Ouch! That hurt!

So at lunchtime today I'm at CVS, trying to reach around these two women who are planted in the aisle, arguing and not moving. The older one was the noisier one -- gray hair, thick glasses with big, bejeweled frames, her shoulders round under her bright red coat. Her daughter was so bundled up in cold weather gear (it's only 9º here today) that it was hard to assess her age or manner.

They were arguing about whether or not to buy the Del Monte canned fruit. Finally Granny snapped, "I'm 53 years old! I should know what I want!"

53? She was only 53? I thought she was at least 70!

53 … That makes her closer to my age than to my mom's. That makes her closer to my age than I am to many of my friends. Therefore I wonder if I look at myself objectively, if I don't look more like her than I care to think.

No wonder I went and had a beer after that.

Grief over a horse

A horse I have never actually seen in real life, no less.

I was so sad to learn about poor Barbaro being put down. So beautiful and so brave. I understand why it may have been necessary, for it's the owner's duty to protect the animal. But still, it hurts a little to think of his last moments.

These were my thoughts on my way back to the office after lunch. I realize I felt more genuine compassion for the horse I will never meet than I did for the two homeless men I passed on the street.

I better work on this.

Not that I ever want to be inured to the suffering of an animal. I would like to be more sensitive to the suffering of my fellow man.

I don't need a reason

Just saw a Feria commercial with Scarlett Johansson and I realize anew that I simply cannot stand her. Not since Madonna and Kathie Lee Gifford has a celebrity annoyed me this much. She is forever a vapid, swollen-lipped trollop.

There. I feel better now.

Why I'm Team Aniston

SHH! I'm really more sincerely a supporter of Team Aniston than I am the Bears.

It started during the season of Friends that began with her meeting Ross' plane with a bouquet of flowers, ready to tell him she loved him, and saw he was clearly involved with another girl. That year she was sad and fierce and proud and very, very funny. Part of the poignancy of it came from the idea that this beautiful girl could get any guy but the one she wanted.

Then there was the split with Brad. After it was announced, she was always flanked by Courtney Cox or Matthew Perry. You have to like a girl whose buds stand by her (even after the show is over and they no longer have to). And of course, how can you not feel sorry for a woman who lost her man to a vixen?

Now I'm reading about how insecure she is. Look at her! What could that woman feel she needs to improve? Yet according to US, she just had a nose job. And there are story after story about her new found passion for yoga as a way to stay in shape and her efforts (either successful or not, depending on which mag you pick up) to quit cigarettes.

I guess I'm a fan of Jennifer Aniston because it makes me feel better to know that heartbreak is a terrific equalizer … that whether we deal with it in the privacy of our own social circle or on full display in front of tabloid photographers, it throws us all for a loop. We all are riddled with self-doubt as we slowly recover. Even if we look like her.

Uh-oh

If you don't live in Chicagoland, you cannot imagine how deeply in love with the Bears this whole city is. Being the home of a Super Bowl contender is uplifting and invigorating. Famous skyscrapers are bathed in blue and orange lights. The Picasso and the Art Institute Lions are wearing Bear helmets. While I admit to being a blatant bandwagon jumper, I enjoy being part of the fun.

The sports pages, disc jockeys and TV newscasters are all so dominated by Bears Fever that I didn't realize how the rest of the nation views the team. Until today. Apparently, in comparison with the Colts, we kinda suck. Apparently the Super Bowl is going to be a bloodbath. Apparently a lot of hearts around here are going to be broken.

I hope at least Prince is good at half time.

I haven't jumped off the bandwagon. I still hope they win. I just didn't realize how unlikely it was until today.

