Schmaltz or tradition? I don't really care.

At Christmastime, I simply must listen to Andy Williams. 50 weeks of the year I give the old boy no thought whatsoever. But come mid-December, I need my dose of the blue-eyed sweater man with the smooth (OK, some might say "bland") delivery.

His voice means Christmas to me. It's because of those holiday specials he had each year with his family. When I was growing up, I thought it would be terrific to spend Christmas with the Williams'. They all seemed to happy and normal. No hostility. No tension. No posturing among the uncles and in-laws for alpha dog status, as defined by golf clubs or make of car or the size of the Christmas bonus. None of the aunts or in-laws were overly stressed out or martyr-ish about how hard they worked on the meal or the cookies or the pies. In short, the Williams clan was NOTHING like mine.

Since we're talking 1960s variety specials, each year they were set not on a stage but in the Williams "home." And when the doorbell rang, guess what! It was the Osmond Brothers and little Marie, bringing over a bundt cake and ready to sing "White Christmas" as if they were a barbershop quartet.

Of course as an adult, I realize it was all way more illusion than reality. Andy and Claudine divorced and she was convicted in the shooting death of her skier/lover. Donny Osmond has discussed the stage fright and panic attacks he carried into adulthood as a result of a childhood spent performing and trying to please a perfectionist father.

Yet none of that stops me from wanting Andy this time of year. Corny? You bet. But once wreaths start appearing on front doors and cards in my mailbox, I need to hear him sing "Sleigh Ride" almost as much as I need egg nog.

Maybe you had to be there

My best friend's oldest daughter is in (I believe) 4th grade and has just discovered the Beatles. I find this thrilling because she did it all on her own. The Beatles aren't staples in her household the way I have made sure they are in my family. (My niece learned the words to "Eight Days a Week" at about the same time she learned "Itsy Bitsy Spider.")

The music speaks for itself. No explanation necessary. But how do you put the Lads in context? How do you explain Beatlemania?

I ordered her a copy of A Hard Day's Night. So much of the plot revolves around fleeing screaming teenage girls. I hope she isn't so distracted by the clothes and the bouffant hairstyles and the fact that the movie is in black and white that she misses how well defined each Lad's personality is and how pervasive and phenomenal Beatlemania was.

If those messages are overwhelmed, there's always the concert footage that closes the film. I can't imagine anyone not enjoying seeing the Beatles performing live.

Oh, yum!

Word is John Edwards is going to announce his candidacy in New Orleans before Christmas. The rumor mill may be abuzz, but this old heart of mine is atwitter.

I know, I know … looking pretty damn sweet is not a prerequisite for the Presidency. And I don't even think it should be. This is very serious business. I mean, there's something kinda sick and wrong about getting wet while watching Meet the Press. Plus I'm from the Chicagoland area, which means I should be riding the Obama bandwagon. But since I don't like Barack's ears and know he's a smoker, he simply doesn't move the meter on my heart throbometer.

I also like John Edwards' basic message of populism. There ARE two Americas, there IS an inexcusable level of poverty in this country, and Katrina IS as powerful an example of mismanagement and misplaced values as the Iraq war. John Edwards is very forceful and very eloquent about this, and I'm thrilled he's thinking of illustrating this by announcing in New Orleans. I have heard Obama talk about unity and hope, which are wonderful and affirming and I applaud it, but he doesn't sound like he's ready to face these problems head on. John Edwards is willing to name them, he acknowledges where we are today without belaboring how we got there, and he seems focused on moving us forward. He reminds me of Bobby Kennedy as eulogized by his brother, "a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it."

And, of course, that always moves the needle.

It's Saturday night and … yawn …

All I want to do is slide down into the tub, soak for a while, and then go to bed. I sure know how to have fun, don't I?

But in my own defense: in the last four days I've gone out three times. That translates into a lot of Christmas cheer, but not a lot of sleep.

I've also taken my home apart, moving everything to make things easier for the workmen who installed my new windows. Why is it that putting everything back together is harder than taking it apart?

But it's the snow globe that gets to me

So much happened these last few days that I scarcely know where to start recounting. Let's start with the good. I received my birthday present/Christmas gifts from my best friend Wednesday night. He was most excited about the nailcare kit he got me. The centerpiece is a buffer, which he found fascinating. I'm glad that he noticed that (1) I care about my pedicure and (2) my nails are unpolished so he feels the buffer will come in especially handy. And he got me a pair of brown Crocs, in the new Mary Jane style.

