Mind the Gap

So I do a lot of writing about make up and a few weeks ago I received a press kit at work from Bobbi Brown. In it, was a large poster with this image of a model supposedly wearing the new raspberry make up by Bobbi Brown. I enjoyed that she had such a large gap in her front teeth. Kind of a rebellion against the world’s standards for beauty and all that…

But then, I was in London, riding down an escalator in a tube station and who did I see but my gap toothed Bobbi Brown friend. Except now the gap is gone. Why was this done? Was it because she looks more like the typical image of beauty with no gap? Or because British people might take the gap thing personally? Like it was a mockery of their stereotypically bad teeth? Who’s to say? But I did think the photoshopping was interesting.

Ouch

Yesterday I had to get a Hepatitis A shot.

I do NOT do very well with shots. The chance of me becoming a heroine addict is pretty close to the same risk of me becoming anorexic. It will never happen. I hate needles and I love food.

I was with my friend Laura when I went to get the shot. She was very supportive and even held my sweaty, nervous hand while it was being given to me. Seriously, you would have thought I was in the middle of getting an epidural to give birth to triplets with as much fear as I was displaying. Afterwards, for like 10 minutes, the nurse kept asking if I was going to be ok because I couldn’t seem to catch my breath and kept sinking further in my seat.

I survived though and all was well until this morning. My friend Katie, who has been staying with me the last several days, was in bed with me at 6 a.m. when I rolled over onto Rosie and noted that my arm felt like a very large man had punched it.

Now I’m more than a little afraid that I have caught Hepatitis A. At least in my left arm. I can barely lift it. The only reason I’m typing this entry with both hands is because I used my right hand to lift my left arm up to the keyboard. That was a painstaking process. Sometimes I think I psyche myself out, but sometimes I think maybe having a needle stuck in your muscle really freaking hurts. (And believe me, I have big muscles in my arm. I am, as they say, toned. Ok. That’s a lie. But there is some muscle there I think.)

I don’t know what Hepatitis A feels like, but if by some chance it feels like you’re tired, bored and wish you could just curl up in front of your laptop watching Lost all day with your gimp arm, then I think I have it.

The Dream

One of my New Year's resolutions was to run a half-marathon. I imagine when I do it I'll look like this guy. Either like this or dead. Because, let's be honest, running that far might kill me.

My Airplane Reading

I get this feeling sometimes that after the world ends, when God destroys all our buildings and our flags, we will wish that we had seen everybody as equal, that we had eaten dinner with prostitutes, held them in our arms, opened up spare rooms for them and loved them and learned from them. I was just another stupid child in the flow, you know; I didn’t know any of these things. I didn’t know that it didn’t matter what a person looked like, how much money they made or whether or not they were cool. I didn’t know that cool was just a myth and that one person was just as beautiful and meaningful as another… Like I said, it felt important to climb the social ladder, it felt important to defend our identities, it felt as though we were saving our own lives. – Donald Miller, Searching for God Knows What.

I like how he says stuff.

Huh?

Jenn and I occasionally become confused using the photo booth application. Apparently.

I Recommend

As it happens, I don’t just waste time writing a blog, I also spend a significant amount of time reading them. Why this is, I do not know. I mean, I could spend a few pages trying to analyze the human fascination with other people’s lives, but really I think I’m just nosy and spend more time than is probably healthy online. So I end up on other blogs.

This week I was introduced the Julia Allison’s blogs. (I’m definitely coming in late on this one.) She’s the editor of Star magazine and a columnist for Time Out New York. She’s also pretty darn close to my age, but somehow light years ahead of me in career success. If you have several hours to burn, I’d recommend reading the blog she and her ex boyfriend, Jakob wrote together (jakobandjulia.com) and if you want to become stalkerishly obsessed with someone who is totally obsessed with themselves, then check out her constantly updated juliaallison.tumblr.com.

I read other blogs too. For a long time I was hooked on fashion and celebrity sites: PerezHilton.com, thesuperficial.com and gofugyourself.com. All three are still at the top of my list for totally mind-numbing ways to waste your time.