Thursday Thirteen performances Oscar overlooked

Thirteen Things the The Gal Herself feels strongly about: In honor of the Oscar race, I'm listing 13 actresses whose performances were among the best of my lifetime. They were all most deservedly nominated for Best Actress, and all of them lost. 1) Diane Keaton, Something's Got to Give. 2003. Beautiful, understated, tender and mature. (In complete contrast to Nicholson's scenery chewing.) Lost to Charlize Theron in Monster. 2) Laura Linney, You Can Count on Me. 2000. A good girl who consistently does the wrong thing for the right reasons. Linney made Sammy's responsibility admirable and her screw-ups completely noble. Lost to Julia Roberts in Erin Brockovich. 3) Bette Midler, For the Boys. 1991. It's not hard to be good in a good movie. But Bette was terrific in a sea of flotsam and jetsam. She danced, she sang, she laughed, she loved. It's a 1940s MGM performance of the highest order. Lost to Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs. 4) Meryl Streep, Postcards from the Edge. 1990. No accent. No sturm ung drang histrionics. But damn, she's funny. And wait till you hear her sing at the end! Lost to Kathy Bates in Misery. 5) Holly Hunter, Broadcast News. 1987. Her indelible performance. Was she ever this good again? Lost to Cher in Moonstruck. 6) Mary Tyler Moore, Ordinary People. 1980. With her performance as the outwardly perfect suburban wife and mom, she showed us the heavy price a good girl has to pay to "turn the world on with her smile." Lost to Sissy Spacek in Coal Miner's Daughter. 7) Sissy Spacek, Carrie. 1976. A compassionate performance made this a gory horror movie without a villain. Spacek's Carrie was Everygirl, but with extraordinary powers. No one could begrudge her that bloody vengeance. Lost to Faye Dunaway in Network. 8) Barbra Streisand, The Way We Were. 1973. Who can forget the moment when Katie whispers, "It's Katie. You did know it was Katie ..."? For a performer who can be a bulldozer at times, Babs is also able to tug at our heartstrings as few others can. Lost to Glenda Jackson in A Touch of Class. 9) Diana Ross, Lady Sings the Blues. 1972. The original Dreamgirl in the role of a lifetime. Her musical performance -- singing not like Miss Ross but like Lady Day -- is as impressive as her acting. Lost to Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. 10) Faye Dunaway, Bonnie & Clyde. 1968. Sure, she robbed banks. And yes, she was not above shooting people. But all Bonnie wanted was The American Dream (love, wealth, acceptance) and she didn't have a lot of option in The Depression, now did she? Dunaway's longing and apetite almost burst from the screen. Lost to Katharine Hepburn in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. 11) Julie Andrews, The Sound of Music. 1965. Except for Dame Julie, this drek is almost unwatchable. Yet when she's on the screen, her confidence and sincerity elevates it and makes you forgive just about everything else. Lost to Julie Christie in Darling. 12) Bette Davis, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. 1962. Creepy, ugly, evil, over the top … and pretty damn funny. A completely vanity-free performance from a great star, clearly having the time of her life. Lost to Anne Bancroft in The Miracle Worker. 13) Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany's. 1961. Played by any other actress, Holly Golightly would be easy to dismiss as a whore. But played by Audrey, you feel icky even thinking it! My favorite moment is her with her guitar and bandanna, singing "Moon River." Lost to Sophia Loren in Two Women. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I’ll add you here!)

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Sentencing this old gal to a "time out"

"The gang" here at work is going to lunch, and I just told a fib to get out of it. I didn't make anything up out of whole cloth; I used my oldest friend's current custody issues as an excuse and said I had to stick close to the phone. She is having visitation issues, but I don't expect her to call me about them. I just didn't feel like going to lunch en masse. As soon as it's safe, I'm going to slip out to the health club.

My alone time is the pause that refreshes. It makes me feel more human and better prepared to face the world. I have always been like this. I remember when I was a kid, I used to love being sent to my room. It meant that I had time with my toys and records (remember records?) and books without a parent or sibling invading my space.

It's a plan

I'm going on vacation in March! Made the airline and hotel reservations. Now all I have to do is choose which spa treatments I want. Hot stone massage … pedicure … facial … body wrap … How much pampering can I squeeze in?

Here's my room. No, change that to: Here's my suite. This is serious luxury for me.

I (sporadically) work hard. It's my money. I am going to spend it being nice to me.

Another woman would be ashamed

I mean, I realize that at this point in my life, I shouldn't find these funny.


Buried at PhotoCasket.com


Buried at PhotoCasket.com

Look at that face!

