I never heard anything more. Or maybe they canned the story idea, thinking it was more suited to Jerry Springer.

Anyway, right now Oprah’s Be on the Show page is asking (in capital letters!) “IS THERE A CELEBRITY YOU’D LOVE TO MEET?”

Um, helloooo… Beverly d’Angelo! I was saving this as one of my goals for 2011, but hell, the opportunity is presenting itself right now and I’m gonna jump on it. Yes, it’s time I get serious about meeting my celebrity girl-crush, and so I’m drafting a little “Please, Oprah! Pick me!” plea for consideration. I haven’t quite put it together yet, but I’m definitely going to mention my Beverly d’Angelo fridge magnets that a friend made out of bottle caps. And I’m thinking the ending will look something like this:

I know I should want to meet someone intelligent and influential, like Margaret Thatcher or Kelly Ripa, but do I hope you select my entry. My only alternative is to feign a serious illness and appeal to the Make-a-Wish adult division. Meeting Beverly on the Oprah show would be so much easier, and I wouldn’t have to shave my head. Though I totally will, if that’s what it takes.

Can you imagine if I got to meet Bev? I swear, I’ll jump on Oprah’s friggin’ couch! Keep your fingers crossed!

Now take a look at Oprah’s site and tell me—are there any opportunities for you to be on the show? If so, go for it!!!

Crossing the line: what kind of humor do you find offensive?

A couple of weeks ago I saw the new documentary, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work. Remember? That was the night I tried to charge the couple next to me the price of admission because they talked through the whole damn movie.

I absolutely loved that film. I saw it by myself, but it's a great date movie because it presents many points for discussion (afterward, not during).

I have tremendous respect for Joan Rivers; she was a groundbreaking female comic who held her own among the big boys in what continues to be a male-dominated playground. As Kathy Griffin says at one point, “There’s literally a handful of women who have done this.”

Kathy Griffin. Oy. I'll save her for another time.

Admittedly, Joan Rivers can be funny as hell; there are many laugh-out-loud moments in the film. But I'm not a huge fan because I often think she's mean-spirited. Sometimes she's positively vicious on the red carpet, and in her stand-up act as well, like when she cracks the line, “Gay men are proud of their excessive body hair… like Madonna’s daughter.”

Yikes--do you really have to pick on a 13-year-old kid?

I was telling my friend Susan about this. Her response was, "So that's where you draw the line, huh? Jokes about kids?"

Hmmm, I guess so. I didn't even know I had a line. I have a pretty high tolerance, especially for the politically incorrect. Polish, Italian, Jewish, Canadian, Irish, b-l-a-c-k... I've laughed heartily at jokes about them all, I'm not gonna lie. Bad language? Please. There's only one word I would never use (it's something you can say on TV, but I hate it), but God knows everything else has rolled off this tongue.

So why do I think Joan Rivers is a bully when it comes to Madonna's daughter, yet only right now as I'm writing this do I realize that line also cracks on gays, which evidently is not bothering me a bit? Do I have such a high tolerance because I'm not gay, or old enough, or fat enough, or have enough of any ethnic blood to take offense? BTW, I never do material like that when I perform; as you probably know, I'm more the self-deprecating type. (But I'm not above laughing at it.)

Humor is so subjective, no? I know I've said things right here that some people found offensive and others found hysterical--remember my great idea for a reality show? I guess we all have our tipping point.

So where do you draw the line? When a joke is no longer a joke?

Reason #427 why I make an awesome co-worker

So the other day I got a rug burn. At work.

I'd better explain.

I think I told you I absolutely adore my three coworkers in the little subdivision of our cube farm. Well, Thursday morning out of nowhere I was overcome by a Kumbaya moment.

“I just want you to know, I love working with you guys,” I said.

They all looked at each other like, WTF? and then Mr. Mockery sitting across from me deadpanned, “I wish we could say the same.”

Bah-ha-ha!