But my favorite item was the smallest. A snow globe depicting Hollywood Blvd., right where I stayed when I went to visit him. It's what I will look at when I want to send my mind to The Happy Place.

Hi. I'm an idiot.

I have been monitoring the drip, drip, drip in my kitchen cabinet and have been perplexed by how thick and sticky the "water" I collected was. I was also obsessed with finding where the leak was coming from. The top of the cabinet was dry. The back of the cabinet -- the part that touches the walls and pipes -- was dry.

WHAT WAS GOING ON?

Two cans of creme soda, smack dab in the middle of the cabinet and completely out of my view, had sprung slow leaks for some reason. Good Lord it made a mess in there! Scrubbing everything down was not fun. (Although my cat Reynaldo seemed to find the whole thing quite thrilling as he climbed in and out of the sudsy cabinet.)

And it was very embarrassing to call the condo management co. and confess that the water leak I feared was really just a couple cans of pop. (Cheap store brand pop, at that!) So no inspection is necessary.

But while I may be an idiot, I'm a happy idiot. As unpleasant as this morning was, it's far less complicated than a leaky pipe would have been.

"I put on tangerine lip gloss and answered the door"

I simply love the Geico/Peter Graves commercial. I love Caitlin, the real person whose husband totalled the SUV on her birthday. Her face is so open and free from guile. And I adore Peter Graves. Especially when he says, "I was one lucky woman." I laugh at this spot every damn time it comes on.

The Little Richard/Thanksgiving version is great, too. ("Mashed potatoes and gravy! WOOO!") But it's not shown anywhere near as often. The other Geico celebrity spots simply don't tickle me as much, but so what?

Kudos to The Martin Agency, who created these ads. I googled "Geico Graves" and here are the credits I got: creative director Steve Bassett, art director Adam Stockton, copywriter Bob Meagher, agency producer Holly Flaisher and assistant producer Valerie Battenfeld.

No good ever comes of this

I should have known better. I am the least domestic woman on the planet, and every move I make in that direction ends up being ill fated.

You know that plate in the microwave? The one that spins your Lean Cuisine around as you nuke it? Well mine was slowly becoming encrusted with light brown … stuff. Upon closer inspection, so was the oven itself. So yesterday morning, in a surge of enthusiasm that is so unlike me, I scrubbed both the oven and the plate clean. Feeling accomplished and virtuous, I went on to feed the cats.

I noticed that the bag of catfood, kept in a lower cabinet that is near (but not directly under) the sink, was damp. I figured my hands were still wet from all the sudsy scrubbing. Then, as I returned the bag, I felt an undeniable mist. It was drizzling in my kitchen cabinet.

It seems that my pipes are leaking. Something I never would have noticed if I hadn't tried to channel my inner Martha Stewart yesterday.

My building is nearly 50 years old. These things happen. By why NOW? As the holidays approach, as I'm preparing to have all my windows replaced, as I'm getting ready to go on vacation. I really, most emphatically, do not need this now!

Where's the common ground?

According to the popular saying, what unites us is greater than what separates us. I'd like to believe that. But I saw something on the el this morning that makes me wonder …

A very loud – but not unhappy – unkempt man wearing layers of mismatched clothes got on. He stood in the middle of the aisle and carried on an animated conversation with no one in particular. He wasn't preaching the gospel or asking for money. He wasn't angry or hostile. He didn't seem to care that we had all averted our eyes and were ignoring him. He just enjoyed delivering his monologue about nothing in particular to no one specific.

A few stops down the line a thirtysomething woman got on our car. She was wearing a beautiful red coat, carrying a matching red umbrella, and speaking just as animatedly as he was, but to someone. On her slim cellphone. She had one of those gamine haircuts – think Demi Moore in Ghost – that require regular, careful upkeep if you want to maintain the shape. (Trust me on this; I tried it and my hair grows too fast and is simply too unruly.)

So what do these two have in common? She was taking the el to a specific destination; I believe he was getting in from the rain. She was talking to someone about holiday plans; he was talking to no one about nothing. She exercised care in selecting her wardrobe; I wager he was wearing everything he owned. The only thing I could see that they shared was that they were the two liveliest, most awake people on our train during our morning commute.