Abigail Breslin was just nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Little Miss Sunshine. As a Chicagoan, I know I am supposed to be rooting for Jennifer Hudson. But ah, look at that face. Here's Olive, trying to decide if she wants ice cream … or not. That was just one of the moments that broke my heart in this movie. She portrayed a genuine little girl, and she touched me enormously.

"A True Friend and a Good Writer"

That's how Wilbur described Charlotte. And, ever since I was a little girl, it sums up all I've ever wanted to be. Sometimes I come close, and those moments warm my heart.

Like tonight. My best friend is having a terrible time with a project. He needs something for a 7:30 AM deadline. I will work with him tonight. I will ask him to just talk to me, to tell me what he wants to say, and I will craft it into something usable.

He sent me an email, thanking me for being "a wonderful person." I loved reading that. But how can I thank him for giving me the opportunity to be what I want to be? Tonight I get to take a swing at being both a true friend and a good writer. It's a genuine pleasure.

Bear down, Chicago Bears

I love my city when we're all one. And today, on this particular snowy Sunday, we're all one. I know, I know … New Orleans is supposed to be America's Team. But not here, not today.

This morning I went out for breakfast and the little towhead at the next table was tunelessly singing, "Bear down, Chicago Bears …" over and over again. Any other morning, it would have been annoying. This morning, though, the little guy was speaking for all of us.

As I changed buses en route to my mom's house, I cut through Kohl's. It was almost empty! You could fire a canon through that store and not hit anyone. Just past noon and everyone was already downing brats and beer in preparation for the big game.

I'm not really a Bears fan. My love of the Cubs is so all-consuming that it eclipses all else. But because I'm a loyal Cub fan, I understand how it must feel for Bear aficionados and I am happy for them.

And I'm happy for Rex Grossman. Recently the city was all one, and determined to pillory that poor QB. His performance today should shut all that down for a while.

I can be such a snob!

When Armageddon first came out in the late 1990s, I refused to go see it. It sounded dopey, like Smokey and the Bandit in outer space. I had better things to do with my time.

Now, almost a decade later, while I do have better things to do with my time but I'm stubbornly not doing them, I'm finally watching Armageddon. And I'm enjoying it. I love Bruce Willis (who gets to be both a smart mouthed smart ass and a loving dad). I love Owen Wilson (who has the most divine broken nose). I love the camaraderie among the oil drillers/astronauts.

I hope I've learned something from this.

But I probably haven't.

Back to the future

I'm going to do it. Today I'm going to make the appointment. And next month it's going to happen.

I'm going back to my original haircolor.

Or a reasonable facsimile. I mean, let's face it. God wasn't that kind to me in the first place. So soon I will go from a redhead to a pale brunette.

I've been dying my hair for 26 years now. That's more than half my life. Since my hair grows fast, this means that twice a month for more half my life I've looked for Nice 'n Easy on sale … smeared Vaseline behind my ears so I won't dye the skin back there … sat around for 30 minutes with gook on my head … and been stuck doing a separate load of wash for my dye-stained towels.

By going back to a slightly improved upon version of my original color, the contrast when my roots grow in won't be as drastic, and I shall only be saddled with above chores every six weeks or so. (What will I do with all that extra time?)

Besides, it's time for a major change. And I'm intrigued by the idea of trying something new by trying something old.

Reality is sooooo overrated

Because my real life has been dominated, as of late, by Big Issues (illness, death, obligation, friendship), I have been taking refuge in a calmer and definitely prettier time. Specifically, I've returned to the sitcom world of 1967.*

I'm almost done with Season 2 of That Girl. Here was a woman who is clearly in her 30s, but everyone she meets agrees to join her in her fantasy and pretend she's a good 5 or 6 years younger. She has impossibly thick lashes and perfect signature hair. I know that they were both fake, but in sitcom world, they're real. Ann Marie had noticeable boobs and round hips, yet she kept getting modeling gigs! She often went weeks without income, yet she could afford a 1BR New York apartment (with exposed brick, no less!) and a wardrobe so expansive she never wore the same thing twice. Best of all, she ran everywhere … in heels!