My other two random ones that I check quite frequently are thisfish.ivillage.com and dooce.com. Both quite pleasant reading, in my opinion, about two relatively normal people who happen to be good writers. Also, dooce totally hooked me with her photos of her dog. I’m a sucker for pooch pics.

Spare Change

This week Jenn and I stayed in her dad’s sweet flat near a very bustling Oxford Street. For those unfamiliar with Oxford Street it’s home to the fantastic department store Selfridges, three glorious H&Ms, the flagship Top Shop store and my new favorite French Connection. Today we went to Camden town, easily one of the coolest spots in London—if not the world—in my opinion. It’s a lively hub with an odd mix of punk, gothic, narcotic-lovers, tourists, falafel selling, incense burning, random foreign and British people. I cannot describe it. Ever. Just put it on your top places to visit. Apparently a lot of people do because I saw a sign in the tube station there today that said more than 55,000 people come through the station every Saturday. That’s a heck of a lot of people.

The thing about both these places is that they are full of people who appear to be homeless. People who sit on the curbs, curl up on the benches or generally stand with empty eyed gazes watching the crowds move by, often holding an empty, dirty Starbucks cup and hoping for your spare change.

And all week long, I’ve walked past every single one of them. I haven’t paused to offer help. I haven’t even dropped the change in my pocket into one single cup. They have been as invisible to me as they are to almost every other one of the literally thousands of people who pass them all day long. Every single day.

I do not feel good about this. My reasons for not helping are not good ones. I don’t drop my spare change because to me, that seems ridiculous. If you truly want to help someone, you pause, you offer them help. You buy them food. You ask them how much money they need. You ask them their name and where they’re from. You show them that you care because not feeling invisible probably means more in the long run than a few spare pence.

And so I hate the change dropping method. But then I don’t pause for two reasons. One, I am afraid. I know this is stupid. They’re homeless. They’re barely clothed. What will they do to me? My fear is obviously irrational. My second reason is also a sort of fear. And this one, I’m even more ashamed of. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Will they think I’m attempting some kind of ‘holier than thou’ charitable giving effort? Will they wonder what the crazy American is doing with the homeless man? Again, pathetic excuses.

My God is very clear on His feelings about the poor and the way I am supposed to treat them:

“I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink. I was alone and away from home, and you did not invite me into your home. I was without clothes, and you gave me nothing to wear. I was sick and in prison, and you did not care for me.' "Then those people will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty? When did we see you alone and away from home? Or when did we see you without clothes or sick or in prison? When did we see these things and not help you?' "Then the king will answer, 'I tell you the truth. Anything you refused to do for any of my people here, you refused to do for me.' – Matthew 25.

When, in the past, I have paused to help someone like this, I have never regretted it. I’ve never felt threatened. I’ve only felt like I was doing the right thing and so I’m pretty ashamed of how I’ve behaved this week. I don’t think I’ve done the right thing at all. But, I don’t like to waste time feeling guilty. If I was going to spend time with my guilt, there are plenty of other things in my life I’d probably be focusing on to be honest.

So, I guess I’m just going to try to change. Something that’s obviously going to make me a little uncomfortable, but well, if we’re going to be honest, just posting this entry makes me feel uncomfortable. (In case I haven’t made it clear, I worry about what other people think of me and I fear this entry makes me seem a) like a jerk who ignores homeless people and b) a little preachy).

I guess the thing is though, whether you think of Jesus as your savior or just as a nice guy who lived 2000 years ago and had a lot of pretty decent advice, if you’re reading this, I assume you’re a member of the human race (except you Rosie, thanks for reading pup!), which means you can appreciate the fear of being invisible and the pain of being so poor you put aside all pride to beg for money. And if by some chance, you consider my rambling thoughts here the next time you pass that guy with his cup, then I’m glad I wrote this.

Just call me Ponce de Leon

Today Jenn had to do some work. I briefly considered acting like a well behaved employed person and doing some work of my own, but then I decided, I’m in London. I can act like that when I return to the other side of the big pond. For now, I will pretend that Thursday afternoons are meant for meandering around parks and dipping in and out of random British stores. And so that’s exactly what I did.