Fortunately, I'm already adequate

I read this last week, but was so dazzled by the Draft/Wal-Mart scandal that I forgot I wanted to immortalize it here. I've stolen this wholesale from abcnews.com …

Lohan Turns to Al Gore for Help
Actress Seeks Out Powerful Friends in Rambling E-mail

By BUCK WOLF
Dec. 8, 2006 — - It's not only a bad spell for Lindsay Lohan, it's bad spelling.

The club-hopping 20-year-old actress said in an e-mail to friends that she is preparing to clean up her image and take on the media with the help of a friend -- former Vice President Al Gore.

"Al Gore will help me. He came up to me last night and said he would be very happy to have a conversation with me," Lohan wrote in a rambling letter riddled with misspellings that she sent to friends and associates. Portions of the e-mail were published in the New York Post.

"If he [Gore] is willing to help me, let's find out. Hilary [sic] Clinton, Bill Clinton, and Evan Metroplis [sic], and John Daur who works with them would be willing, if we just ask. If we just ASK."

Lohan told friends of a desire to "release a politically/morally correct, fully adequite [sic] letter to the press" and spoke of "how our society should be educated for the better of our country."

The "Freaky Friday" star said she has a lot to offer, "because I have such an impact on our younger generations, as well as generations older than me. Which we all know and can obviously see."

And in response to rumors that she's suffered a drug overdose, Lohan said, "Let's sue the tabloids for saying the things they say. Defamation of character."

Lohan's spokeswoman, Leslie Sloane Zelnik, told ABCNEWS.com that she had "no comment."

A person who works for Gore told ABCNEWS.com that he was not aware that the former vice president had met Lohan, but a Gore spokesman did confirm the encounter to TMZ.com, a celebrity Web site.

"I can confirm for you that Mr. Gore has only met Ms. Lohan once, very briefly, at the GQ Men of the Year dinner last week," the spokesman told TMZ.com. "There were hundreds of other guests."

Lohan's e-mail came just weeks after she released an odd statement in response to the death of director Robert Altman, whom she worked with in "A Prairie Home Companion."

It's "as if I've just had the wind knocked out of me and my heart aches," Lohan wrote, describing the 81-year-old director as the "closest thing to my father and grandfather that I really do believe I've had in several years."

The statement concluded with, "Thank You, BE ADEQUATE, Lindsay Lohan"

__________

Now why didn't I think of this!

On Saturday night, my mother joined my kid sister's family for an evening of Christmas shopping at the mall, capped off with a birthday dinner. (Mom had a candle in her hot fudge sundae.) When they got home, the entire front yard was filled with police. Cop cars were in the driveway. One of the officers warned my family not to step in the blood.

Huh? What?

It seems that a woman had been robbed and ran to my mother's front door for help. Her assailant followed her and stabbed her, right there on my mother's front porch. Because she was wearing so many layers of heavy winter clothes, she wasn't hurt badly. Someone who witnessed the scene (we still don't know who) called the police. An ambulance took the victim away. She will recover completely. Her assailant escaped on foot.

My mother lives in a rather sleepy little burb. The police were not as compassionate nor as forthcoming with information as she would have liked. She was, understandably, frightened and upset. Andy and Barney were upset, too. Stuff like this really doesn't happen in her town.

I'm just very grateful she wasn't home when all this went down.

And I'm happy for my kid sister. She's so competitive. My mother will remember coming home from celebrating with my sister's family to find blood and police much longer than she recalls my gigantic Mrs. Field's cookie.

Choo-choo! Here comes the karma train!

In the early 1990s, I worked for a direct response agency called Draft. Named for and run by Howard Draft. One of the most arrogant, one of the sleaziest men I've ever met in an industry known for being … um … "ethically challenged."

Once I realized what I had gotten into, I got out as soon as I could. It took years of "Silkwood showers" to wash away the Draft stench.

Through the ensuing decade, Howard Draft enjoyed success after success. Got richer and richer. His formula seemed to be concentrating on new business and winning awards for new clients to create industry buzz while ignoring old clients. Yet he never gave the old clients a "we no longer care about you" discount, even though they no longer received the level of service they signed up for.