She had adventures. She had a sense of humor. Everyone loved her. She enthusiastically believed that The Next Big Thing was right around the corner. Of course, she didn't have a sex life (too bad; Donald is growing on me as boyfriend material), but in the sitcom world of 1967, that would have made her a slut.

I hate returning to my real life. I have menstrual cramps. One of my new windows is broken and must be replaced. It's time for two of my cats to go to the vet, and oh, what a hassle that is. There's an important client meeting on Friday. I miss my best friend.

Why can't Ruthie and Jerry Baumann move out and leave ME the apartment across the hall from Ann? I bet I'd have a Sassoon/Twiggy signature haircut. Ann and I would go shopping together. Maybe I could be a girl reporter at Newsview magazine, where Donald and Jerry work! I'd be frustrated by all the "fluffy" pieces I'm stuck doing, but Ann would tell me to keep the faith -- someday I'll get to do real news!

Damn it all, there goes the alarm on my Lotus Notes. I guess it's time for this old gal to do some real, 2007 work.


*I know, I know. The real world of 1967 was filled with picketing and rioting and war and bigotry. That's why I want to go to Ann Marie's New York, which I realize never existed … but I wish it did!

I read the news today, oh boy ...

So Obama is gonna run. Yawn. Whatever.

I wish I was excited. I wish I was inspired. I remember how I felt at this time, four years ago, when it struck me that Senator Kerry was the right man for this country at this critical juncture.

But here are my choices as they stand today:

• Working for a candidate because he's black
• Working for a candidate because he's hot
• Working for a candidate because she's a woman and her husband asked me to

Please, Barack and John and Hill, make me fall in faith with one of you. I'll be a hard worker and a true believer. Just give me a real reason.

I'll do it during the Globes

I didn't do much of anything today. I sorted my laundry (but didn't quite get it down to the washing machines). I shaved a couple minutes off my 10,000 steps. I grocery shopped -- which today means signing for the Peapod delivery.

But tonight are the Golden Globes! I've seen many of the performances and can't wait to see many of the dresses. So perhaps I can redeem myself by going through my closet. Or maybe I'll give in to sloth and doze off on the sofa before the first Dream Girl takes the stage.

A book that helped. Really helped.

The subtitle of Elizabeth Edwards' book Saving Graces is "finding solace and strength from friends and strangers." She talks about how the kindnesses of those around her have sustained her through political losses, breast cancer and most wrenchingly, the death of her teenage son, Wade.

This book inspired me to accept help today from my oldest friend. She offered to come along to the family wake today. She knows how awful it would be for me to both support my mom and comfort my uncle while dealing with my molester. She wanted to be there for moral support. My first impulse was to be embarrassed and say, "No, that's OK."

But why? Why shouldn't I accept her offer? Why shouldn't I take "solace and strength" from someone I've known from my girlhood?

And so today she accompanied me. I hugged all who needed to be hugged, held everyone who needed to be held, and, at just past the hour mark, when my molester appeared, we slipped out the side door and now I am home.

Visitations are never fun. But this one went as well as these things can. In large part because she was with me. I am grateful to her … and to Mrs. Edwards.

One step up, two steps back

Last summer, a proposed family get together brought an ugly old incident back to light. One of my relatives -- a pillar of his church -- molested me back when I was in high school. It still gives him perverse pleasure to have gotten away with it. The last time he and I were together (at my mother's 60th birthday party) he kept standing too close to me, moving up behind me and leaning into me, whispering in my ear. He tried to talk to me about masturbation and whether or not I was willing to do what it takes to get a baby. Yes, the pig actually said those things me at a family gathering. He was almost daring me to make a scene in front of everyone.

Naturally he is invited to my aunt's wake and funeral. Naturally, pillar of the church and all, he will be treated with the utmost respect. Naturally he will say something inappropriate to me under the worst possible circumstances and completely enjoy himself.

Many members of my family know what he did to me. It isn't so much that they doubt my word, they just wish I would forget about it. I wish I could forget about it, too. Rage and revulsion can be mighty unpleasant emotions. But I can't forget it if he keeps bringing it up. And whenever I'm in a room with him, he tries to do just that.