Minutes after my “I love you, man!” outburst, I went to spring out of my seat, except one of my 4-inch Vegas heels got caught under my chair and I ended up taking a nosedive to the floor. We all lost it. I swear, I haven’t laughed that hard since my sister Lori saw Helen Keller’s breast. My only regret is that I wasn’t wearing a skirt.

Just a couple of weeks ago we were all talking about how funny it is when you see someone fall and you're biting the sides of your mouth as you try to appear sincere when you ask, “Are you okay?” Yeah, I know that sounds mean, but admit it—you do it too, right? As long as the person isn’t elderly or bleeding all over the place, seeing someone fall is freakin’ hysterical.

Thanks to the rug burn on my middle finger (a.k.a. "my driving finger"), I was reminded of my fall all day. Every time I looked down at my keyboard, I started laughing again like an idiot. It's okay if you remember something funny while sitting alone in your cubicle, but sometimes the memory haunts you at an inappropriate time, like when you’re in a meeting with your boss or a friend is telling you about somebody who died or has a serious health problem and all you can think is, “Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.”

Terrible. I should be embarrassed, but no--you have to be able to laugh at yourself or you have no right making fun of others.

Lucky for me, I’m a gold mine of material; I have too many embarrassing moments to keep track of. Marching down the hall from the ladies room at GE with the back of my dress tucked into my underwear was certainly a highlight. Then once at my last job a friend made me laugh unexpectedly, causing a string of spit to hang from my lower lip for what seemed to be eternity until it landed on my desk. Evidently I had a pool of saliva collecting in my mouth just waiting for the perfect moment to escape. Thank God I have a sturdy bladder.

At any rate, my new cube mates no doubt think I’m mental. But I am pretty damn entertaining. And that, my friends, is reason #427 why I make an awesome co-worker.

Check out this video of Courtney performing

There's nothing that brings me more joy than watching my kids perform their music--you know that! Here's a video I took of my daughter, Courtney, performing last month at Mabee Farms Historical Site in Rotterdam Junction, NY. What a cool venue.

Court writes her own music. This one's called "World of Mine." That's her fabulous and talented husband, John Rice, accompanying her. Sorry about the quality of the video--I have a lot to learn. A LOT.



She doesn't get her voice from me, that's for sure! When they were younger, my kids used to say my voice is like sound of an ironing board opening.

Courtney's still working on her website, but if you're in the Albany area and need a singer for a wedding, coffeehouse gig, or other event, you can contact her here. I was in some airport recently (can't remember which one) that had a folk singer entertaining travelers and I thought that would be perfect for her.

Yep, I have a million ideas for other people; meantime, I should be focusing on marketing my own book. Isn't it so much easier to tell other people what they should be doing?

So proud.

"Cars I Have Loved, Men I Have Wrecked"

That should be the title of my next book, huh?

Oh, man--I can’t tell you how much I LOVE my new Scion! I am so diggin’ tooling around town and country in that little thing. And here I thought I could never love another car as much as my 1996 Saturn. (Did you watch the video I posted on Saturday? The car’s a giver!)

One of the cars I seriously considered buying was a Nissan Versa. One of my friends has one, and I rented a Versa during a trip to the Northeast last March. They’re cute, which of course, is what I look for in a car. Same with clothes, shoes, and men.

Anyway, last week I rented a Versa while I was in Vegas. I sincerely hope I don’t offend anyone who drives one, but I’m so glad I ended up with a Scion. My Scion handles much better, you sit a little higher, and it’s much more fun to drive. But the worst thing about the Versa was the air conditioner never got cool enough. At first I thought, okay, it’s 113 degrees—maybe I’m expecting too much. But then I was like, hold on, my Saturn never had a problem like that.

It was pure luck, or maybe divine intervention, that led me to my new Scion. I decided to buy a car during one of my famous breakups with Mike. Bad timing. I should never make any decision on my own—even "paper or plastic?" is tough for me.

Anyway, after a little research, instead of a Versa I decided I was going to buy a used Scion xA, but I still wasn't sure because that xA model is really, really tiny and I was beginning to think it would be too small for my upcoming cross-country trip.