I’m of the opinion that to truly experience a place you have to explore it a little on your own. (If my mother is reading this, she’s probably vehemently disagreeing right now) But I like to just get out and wander a little in cities that I’m not totally familiar with. Luckily, Jenn and I are staying in a rather ritzy area of London so I didn’t really risk ending up in the middle of some gang war during my wandering.

I started in Hyde Park. As it’s only about a block from our flat, that was an easy place to start. For awhile, I just meandered down random paths, mostly on the look out for dog walkers—specifically hoping to see some dachshunds, if we’re going to be honest. And there were plenty to be found—dog walkers that is. There was only one dachshund, but he was REALLY cute. He was hanging out with a black lab and they looked a little like they were snorting for truffles with their excessive grass digging.

Eventually I crossed a bridge in the park and ended up standing behind a fence, looking at the new memorial fountain to Princess Di. While I was standing there, I noticed a woman, dressed in a long red coat. She had short blond hair peeking out from beneath her hat and from a distance, she looked a little like the late princess. She was sitting on the edge of the fountain, looking in. It was the perfect photo op. And I was just pulling out my 340 pound camera to capture it when a guy I’d noticed earlier on the bridge came up behind me.

“Do you have the time?” he asked.

“No, sorry,” I said. I haven’t been able to figure out what time it is here for the last five days. I don’t have a watch or a cell phone and I keep sleeping ridiculous hours and the sun goes down at like 3 p.m. The chance of me knowing the time is about as good as me knowing how to speak Chinese.

“Oh, ok,” he replied. “Well, do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?”

Uh oh. This is why mom wouldn’t want me wandering around by myself.

“Um yeah, I’m just going to walk alone,” I said and smiled, hoping he wouldn’t kill me.

“Ok, well, would you like to get a drink sometime?”

“No, thank you,” I smiled again, deciding that he probably wasn’t going to kill me, but still feeling kind of awkward about this whole encounter.

“Ok, well, just thought I’d ask,” he said and then turned and left.

Fair enough. By the time I’d turned around my Diana look alike was gone. I felt a little angry about that.

From the memorial I continued. And then, a few minutes later, stumbled upon a palace. This, by the way, is something that doesn’t happen to me very often on my walks in parks. Most of my park walking time is spent praying that Rosie doesn’t get hit by a stray golf ball (the park I walk in is partially a golf course) and also that Rosie doesn’t get taken away by a crazed hawk (this almost happened. Twice.). So, palaces don’t show up all that often on my walks.

It was Kensington Palace and it was lovely. I hung out in the gardens for awhile and then decided that since it was very windy and I wasn’t wearing a coat (I’m really starting to hope my mom isn’t reading this entry now) that I’d head over to Kensington High Street—a place where I knew I could find at least two things I needed: food and H&M.

As it turns out, Kensington High Street now looks a little like any street in the US. There’s an Urban Outfitters, a McDonalds, a GAP, a KFC and the most glorious Whole Foods I’ve ever seen.

That’s right. Whole Foods. I mean, it makes sense. This is a fair trade/organic/vegetarian loving society if I’ve ever seen one, but this Whole Foods was out of control. It is three phenomenal floors of breads, meats, cheese, veggies and every thing in between. There is an entire room dedicated to cheese. Not a section. I mean, its own closed off room. I would have taken photos, but I was pretty busy “sampling” (eating every last one on the tray) the aged cheddar. I could write pages about this Whole Foods. But I won’t, because that would bore you and because salivating on my keyboard would probably ruin it.

In fact, I’m going to just stop writing now. This has become ridiculously long and, well, as I noted before. I’m in London. It’s time for me to leave my laptop and go and enjoy it.

Photo Booth

Last night I wanted to take a photo of Jenn and I together—we’ve taken like 634985 of each other individually the last few days, but I wanted a nice one of us together. So, despite the fact that I was dying from the heat inside this flat (it stays at a nice, steamy 120 degrees all of the time in here I think), I insisted that we sit down together in front of my laptop and use the photobooth application to capture us together in London.