I have neither the time nor the stomach to discuss the sexual/romantic encounters Howard Draft was rumored to conduct in the workplace.

This all disturbed me mightily because I believe in The Golden Rule.

This past week Howard received his comeuppance, and in a big way. Two months ago, Draft was awarded an account worth nearly $600 million from Wal-mart. It was a huge win.

Last week, it was taken away. Julie Roehm, the Wal-mart exec in charge of the agency review process, was unceremoniously canned amid lots and lots and LOTS of rumors. And then on Thursday, Wal-Mart fired Draft (now DraftFCB) and said it would hold a new agency review because of "new information we have obtained over the past few weeks." Wal-Mart did not expand on the nature of the information. Draft is most emphatically NOT invited to participate.

This NEVER happens. A company the size of Wal-Mart does not award $580 million in business to an agency, give interviews and release statements talking about how brilliant and innovative their choice of agency was, and then, before a single ad has been created, can that agency. This is big. This is juicy. This is huge … and should be humiliating for all concerned. (That is, if Howard is capable to being humiliated anymore.)

Julie Roehm loves fast cars and famously took a test drive in Howard's Aston-Martin while the review was still going on. The little spin was covered by local papers, as well as Ad Age. There was a dinner at the oh-so exclusive Nobu in New York and a command performance by the Eagles. It was an appalling display of consumption that had nothing to do with marketing, strategy or creative product. And all this went on while Wal-Mart employees make minimum wage and have shitty healthcare benefits.

Welcome to the real world, Howie.

Over the weekend a Draft spokesperson said the agency wasn't worried about this harming their reputation. Of course not. It just reinforces the reputation Howard Draft has worked hard to earn throughout his career.

Put them all together, they spell "Mother"

I just finished wrapping my mother's birthday gifts. I'm amused by the collection of disparate items I've chosen for her, and pleased by imagining how much she'll enjoy them all.

• Snow removal service. Because if I didn't do this, she would stubbornly be out there on her own, shovel in hand.

• Renewal of her TV Guide subscription. So she will never miss a Bulls game and can stay up on her behind-the-scenes gossip about soaps and talk shows.

• A pelican buried in the sand, enjoying a Long Island Iced Tea. Every year I get her a garish, horrible Christmas ornament. She loves them, and hangs them on the tree where she can see them as she enjoys her coffee and newspaper.

• Squirrel food. Made by Girl Scouts to benefit a local animal shelter, she'll enjoy watching the squirrels dine in her beloved backyard.

• Cranberry Body Butter. She's forever complaining about her dry skin.

Instead of a cake, we're going to have a giant Mrs. Field's chocolate chip cookie.

I love my mom very much, and while these gifts may seem less conventional than a sweater or a brooch, they are all perfect for her.

How can anything compete with Ann?

TVLand is running a That Girl marathon. How can I not watch? I grew up on this show. I loved her clothes (and her bags). I loved her madcap adventures. I loved her and her dad. I loved her and Donald. I loved how she loved New York.

Yet I have so much to do today! I really should work out. I really must get organized for my mother's birthday (seeing as we're celebrating tomorrow). I must start moving the prodigious piles of crap I've collected so the window installers can do their job this Thursday. I've got four loads of wash to do.

But how can any of that compete with Ann? I guess I better start multitasking.

ow, Ow, OW!

Yesterday I woke up feeling light headed. Almost dizzy, but not in that Lucy Riccardo way. As the day wore on, the not unpleasant but distracting light headedness grew into a persistent, nagging headache. It got worse when I moved. At times I felt nauseous. Advil had no impact whatsoever.

Since it wasn't debilitating like the migraines I've had earlier this year, I didn't take the Relpax I carry in my purse. What an ass I am!

Left work a little early (to balance out how I arrived late) to make sure my commute home wasn't too stressful. I just could not stand being on that train. My head felt full of steel wool and I wanted to scream. Or lose consciousness. I got home, put on my pajamas, swallowed a Relpax and went to bed.

Two hours later, I woke up. And I was fine. What an ass I am!

I was in pain all day and wasted a Friday night I could ill afford to lose. (I'm soooo not ready for Christmas!) All because I didn't think I felt bad enough for the prescription meds. I hope I have learned something from this.