That night after work I sat at my dining room table thinking, “Oh, for Christsakes, Linda, just make a freakin’ decision and buy the damn car." The nice lady at CarMax had phoned me earlier in the day, but I ignored her call because I was still on the fence. Finally I decided to just freakin' go for it and call her, and when I picked up my phone, I saw there was a voice message from Mike. I hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of weeks, and I didn’t expect to hear from him. You can only break up with somebody so many times, you know? I called him back and told him about the car situation.

He insisted it would be smarter to buy a new Scion and offered to go with me to the Toyota dealer to check them out, but he was tied up that night. I was antsy and in a car-buying mood, so I went to the Auto Mall myself. The new xD model was bigger than the xA and super cute and my sales guy seemed really honest, so I bought one right then and there.

I love it, I love it, a million times over. And I’m SO glad I bought a brand new car instead of the smaller used model.

A week or so after I picked it up, Mike came over to check it out.

"Isn't it cute?" I gushed.

"It looks like a hearse for midgets," he said.

I smacked him for insulting my adorable new car, but it was clearly a love tap.

I must have thought a million times last week that it's a good thing I called him back that night. Besides ending up with a vehicle I wouldn't be so thrilled with, I would have had cut short a relationship that I'm also very thrilled with. No more breakups. (I know, famous last words... but I'll keep up my end.)

Bear with me as I say it more time: "The universe unfolds in divine order."

Last day in Vegas and my beloved Saturn is a martyr!

Oh, dammit--it's my last day in Las Vegas. I've had an incredible time here, mostly just hanging out with Mike. We watched four movies together, I made a pan of lasagne (which we've been eating all week), we took two trips to Ben & Jerry's, went to see some blues Thursday night... nothing special, but it's all been very special.

It's going to be hard to leave him tomorrow morning. Just look at this hunk of man!


And here I am with my typical cheesy picture face.


My trip was scheduled around a speaking engagement on Thursday, which had been on my calendar for months. A woman who saw my show back in March asked me to talk to her group. What a fantastic bunch of gals! And I sold a ton of books, which was awesome. I have to get line up more gigs like that--I LOVE to speak and it's truly the easiest way to get my book in people's hands. I've already heard from one woman who said she read it in one night--I love that!

Speaking of books, I hope you're planning to submit to my How Am I Normal? anthology. Don't worry if you don't feel like you're a polished enough writer--all I'm looking for is a funny story about your crazy childhood. I'll edit your piece, so don't fret. The 8/1 deadline is approaching! Check out the full submission guidelines at my www.agingnymphsmedia.com site.

I got to visit with a few of my friends while I'm here in Vegas. Not all, though. I didn't want to overschedule myself; I really wanted to focus on my relationship with Mike. Plus I'll be back for good soon enough. But you know I'd never leave town without seeing my former cubicle cellmate and 25-year-old BFF, Joe. Can I say one more time how much I love that kid?

Rremember how I sold Joe my beloved Saturn for $300 after I bought my new Scion? I was psyched to have the car stay in the family, but it looks like it's almost time for it to move on to the big Saturn heaven in the sky. Take a look at this video we made.



A while back Joe and I made a video of just the two of us having a goofy conversation. It's really funny, but long--I'll have to figure out how to edit it and break it into segments.

Anyway, it's all been wonderful. Life is good.

Pics around Green Valley

If you've never been to Las Vegas, you might be surprised to know that the Strip sits in a valley surrounded by mountains. I'm always amazed at how beautiful a simple trip to the grocery store is here. Yesterday I was driving around the Green Valley section of town (Henderson, actually) and decided to snap a few pics. (So not what I should be doing while operating a motor vehicle, especially considering my driving skills.)



Out in the west side of town, there are pretty red rock mountains; those here in Henderson resemble mounds of kitty litter. They do make the landscape interesting, though.