HE is the one at fault, not me. But I am the inconvenient one.

Last summer I thought I got through to my mother about how I felt. I am not asking my family to shun him (though, frankly, that would be nice). I am just asking them to consider me when putting together family gatherings. Don't put me in a position where I'm completely vulnerable and unable to stand up for myself (if I make a scene I'll just ruin everyone else's afternoon of denial). She said she finally understood. All these decades later, she finally understood. It was such a joyous relief!

But then, over the holidays, I noticed a framed photo of the old bastard (a portrait taken by his church, naturally) in her dining room. And I found out yesterday he will be attending the wake and funeral. My mom was dismissive about it. She wants me there to support her and comfort my uncle. I'm tough. What's a few hours with him, really, anyway?

Just like taking a little paper punch to my soul. That's all.

My mother is so upset by the recent death in the family that her needs superceed mine. And I know she's doing the best she can.

But that doesn't make it any more comfortable to have a little hole punched in my soul.

Life moves on inexorably … right on to death

I was having a good day yesterday. Work was productive and not ugly. I bought a sweater at lunchtime (Jones New York, 30% off). Worked out before meeting a friend at the theater (Doubt is excellent). Dinner and drinks afterward (I had a martini). Got home about 11:00 to a couple of voicemails.

My uncle's wife died last evening.

Life rolls on. Until it stops. That's how it goes for everyone, isn't it?

She had been very ill for months. Cancer, pneumonia, blood clots. She was not going to get better, so I suppose this is the happiest ending her story could have: One last Christmas, one last visit from her children.

The wake and funeral are going to be hard on my uncle. He has a debilitating disease, Parkinson's. He is uncomfortable in public because of his symptoms. (I'm sure Rush Limbaugh agrees he should be, too.) Now he will have to mourn in public. Their marriage wasn't that great even when they each had their health, so there is something insincere and barbaric about putting him through all this.

But I will attend this circus because he is my uncle and, in his way, he has always been good to me. I will suck it up and stop being selfish and show my respect and gratitude by showing up.

Today sucks.

Something I found while lurking

It's Delurking Week! This is when we are all supposed to speak up and admit to blogsters that we are reading their posts and hoping to slip away anonymously. Naturally you are invited to make yourself known by leaving a comment, but I'm afraid I cannot insist. After all, I think you know how I found out about Delurking Week. I can't very well ask you to do as I say, not as I do.

One of my favorite blogs to lurk at (toward? upon?) is that of an old boyfriend's wife. Before they moved away, we all still traveled in the same crowd and she was insanely jealous of me. And when I say "insanely," I know from whence I speak. She is younger, prettier, thinner and has better skin. I cannot for the life of me understand why she even thought of me as competition.

Anyway, I am tempted to take this delurking opportunity to say "hi." But she's strung as tight as piano wire, and I'm afraid she might retaliate with a restraining order.

Today I will. Really.

I missed my 11:30 race over to the health club because my boss was in my doorway, bonding with me. It seemed like a better use of my time. He's a nice, entertaining guy and I can be a handful. It's nice to strengthen our interpersonal so that when I get on his last nerve, he can remember that he likes me … at least sometimes.

But at 12:30 there should be another open window -- meaning I may just be able to get a locker and the use of a treadmill. Which is good I actually miss my workouts. I want to feel my heartrate go up. I want my leg muscles to feel fatigued. I want to read the December issue of O and see all the ways I could already be living my best life if only I'd picked up the magazine in a more timely fashion.

Lazy, lazy, lazy

Yes, that's me! I had an uneventful weekend, and yet the floor of my den is still covered with books and luggage. (At least the door is closed, so I can't see it.) My birthday and Christmas gifts are still in boxes and tucked between my TV and the chair. I had such ambitious plans for this weekend, and I got so little done.

Dyed my hair, grocery shopped, repaired the hem of a jacket, returned a pair of Cars pj's to Kohl's (my mom and I both bought them for my nephew for Christmas) … that's it. None of my other chores got done.

We have a long weekend ahead of us. I'm going to try to tack an extra day onto it. Maybe with Monday and Tuesday to myself, I can get off my ass and get something done!