However, after a few tries, I was growing frustrated. Due to the heat, I kept feeling like my hair was all over the place and my face looked like I’d just spent like four hours in a tropical jungle. Jenn, ever the optimist when it comes to photos, insisted that we keep trying. She said I just needed to be more confident with my photos. And so she proceeded to show me multiple “sexy” poses and then insist that I try as well.

I do not do “sexy.” At least not very well. Mostly, when I try to be sexy, I end up busting out laughing. And actually, the photos with me laughing were better than the ones where I wasn’t. Because in those photos, my bottom lip looks like it’s the size of a Big Mac. That’s why I have to smile in pictures. Or the lip gets out of control.

I would share with you all of the sexy shots of Jenn because, somehow, she actually looks normal, but it would look creepy if I had that many single shots of Jenn. I can’t show you any of the “sexy” shots of me because they’ve all been deleted.



Except this one. This is Jenn and I together and she is actually growling at the camera and telling me to do the same. I tried. Pretty unsuccessfully really. And ended up with a picture with my mouth open. Which is how I look in an unusually large amount of my photos anyway. It’s a good shot though because it does capture the moment of Jenn trying to teach me how to look hot in front of photobooth. Which is a very large variation from what I usually do in front of photo booth. To see that… scroll down.

'ello mates!

In case you missed my last post (which I really can’t imagine that you’re not just constantly stuck on my page hitting renew in hopes that I’ve updated), I’m in London. And it’s awesome. I mean, it’s rainy, I’m taking public transportation and a diet coke cost like 4 dollars. But I love it. I don’t know what it is about this city, but it gets me every time. I can’t really figure out why though.

There are certainly things I love—like the variety of sandwiches offered. Why don’t we have things like pickle and cheddar sandwiches in the US? I would happily eat them any day. And I love skinny blueberry muffins are Starbucks. And real fish and chips. And, my newly learned love is that of South African grapes. This, they do not offer that at my local Kroger in Atlanta, but WOW. These things are good. I keep offering to share them with Jenn and then eating them all.

Anyway, I like things other than food here too. That just happens to always come to my mind first. Today Jenn and I meandered around Covent Garden for awhile and I remembered how I like the scent of the Lush store there and how the whole place smells like it. And I like public performers. Like the quartet we watched there for a while today.

I think I really like the people here though the most. I don’t know why. They’re not the friendliest group really. As Jenn noted in her blog today (so-calledwriter.tumblr.com – if you happen to read her blog, note that the shirt from H& M is not THAT bad. Something that will become obvious once I’ve purchased it and worn it. As I have every plan to do despite Jenn’s vehement negative feedback. I have a suspicion I’m actually going to have to sneak into an H&M to purchase it though.). Anyway, as she noted, our “rudeness” in Covent Garden led so some fairly unfriendly words. And on the tube it’s really every man for himself. As far as service in restaurants, every waiter/waitress we’ve had so far has tried to pretend we didn’t exist as long as possible. But I really like British people. Like, when I hear them talking to one another and when I actually engage one in conversation, I just like them. I mean, I like most people really, but I’m kind of partial to them.

I would like to note though that there are certain things British that perplex me, but that I enjoy because they seem so unusual:

On the streets at intersections they have written “Look Left” or “Look Right” – I can only assume this is because they drive on the wrong side of the road and therefore feel the need to help the rest of the world out so that we don’t get run over by one of their crazy drivers.

They insist that your credit card be signed. And then, they insist on checking your signature with the back of the credit card. This perplexes me every time. Is the guy at the cash register at the grocery store a handwriting expert in his spare time? And the woman at the drugstore? Her too?

They have some of the most random American movies ever on TV all the time. Last night Jenn and I watched “Election” with Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick before falling asleep and today we keep watching Cheaper by the Dozen II. I’m sure there’s some reason behind this, but I don’t get it.

Ok, that’s all. This entry is most ending because I’m tired of writing, it’s my turn to shower and Hilary Duff just came on Cheaper by the Dozen and I don’t think I can handle watching this anymore.