Economically, things here still seem pretty bleak. Here's a picture of The District, a shopping plaza adjacent to Green Valley Ranch casino. As you can see, it's not exactly hopping for 2:00 in the afternoon. Kind of resembles a Twilight Zone episode.


Here's one of the storefronts in the District.


Sweet bearded Jesus, you gotta be kidding me. Fitness made fun for kids? In my day, that was called, "Get the hell out of the house and I don't want to see you until the street lights come on."

It's good to be here.

Back in Las Vegas and a question for you about Joan Rivers

Sorry for the late post today. Last night Mike and I went to the Henderson Writers' Group meeting and then came home and talked a while and then watched The Last Waltz (amazing on 58" and surround sound) and then talked some more and yadda, yadda, yadda it was about 4 a.m. when we finally fell asleep. Then this morning I got up and out to have an early lunch with one of my friends from my old work, followed by some errands and a little Ross Dress-for-Less shopping. (Came out empty handed, if you can believe that.)

Busy, busy...

It's probably not too surprising that I haven't missed Las Vegas since I've been having such a good time in Albany, but man, I sure as hell missed Mike. We're having a fantastic time and though God knows (and long-time readers know) I've wanted to freakin' murder him more than once, I adore that man. Love him.

As I sat next to him on the couch last night, filled with such amore, I got to thinking about the new documentary Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work I saw last week. I know what some of you are thinking: "I'd rather stick a flaming needle in my eye." Yeah, she can be abrasive and I've said many times that I think she's very funny, but also terribly mean-spirited. More on that some other time.

I have a lot to say about the film--a lot--it really was wonderful and very well done. Surprisingly, I didn't have to scold anyone in the theater for talking, so you know it must have been captivating. I'm not kidding--I loved it and found it fascinating. If you're at all interested in stand-up comedy, it's a must-see.

Anyway, at one point Rivers talks about her husband, Edgar Rosenberg, who committed suicide in 1987 after having been fired by Fox as the producer of her late night show. Rivers says,

"Were we madly in love with each other? No."

"Did we have a happy marriage? Yes."

That brief scene struck me. I can't imagine marrying someone I'm not madly in love with. (Okay, insert your "But Linda, aren't you twice divorced?" comment here.) You know what I mean. I just can't imagine looking at someone and be thinking, "Well, he'll be a good provider. I'll be financially secure. Yeah, I want to marry him."

No!

Without the passion, I say NO! a thousand times. I could never do it. I'd have to be madly in love to marry someone; anything less seems like settling out of fear and insecurity.

I'd love to know what you think about this.

Off to Vegas today! (And another post for the “fat guys” label)

This afternoon I leave for a glorious week in Las Vegas!

I can’t wait to see Mike, except now I’m wishing I haven’t been indulging so much in the upstate New York temptations I find irresistible. Saranac’s Adirondack sampler is damn good beer—especially love the Black Forest! And don’t get me going on Stewart’s Cream and Coffee Fudge ice cream, a.k.a. “dinner.”

I think my friends Tim and Susan, the couple I’m staying with, are positively aghast at my diet. Every once in a while they try to make me eat something healthy like a cheeseburger, but I think more than anything my bad habits are rubbing off on them. Another reason they’ll be singing hallelujah in September when I head back west!

Yeah, I’ve been going to hell with myself, although I have been getting some exercise. On the weekends Susan and I walk on the country roads near their house, and I take a little stoll through beautiful downtown Schenectady at lunch. But most of my exercise comes from climbing the stairs in the office building where I work. I have this new little habit of taking a break and walking 96 stairs to the roof mid-morning and again late afternoon. That’s on top of the 76 I climb to the fourth floor when I first get here and the 79 from the ground floor at lunch.

Who the hell cares—that’s the most boring paragraph I’ve ever written. My point is, I have to do something to keep from grossing myself out in a bathing suit, and to make matters worse, Mike says he’s lost 15 pounds since I last saw him in May. I swear he did that just to annoy me—ha! He knows I prefer men with some meat on them.