Just sitting here watching the wheels

Today is the anniversary of John Lennon's murder. How can you not be angry when you think of what a ridiculous, pointless act that was?

A day doesn't go by that I'm not touched by his music. Most media outlets will honor him today by playing "Imagine." A good choice, but not my choice. Here's my favorite Lennon song. It epitomizes how wise, how earthbound, how completely free of bullshit he was.


WATCHING THE WHEELS

People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
When I say that I'm o.k. well they look at me kind of strange
Surely you re not happy now you no longer play the game

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me
When I tell them that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go

Ah, people asking questions lost in confusion
Well I tell them there's no problem, only solutions
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if Ive lost my mind
I tell them there's no hurry
I'm just sitting here doing time

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go

We can talk, and talk, and talk …

My best friend and I were on the phone for more than four hours last night. It's so comfortable. It's almost easier, maybe even more intimate, than talking face to face. I don't know why, really. Perhaps it's because we get to see each other so infrequently that our live, in-person, real-time encounters always feel a little too important for the kind of easy exchange we had last night.

He's not happy, but he's not miserable. He's just dissatisfied with his life. He feels aimless in his career and misunderstood by his family. In short, he's 40.

I don't mean to be flippant. I understand oh-so completely. I know exactly what he's going through, because I've been there. And in a way, that's what's annoying me. What's the point of both of us going through this shit? Wouldn't it be great if only one of us had to experience it, and the other could just learn by observing?

If only I could fix this for him. If only I could give him the answers he's looking for. But I can't. Just like I can't keep him warm in the rain or safe in the night.

All I can do is be there for him. Maybe make him laugh occasionally. And listen when he wants to talk, and talk, and talk …

So every 5 days, I'm a Padres fan

My beloved, future Hall of Famer and four-time Cy Young award winner Greg Maddux, has signed with the Padres.

To tell you the truth, I didn't really care where he ended up. I just wasn't ready to face a Maddux-free baseball season. I suppose that since he is 40 and it is only a one-year contract, I must begin preparing myself for the inevitable.

But not today. Today he has a team, I have digital cable, and we have another summer to enjoy together.

Whoever would have thought we would agree?

I've got one of those "quote of the day" calendars. Today's words of wisdom are from Farrah. How fitting that they show up this morning.

"The reason that the all-American boy prefers beauty to brains is that he can see better than he can think."

"Smart is the new sexy"

I read that "smart is the new sexy" in O Magazine, and I really want to believe it. Of course, I also want to believe that Martin Sheen really is our President.

I never was pretty. Now that my life is half over, I think it's safe to assume I never will be. I'm not ugly, mind you. I don't (often) frighten children. I look much younger than my years. My eyes are a nice green and my nose is kinda cute. My dermatologist has helped me get my skin under control and I'm slowly but surely rediscovering my waist. I'm just nothing special. I'm simply not one of those women that men notice across the room.

I have always been smart, though. Clever. I catch onto things quickly. I think fast on my feet. I understand politics (national as well as interoffice). I am conversant on a variety of topics. I am very good at my job.

I'd trade smart for sexy in a heartbeat.

The women I grew up admiring combined both. JBKO. Gloria Steinem. Jane Fonda.

Now that I'm grown, now that I no longer have girlish illusions about what the coin of the realm really is, I just wish I was Jessica Simpson. Then I become contemptuous of myself because I'm so shallow. It's a nice little emotional treadmill I'm on here, and as with all treadmills, it gets me nowhere.

What all the fuss was about

I fancy myself a big movie fan, yet I'd never seen It Happened One Night. More than a classic, this one's a legend. The first and only one of three movies* to win Oscars for Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress and Best Director, it's also one of the few romantic comedies to be this honored, and to be enduringly popular.

So over the weekend I finally discovered what all the fuss was about. Claudette Colbert, I discovered, is much prettier onscreen than she appears in stills. And Clark Gable. Oh my! He was so utterly natural. As in so many movies in the 30s and 40s, the other actors were too theatrical, too big and too corny for the intimacy of the screen. Gable didn't appear to be acting, he just seemed to be. Effortlessly funny, casually charming, almost timeless.

I wonder who of "my" movie stars will hold up as well as Gable. The serious actors: DeNiro and Pacino and Hoffman. The great stars: Newman and Redford and Eastwood. The pretty-much-already-forgotten: Burt Reynolds and James Caan and Steve McQueen.