Two for One

Today's Tribune included a column by an irascible Royko wannabe who asks what Hillary should "do" about Bill. The writer feels that the junior Senator from New York would have a better chance at the Presidency if she could keep her husband out of sight until November 2008.

I have heard this sort of thing before and it confuses me. For the only reason Hillary's candidacy excites me is that it will get Bill back on centerstage. To quote the current tagline of his Presidential Library, "I miss Bill." He made my friends and I feel as though we have a place at the table. He understood our interests and considered them. Even though we weren't/aren't rich white men, we were included. We never felt that way about Presidents Reagan, Bush or Bush.

Hillary is a bright woman. A talented politician. But I do not feel that she loves public service the way her husband does. I sense that she approaches it out of a sense of duty. She wants to do as much as she can, and the top office is where you can get the most done. I sense that Bill Clinton loves it. All of it. From the handshaking to the policy minutiae. Where she seems about power, he seems about passion.

Unfortunately he was, ultimately, more about passion and promise than performance. I was disappointed in many things about the Clinton Presidency. Some of them broke my heart.

But if, come November 2008, I vote for Hillary, it will be for the BOGO.

That's Jen's photo, not mine

I Am Jennifer Aniston

I'm the girl next door with a free spirit. I'm low key and naturally sexy. Sweet and approachable, people are attracted to my upbeat attitude. And even when life doesn't go my way, I always eventually turn things around.

Are You More Like Jennifer or Angelina?

In praise of ... well ... ME

I'm still pudgy and have yet to step foot on a treadmill this year. I emptied my shelves back on December 14, with every intention of restoring order to my personal library, but the books are still all over the floor. I returned home on New Year's Day but have yet to put my luggage away.

I am lazy. I am sloppy. I lack self discipline.

But damn, I'm good at this job. We presented to the client yesterday, and while I was speaking, I felt it: "I own this room." I was just authoritative enough to maintain their respect, just self-deprecating enough to win them over emotionally. Of course it didn't hurt that the work I presented was solid. I wish my art director/partner was here today so he could share in the afterglow.

Oh, those chubby cheeks!

Too many Christmas cookies. All the margaritas I consumed while on vacation didn't help. I hate sounding this typical, but my goodness these work slacks feel tight today!

And precisely because I hate being this typical, I'm not going to join the masses who resolved to start working out today. The gym will be too crowded and besides, I have a lot of post-holiday/post-vacation crap to do this week … like laundry, bill paying, and then there's this pesky old job. (Presentation on Thursday. That's day after tomorrow. Yikes!)

But something must be done here. There's more than a little self-loathing going on here. This is within my control, after all. Perhaps it's time the treadmill move from the corner next to the dresser and land in front of the TV.

Some of my best friends are gay

An amazing phenomenon takes place whenever I visit Key West. I find myself in the minority. My friends down here, all lovely and generous people, are gay and their friends tend (overwhelmingly) to be homosexual as well. So, as a straight woman, I'm the one who is different. I'm the one with the lifestyle that's out of sync, that they just "don't get."

This little trip through the looking glass is very good for me. I aim to be as nice and open welcoming when I meet people whose lifestyles are different from my own. I'm sure I don't hit the target as often as I would like to, but it's important to try. And this annual trek to the southernmost spot in the contiguous United States is a good reminder.

Spa. Ah!

My friends down here in the Keys gave me my belated birthday present today: a massage at a local spa. It was an hour of pure bliss! (Of course, now I'm back on the computer, tightening up those shoulder muscles she worked so hard on.)

Then we had margaritas. After exhaustive research, I am pleased to report that, unlike hard lemonade and sunshine, margaritas and sunshine do not cause migraines. Perhaps tomorrow my research project should expand to samgria. I love science.

Greetings from Atlanta!

Of course, I intended to go to Key West. But let's not dwell on the negative. Instead, let's view this as an adventure!

My flight from O'Hare was two hours late because there was something wrong with the plane and they needed to replace a part. I don't fly well at all, so that was not the news I was hoping to hear. Still, I would prefer to be stuck on the ground than in the air on a plane that's not safe.