Speaking of… have you seen comedian Louis C.K.’s new show? It’s on Tuesday nights on FX, right after Rescue Me ( pant, pant). It's a riot--so funny and well done! Man, Louis C.K. is one of my favorite comics ever—right up there with Larry David and Ricky Gervais (who was on last week's episode). Except Louis is way better looking. I think he’s freakin’ hot.

He’s got some meat on him, yup. In the first show there was a scene where he’s checking out his fat shirtless gut in the mirror and I was like, man, I want a piece of that! I don’t know why, but there’s something about a gut on a guy that I find attractive. (Though there can be too much of a good thing.) A bit of a gut is manly, and sad to say, comforting; I feel a little off the hook about my own body. Is that sick or what? And really, what the hell do I see in that skin-and-bones Denis Leary?

Anyway, I can’t wait to get my hands on my hunk-of-man Mike later tonight. Two months apart is a long time! But a week away from Saranac and Stewarts can only be a good thing.

Going postal and no, I’m not referring to my latest visit to the movie theater

Looks the like U.S. Postal Service is proposing, among other things, to raise first-class postage rates as well as cut back on its 6-day delivery service. Am I the only one who thinks this is a no-duh?

First of all, other than sending books out to voracious readers, the only things I mail these days are birthday cards and sympathy cards. Any bills I have are paid online.

So let’s say I want to send a birthday card to my mother. (Of course, I would never send her *just* a card, but play along for the sake of explanation.) Personally, I cannot freakin’ believe that somebody’s going to take that birthday card from a mailbox in Albany, NY, all the way across the country to Boise, ID, and deliver it right to her doorstep for a mere 44 cents. Is that amazing or what? I would gladly pay a dollar for every piece of mail I send out! At least!

I guess a lot of businesses and non-profits are up in arms about another rate hike because it’ll cost them a fortune to mail out the crap we end up throwing in the recycle bin without even looking at it. BTW, every time I get some glossy piece of literature--or worse, those mailing labels I didn’t even ask for--from a give-till-it-hurts non-profit agency, I’m thinking if you have that kind of money for printing and postage expenses, you sure as hell don’t need a donation from me.

Now let’s talk Saturday delivery. Note to the Postmaster General: you can cut way deeper. I betcha if my mail came once every two weeks there still wouldn’t be a piece worth opening. Ninety-nine percent of the mail I get is nothing but future trash--I'm thinking the Postal Service should deliver right to the landfills and cut out the sanitation department middle men.

Evidently cutting just the Saturday delivery would save a ton of money. I assume that’s money taken directly from our paychecks every week, right? If there was ever a line in the budget begging to be cut, I’d say this is a good one.

At the movies: Linda Lou strikes again!

I had intended to go to a séance last Friday night (how many blog posts open with that?) but instead I ended up at the movies. I saw a fantastic film, Please Give, written and directed by Nicole Holofcener. I’ve been a big fan of hers since her first movie, Walking and Talking (1996), starring Anne Heche, who I would love to see playing moi in the film version of Bastard Husband: A Love Story. We’re both loons with crappy hair, so the casting would be perfect.

Holofcener’s other movies are Lovely and Amazing (2001) and Friends with Money (2006), with Jennifer Aniston. All very enjoyable, and all feature the wonderful actress Catherine Keener. If you like well written, quiet, slice-of-life, girl-focused stories, I highly recommend any of these.

I love quiet, independent films and lucky for me, they generally attract quiet, polite movie goers. Generally. My decision to see a movie Friday night was spur of the moment, and I entered the theater a minute or so after the feature started. (I hate that.) There were quite a few people in there, so I took the first seat I could find up front on the aisle.

Of course, I had to pick the row with the talkers. Yep, the couple two seats away from me must have thought they were on their living room couch instead of a public movie theater. Deep breath…

Remember how I publicly scolded the couple behind me when I took Connor to see the Karate Kid a few weeks ago? Okay, so I’m sitting there thinking, “What kind of message am I sending out to the universe to attract these rude-ass people?” But for some reason, I didn’t react with my usual, I am going to rip your f*cking head off if you don’t shut up. No, I was perfectly calm throughout the film, determined that I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it.