The Day of my Birth

So I forget a lot of things. Once, I forgot my passport on a plane in a communist country. I often forget the names of things—like people I met 30 seconds before. Sometimes I even forget the names of my first cousins on my mom’s side (there are like 20,000 of them I think). But today, I forgot my birthday and THAT is something I’ve NEVER done before.

Granted, it was only for like ten minutes, but for a good ten minutes after US Airways abruptly awakened me for breakfast on my flight to London this morning, I was going about as if January 20th was any other day. I checked out the horizon, hoping to see land, I sniffed the suspicious looking breakfast bread thingy they gave us to eat, I rummaged through my bag in search of my mango flavored lipsmackers chapstick. The usual.

And then, from the row behind me, where Jenn had taken up camp because there were only like three other people on our flight, I heard a voice softly serenading me. “Happy Birthday to you... Happy Birthday to you…” I rather rudely interrupted her, shouting that it WAS my birthday! I was totally shocked that I had forgotten. I mean, granted, I would have remembered soon. Like, after I’d finished doing a thorough examination on that breakfast bread. But still, who forgets their own birthday?

And that is just one of the many reasons Jenn has made this day quite special. (It’s already 6 p.m. here!) We’re currently watching The Wedding Singer on TV while eating much cheese and grapes. Well, I am doing most of the eating if we’re going to be honest. And tonight, we have very big plans to go out to dinner and see what London has to offer on a Sunday night. However, considering that about 22 seconds after we walked into our flat a little while ago we both collapsed into jet lag/exhausting days of traveling naps, I have a feeling we won’t make it too far.

*If you’re one of the, well, one person, who reads my blog with any kind of frequency, you’ll probably note that my entries this week will have a bit of a different format. I’ll be doing a little more a journaling tone rather than storytelling. Capiche? Good.

The Green Stuff

I love guacamole. Love it. Like, probably more than a person should love a food. Especially a green and mushy food. But I just do.

Really, this love affair has been going on for some time. At some point in high school I perfected a guacamole recipe that led me to becoming the chief maker of the tasty dip in my house. And so, on special occasions (beach trips, visitors in town, taco nights) I would make my dip. And then, promptly eat the majority of it. I’m not that great at sharing when it comes to guacamole. Or food in general for that matter.

I also have a tendency to judge Mexican restaurants based entirely on their guac. Lauriol Plaza in DC will forever remain one of my favorite places to eat in the world because of its dip. (And it’s swirl margaritas, but that’s a story for another time.) El Fenix in Dallas comes a close second. And, most recently, in Atlanta, I have developed a true adoration for the green stuff at Taqueria del Sol.

But there is one problem with guacamole—beyond the obvious not sharing/biting other people’s hands when they come close to my avocado stash issue. It is one of many words I find difficult to pronounce.

That’s right. I’m an editor. I was an English major in college. I read a lot of books. But pronunciation gets me every time. Ask me to read out loud and there’s a good chance before a paragraph is up I will have stumbled over a word. Words that I know what they mean, but I struggle with saying them.

Guacamole is one of many words that I know how to say, but I have to think twice about before I do it. My temptation is to pronounce it Wok-oh-moly. I don’t know why. Other commonly paused over words for me include Caterpillar (I want to say Calla-piller), Croissant (Quoi – sont) and Metropolis (Metro- Pollis).

So yeah, I struggle with this. Yet another reason I chose to pursue print rather than broadcast journalism. That first time I pronounced Metropolis wrong on television would have been really awkward. Luckily for me, at places where one can get truly good guacamole, English is a second language for most of the employees. So my pronunciation of just about anything on the menu sounds terrible to them—which means that I can almost always enjoy my guac free from ridicule.

Pausing

Today in snowed in Atlanta. That’s right. It snowed in the city where at points this summer I was scared if I breathed too heavily I might actually burn the inside of my esophagus from the sheer heat outside. Also the same city where I was seriously concerned my dachshund’s paws might melt into the pavement.