*Don't bother making yourself crazy trying to remember the other two. They were One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Silence of the Lambs.

Farewell, Max

George Clooney's beloved potbellied pig, Max, passed away Friday. More than 18 years old, Max had a very good life with The Sexiest Man Alive. The 300 lb. pig slept in the doorway of Clooney's home and was stepped over by the journalists, photographers, actors and politicians who entered. Though he suffered from some age-related maladies (arthritis, blindness), Max retained his "massive" appetite until the end.

My condolences to Gorgeous George. Since he mentioned Hattie McDaniel in his Oscar acceptance speech, let me paraphrase her in Gone With the Wind, "I have never seen any man, black or white, set such store in a potbellied pig."

SWF (Sloppy White Female)

Yesterday I was sprawled across my sofa, watching the Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathon. (I still feel it's the weakest of the three shows, but when Chris Noth is on I give it a chance.) You know that scene where the detectives visit the victim's apartment and see what they can learn about her/him/it? I was lazily wondering what my condo would posthumously say about me when I realized I couldn't find the remote. I slipped my hand underneath the sofa cushion and … EWWWW! ICK! BLECH!

My fingertips touched grainy, unidentifiable stuff. I was completely creeped out. Not only was I certain that homicide detectives would decide that I was such a slob my murder didn't deserve solving, I also realized it was time to spring into action.

So I removed the cushions, dragged out the vacuum, and cleaned the damn thing. Mostly what I found was food crumbs. The occasional shed cat claw. Lots of fur. And a tiny rubber band I swear I never saw before in my life.

I didn't stop there. I decided to clean out my refrigerator. Fortunately I don't cook, so it didn't take long. My most interesting observation here is that after a very long time, the bottom of the cranberry juice jug began to look like jello.

Now I believe I'm done until 2009.

"Wishing you the joys of the holiday season"

That's the sentiment on my Christmas cards. Which I am filling out from my desk at work today. Hardly anyone came in today. WIMPS!

Sure, some areas had between 6" and 10" of snow during the morning rush hour, and the snow is still falling. But I made it in. And I found it all quite thrilling.

There's a sense of camaraderie on public transportation on days like today. We're all proud of how hale and hardy we are. It's the exact opposite on very hot, humid days. We're all grumpy and ready to turn on one another.

Today's best headline …

GATOR ATTACKS NAKED MAN ON CRACK

According to CBS and the AP, this happened in Lakeland, FL. That's his photo. In case you wonder what a guy who gets high and then strips to go play with a gator looks like.

I think it's exciting

I enjoy weather. That's part of why I think I live in the ideal place. The weather here is almost always interesting. Rain, storms, blue skies, subzero temperatures … we get it all. And, except for when the mercury reaches 85º or higher, I love it all.

Especially days like today. The temperature is falling. The sky is gray. Yes, boys and girls, the snowstorm is on it's way! The sky is supposed to open up on us this afternoon and continue depositing the white stuff on us until Friday morning. The result? 6" to 12" of shovelable, packable snow.

I waterproofed my big black boots. I dug out my water-repellant coat with the hood. I arranged for snow removal at my mother's house. I'm ready. BRING IT ON!

I plan to spend it all in one place

In exchange for that little ad you see top right, I get a free counter from our friends at AdSense, as well as the promise of riches every time someone clicks on the ad. As November draws to a close, I'm thrilled to report that I will have cleared over 60¢ this month. Once my balance reaches $50, AdSense will cut me a check. Which I will undoubtedly spend in the commissary at the retirement home where I will be residing.

Good for what ails you

I cheered up that art director today. No, I didn't offer to shoot her husband as he sleeps. I convinced her to accompany me to Walgreen's, where we each bought something for the company toy drive. I got a Spiderman action figure with super strength as well as super powers. She bought a Barbie-sized kitchen set and a pony with a mane and brush.

I know I keep returning to this, but please, this holiday season, buy a toy for a child less fortunate. I promise you'll enjoy yourself as you help make a kid happier.

But what if …?