We arrived at Hartsfield with about 15 minutes before my connecting flight to Key West left. However, I was back in Row 36, so by the time I actually got off the plane, that flight was gone. (Presumably with my luggage.)

I waited around for a spot on another Key West flight, but alas, there were no seats for a lonely little standby like me. So the good people at Delta gave me a hotel voucher and here I am. They also gave me a free nightshirt, toothbrush and paste, and a razor. All this and heaven, too!

Wish I had a river I could skate away on ... Or at least a snow globe to gaze upon. It's not that I'm lonely, per se. I just miss him.

You can't carry on a snow globe

I heard that on the news the other morning. Apparently O'Hare security believes that a snow globe can be converted into a weapon or used in bomb making. So that means that when I pack tonight, my new snow globe stays behind on my coffee table.

Too bad. I'll miss it.

A gift from best friend, the snow globe depicts Hollywood Blvd., where I stayed when I visited him last September. I miss him so. I haven't heard from him in more than a week. Since I'm going away to spend New Year's with friends, I don't know when we'll be in touch again.

It would help if I could bring the snow globe …

Christmas miracles

Last night was our big family celebration, so as of today, all the major Christmas folderol is behind me and I'm left with quiet time. I've used this quiet time to appreciate what's important …

Friends. I've celebrated over the past two weeks with six different friends. And they are very different, but they are all very dear. There are cards on the next to my phone from others, making me promise that we'll get together in the new year. I am fortunate to be surrounded by a diverse group of people, each who sees something of value in me. I know I can be difficult -- by turns prickly and independent and demanding. Yet I have so many people I can call upon if the chips are down, or if I have joys I want to share. That's miracle #1.

Family. Last night, as I was leaving, my mother hugged me so tight. After the health scares she's had this year, I am grateful to still have her to hug on Christmas Eve. My nephew was so thrilled with his gifts that he practically howled each time he opened one. My niece and nephew were both just as pleased that the gifts they chose and purchased and wrapped themselves were hits, as well. They are miracles, and I am fortunate to be able to watch them grow up.

My critters. Reynaldo (the world's worst cat) has actually slept quietly at the foot of my bed, two nights in a row! Charlotte is chatty and lively and happy. And Joey, my good old boy, is as sweet-natured and kind a soul as God has ever put here. They bring nature into my home, and their unconditional love is a miracle.

My faith. To borrow from "Silent Night," Christ the Savior is born. That was the first miracle. His Resurrection is the ultimate miracle. That is what this day is about, and it's important to remember to be grateful

YUM!

Last night we had dinner at the Park Grill in Millennium Park. It was beautiful. Not only the holiday decorations, but our waiter, too. Think tall, dark and handsome. Think the yard boy in Desperate Housewives. Think the green side of 30, tops.

He was flirting with me a bit, God bless him. I suspect this is because he wanted a big tip. And he got one. After all, in addition to bringing us three courses and two rounds of drinks, he brought me great joy, just allowing me to look at him.

The tables were very close together to accommodate the extra shoppers and skaters who came in to dine. So when our waiter was taking the order of those seated next to us, his ass was quite literally even with my eyes. Ah …

I suppose he's young enough to be my son. This illustrates the problem I confront. Where does healthy (and ultimately chaste) enjoyment of the opposite sex end and Mrs. Robinson/Mary Kay Letourneau lechery begin?

"I wish I had a river I could skate away on"

Love this song. Love James Taylor's performance. Maybe because I'm lonely without my best friend this holiday season, but this is my current favorite Christmas song. (Maybe it's these lyrics, "I'm so hard to handle/I'm selfish and I'm sad …" I'm quite sure my best friend would agree with that!)

I also really like this version of "Baby, It's Cold Outside," a duet with Natalie Cole. If you have a few extra bucks, and feel it's time you bought yourself a Christmas giftie, I recommend James Taylor at Christmas.

Now I know my color

Dark Purple

To others, I seem a bit dark, mysterious, and moody. In truth, I am just a very unique person who doesn't care what others think. And I really enjoy my offbeat interests and friends. I've decided that life is about living for myself - simple as that.

What Color Purple Are You?