But it was magical. Granted, for most of the snowfall I was sitting inside my office at work, staring at clumps of snow making their way past my 14th floor window and then in traffic on my way home, but there is something about that feeling of knowing everyone bundled up in their cars around you is feeling just a little like a kid who might get out on a snow day tomorrow.

A few years ago I lived in Boston and even there, there was something magical about that first winter snowfall. Of course, by the last snowfall, it wasn’t winter. It was May. And there were still piles of sludge on the streets. And I literally cried when it started snowing. So yeah, not so much magical as maybe an indication of depression that time.

But tonight, when it started falling, I started thinking about being a kid and playing in the snow. And I remembered what I think I still consider one of the best weeks of my life.

It was in the mid nineties sometime. Definitely after 5th grade and before 8th, but I can’t remember when exactly. It had snowed in my hometown in North Carolina—like big time snow. It covered the streets and the yards and the trees and the houses. It was that kind of snowfall that leaves everything quiet (at least in the south) because cars don’t drive out in it and everyone stays at home. And it felt like a glorious holiday. My dad stayed home from work, I could roam the neighborhood streets with my sled and every other kid was equally freed up for their time.

The first day we discovered a hill for sledding in one of our neighbors backyards and for the remaining week of being out of school, my brother and I would wake up early every morning, and head for that hill. We’d stop by our friend’s houses and get them to come along and usually by midday the hill was filled with people. And over and over and over again we would sled down the hill and trek back up it, pausing occasionally for snowball wars.

I remember thinking that one of the best parts about that week was that all of the snow rendered the electric fences for all of the dogs in the neighborhood useless—they were now under so much snow that the shock collars didn’t work. So all of my favorite neighborhood dogs were running wild and I think, even as a kid, I could appreciate their freedom. I knew there was something awesome about everyone—even Tipper and Spunky—being free to do what they wanted.

So I guess that’s what I think of when I see snow. Freedom. I forgot that for a little while in Boston, but tonight, as I was sitting in my condo watching the flakes come down, I remembered again. Whether it’s freedom from having to go to school tomorrow, or from work obligations or just from thinking about all the stuff in your head for a brief moment when you’re watching pure white coat everything, that first snow always feels like life is pausing for a second. And a pause is always nice I think.

Chatting

When I’m around people I don’t know, I’m a pretty quiet person. I think this is partially out of shyness, but it’s also out of a real fear that I’m going to say something someone else will think is totally stupid. I guess that is shyness. Whatever the case, until I get to know people, I don’t talk very much. Once I get to know people though, it’s kind of hard to shut me up.

I always envy those people though who are the types who will launch right into a conversation while they’re standing in the grocery line or at the bus stop. I’ve never been the type to do that. (This might have something to do with the fact that I’ve only stood at a “bus stop” like four times in my life, but you get the point)

But, despite my lack of initiative when it comes to spontaneous conversations with random strangers, I always seem to be the person that other people want to talk to. I don’t know why this is. I feel like I put on a fairly aloof face in public—I like to imagine that my face says “I’m not a mean person, but I’m also not here to talk to you.” But I think I’m wrong. I think my face says “If you feel like chatting, come over this way. And if you’re totally crazy, then please, you’re all the more welcome.”

Which is precisely how more times than I can count I’ve ended up being that girl on the subway who has the crazy crack addict sitting next to her telling her that he’s riding the train to rehab while he spits little bits of peanuts all over her because he can’t seem to close his mouth as he chews. Or the girl who gets in a conversation with a lady at Victoria’s Secret about which mesh body suit her fetish-loving boyfriend is going to like better. Both true stories.

So today, when I was having my hair washed at my hairstylist’s, it came as no surprise when the woman washing it deviated from our pleasant conversation about our jobs to tell me about her part time work as a caretaker for an 82 year old woman.

“Yeah, first thing I told her was that she was going to have to wash her own rootie and her own tootie,” she casually threw in as she applied conditioner.

“Rootie and tootie?”

“Yeah girl, you know, her vajayjay and her hayhay.”

Oh my.