I remained perfectly calm as the credits rolled, but when the couple rose and headed toward the aisle, I lifted a 4-inch Vegas heel onto the seat in front of me, blocking their exit from the row.

“Excuse me,” the guy said.

I channeled an attitude from my old substitute teaching days. “You two talked through that whole movie,” I said, still perfectly calm and not even using what my kids call my “snotty voice.”

“Oh, we’re sorry,” he said.

I held out my hand. “Nine dollars.” They gave each other a quizzical look. “That’s what I paid to hear you two talking.”

“We’re sorry,” he said again.

“You can’t talk through movies. That’s not polite. Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

I released my foot and let them pass. Then as I walked up the aisle behind them, I realized they… might be…

Retarded.

I honestly don’t know; maybe they were just nerdy.

But just in case, I’m glad I held back from my usual seething self. So I guess the moral of this story is, the world would be a nicer place if we treated everyone as if they were retarded.

Independence--is it really all it's cracked up to be?

It’s Fourth of July weekend—Independence Day.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people remark about how independent I am. They say, “Wow, you’re so independent!” as if it’s some kind of wonderful achievement that a single gal like me can actually go through life totally unassisted.

I’ve always found their remarks kind of curious. Handicapped folks in “independent living” programs, my 89-year-old mother-in-law gettting along by herself in her condo… now, those are people worth marveling over. I’m a perfectly healthy aging nymph—getting myself to work, paying bills and going to the grocery store should be no big deal. But I guess there’s a notion out there of “The Independent Woman” and flinging your hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore.

I know their intentions are complimentary, so don’t think I’m complaining. I think what they really mean is, I seem to handle my single self well. And by “well,” I suppose they mean “with confidence.” Yep, that I’ll go along with; I’ve been told a million times that I project an air of confidence. But confidence shouldn't have anything to do with one’s marital or relationship status or living situation or... independence, right?

A while back I posted about how I'm sick of being independent, and I bet some of you can relate. Wouldn't you love to have somebody remind you of a bill to pay or an item to pick up at the store? Wouldn't it be nice to have to lean on someone once in a while?

Yeah, sometimes independence can be overrated, and as I say in my book, "In the end, your heart beats only for yourself." But damn, it's so much nicer when two hearts beat as one, as Bono would say.

Speaking of hearts, I'm heading to Las Vegas next Saturday for 8 days. It's been almost two months since I've seen Mike. Talk about fireworks...

Vegas hot vs. Ivory girl and the divine order of the workplace

I really like my new job. I mean, as much as I'd like any job. It's still not what I'd choose to do with my time if I didn't have to work, but it's truly a nice gig. My boss is a cute young guy who I think I've seen a total of 30 minutes since I started--perfect--and I have an adorable little BFF in the cubicle next to me. (Of course no one compares to my 25-year-old BFF, Joe, from my last job.)

I'm guessing my new friend is in her early 30's, though she could pass for 19. She's a beautiful girl and I don't mean hot-chick Vegas-tits beautiful; I'm talking fresh-air Ivory girl beautiful. Sometimes when she's explaining stuff to me about the project I'm working on, all I can think is, "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" But I don't think she has a clue that she's gorgeous. She just acts like a sweet, normal girl.

The minute I met her, I thought, "Oh, that's why I'm here," meaning I knew right away we were meant to be friends. And the funny thing is, last week at lunch she expressed that exact sentiment.

I really believe that most of the time work simply provides a structure for the universe to get a bunch of people together; the work itself is secondary, even inconsequential. I've made so many dear friends, people I expect to know for the rest of my life, through the corporate environment. Even though 90 percent of the time I could not give one shit about the work. Doesn't matter--it's all perfect.

I feel incredibly lucky.

How about you? Have you made some friends for life through work?

And given a choice, would you rather be Vegas hot or Ivory girl beautiful?