I fell in love with Paul McCartney when I was six years old. It was the Beatles' first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. I believe "All My Loving" was the second number. I know I literally fell in love the moment Paul sang, "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you/tomorrow I'll miss you/remember I'll always be true." I said aloud, "He's so pretty it hurts." I still feel that way. He will always be my brown-eyed troubadour, singing about romantic, perfect love.

But I wonder … what if I encountered the Beatles for the first time when I was older? I got the LOVE CD for my birthday and this new treatment of the old classics inspired the question. I believe I might have been a John Girl instead. Nowhere near as cute as Paul, and far edgier, he seemed intimidating when I was younger. But as I grew up I came to appreciate the courage and wit he brought to his music.

I don't see myself ever falling for George or Ringo. With all due respect, I've always looked at the Beatles as a pair of geniuses and two really, really lucky musicians.

No, really, you'll thank me

If you didn't see Little Miss Sunshine in the theater, rent it now. The actress who plays Olive, Abigail Breslin, is a delight. She broke my heart about a dozen times. She's so perfect you forget she's a little actress, playing a part. Her scenes with wacky grandfather, Alan Arkin, are especially wonderful.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I have always, always had a crush on Greg Kinnear, who plays Olive's dad. Since he hosted Talk Soup. That year he was nominated for an Oscar, I was so proud. Sigh. I think it's his hair.

I'm going to be gi-normous

I cannot stop eating. I am actually hungry again. I am trying to only eat things that aren't 100% empty calories. Like cereal. Fiber, calcium ... good, right?

I thought after Thanksgiving I would never eat again. Perhaps it stretched my stomach.

Fortunately he's good looking

I had eagerly been looking forward to hearing from my best friend today. That is, until he called.

Yes, he had a great week off. Sure, he enjoyed skiing at a resort with old friends. Yeah, he had a good time bringing his long-planned Thanksgiving menu to life.

BUT he really doesn't feel like working today … and he's not sure this job is a good fit anyway … but who wants to look for a new job during the holidays? The holidays are soooo busy … and his whole life feels rather temporary because they are still living in a rented house … but househunting in this new city is depressing because all the homes are so much more expensive and on such smaller lots …

My best friend is Eeyore personified.

Silver threads

Uh-oh. I'm getting ready for work, my first day back at the office after my long birthday weekend, and I notice two gray hairs over my right ear. This does not make me happy. I wonder what else is going on under all that Nice & Easy #108.

I'm reminded of that old Elvis song, "How many, how many I wonder. But I really don't want to know."

This could take months. MONTHS!

I do not understand the new rules of MLB free agency. And I really don't have to. Except for this one thing: Greg Maddux may not land with another team until January.

I don't care for this.

If he can't return to me and the Cubs, I'd like him to stay with the Dodgers. I'm used to seeing him in blue. But wherever he ends up, I want him to end up there SOON. The one scenario I cannot accept is his retirement. That's why I want him to sign with someone now, so I can quit awfulizing about the prospect of a Professor-free season.

Feeling more than a little guilty

The art director I am paired with most often is unraveling. Her husband is having a prolonged and dramatic midlife crisis, she's allowing him to tap dance on her, and it's interfering with her work.

This has been going on for months now. She can't focus. I have to continually remind her of what is due and when. I also have to remind her that if she does indeed find herself a woman alone, she will need this job more than ever. Before she can get down to work, we have to discuss it all ad nauseum. She leaves work early to go to therapy. Worst of all, she cries all the time.

This is the part I find the most embarrassing. I do not cry in public. I do not understand people who do. I simply cannot abide the messy vulnerability and don't feel it belongs in the office. Every time this AD and I have an episode, I either call my best friend or email my oldest friend. This soap opera has been going on so long, and it's taken so many twists and turns, that her life has become material for my monologues.

Which, I find, makes me a hideous bitch. For the art director got me a very thoughtful birthday gift* and a card that practically canonizes me. She says I'm a "loving, beautiful friend" and she appreciates my support. Ouch.

So tomorrow I shall try to be more patient with her. I can't let my work suffer because of her problems, but there has to be a way to balance my responsibility to my client with a little more humanity.


*Frango Mints, which I love but can only be purchased at Macy's, a store I cannot enter for important sociopolitical/religious reasons -- they took over Marshall Field's and they have the nads to use a Lennon/McCartney song on their Christmas commercials.


http://onegalsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/10/no-more-tears.html