The thing was though, even though I’d certainly had no intention of speaking about hayhays or anything else of that nature when I’d gone to have my hair cut today, it wasn’t as if I was offended. In fact, it was kind of refreshing. I spend a lot of time in my life making small talk about things that make me kind of want beat my head against a wall. Maybe it is time for me to bring new vocab like rooties and tooties to these conversations. They’ll be a big hit at stuffy cocktail parties. Or not. But I guess that’s the beauty of saying what you think in public. You don’t care. And that sounds nice to me.

*I do not know the correct spelling of rootie, tootie, vajayjay or hayhay. I apologize for any mispellings that may have occured herein.

Babies

I like babies. I’m not one of those obsessed girls who starts cooing and saying things in baby voices 30 seconds after I see one, but I do like them. I mean, what’s not to like? They smell good, they’re cute and as far as friends, they carry very few risks. I’m not concerned that a baby will talk about me behind my back, tell my secrets or even say anything potentially hurtful to me. As far as I can figure, having a baby for a friend is a pretty win-win situation.

So, on Sunday mornings I volunteer in my church nursery with the babies. And I really enjoy it. When I tell people I do this, they always seem to think it’s such a great thing that I do, but really, I do it for pretty selfish reasons. I like playing with babies for a little over an hour every week. If there was such a thing as a church nursery for puppies, I’d probably opt to do that because, well, puppies can be a lot more fun than babies. And with puppies, it’s socially acceptable to nuzzle your face in their necks. Not so much with other people’s babies.

I’ve been working in the room with some of these babies since they started coming just a few weeks after they were born. And it never fails to surprise me how much personality babies actually have. I think I kind of had the Angelina Jolie mentality of babies being blobs. But they’re not. In fact, I feel like I’ve learned some stuff from these babies. Stuff like if you scream loud enough someone will definitely offer you food. And seeing new things (whether they’re just a new toy or otherwise) can make life seem much better. Babies are like little geniuses.

But the thing is, after my hour, I am one happy person to place those precious little bundles back into their exhausted looking parents arms. I happily return to my life where my only dependant is a ten-pound dachshund who, while she often seems as much of a handful as a baby, can be given a rawhide bone to entertain her for hours on end. And, since rumor has it you can’t just give babies rawhide, it’s probably best that for now my baby time is relegated to Sunday mornings.

Lost

So I have an addiction. I think I can call it that.

The other morning I took my first sick day in almost two years at my current job. A combination of lack of sleep, insane weather changes (15 degrees in Atlanta?! Seriously?) and sitting for four hours on a plane carrying what seemed like around 200 pneumonia-stricken Bostonians, left me with a cold that I think almost killed me.

And so, sometime on Sunday afternoon, I retreated from the rest of the world, pulled my dachshund into bed with me, took a rather large dose of NyQuil and tried not to focus on how much breathing hurt. 24 hours later I was starting to feel like a semi-normal person again. Rosie didn’t look like she had four heads and I found ingesting oxygen to be a somewhat pleasant experience. I briefly considered attempting to be productive and actually working on one of the many articles that had been piling up in my to-do list for weeks, but after a short trip to the refrigerator left me feeling like I’d just climbed Mt. Everest, I decided to do something requiring a little less energy.

Which is how I ended up on abc.com. Those people at ABC really knew what they were doing with the online episodes. In putting old episodes online they have managed to make me become an avid Desperate Housewives watcher, obsessed with Dirty Sexy Money and disappointed that 6 Degrees was ever cancelled. Mind you, I never would have watched any of these shows if I hadn’t seen them first online. Until a year ago I was strictly a Grey’s Anatomy on the occasional Thursday night kind of person. Those days are long gone.

So back to my addiction. Abc.com now has every episode ever of Lost online. I’d never watched Lost with the exception of a random viewing of the finale of the first season. After my sick day I am unstoppable. Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready for work, I didn’t bother with my usual Good Morning America – I had to find out who this John Locke character really was! Last night, during dinner with friends, I kept trying to calculate how many episodes I could watch before I went to bed. Today, I can’t stop thinking about it.

This is a problem for many reasons. First of all, I’m like 70 episodes behind. That’s a lot of time. I mean, I don’t have any really big plans this weekend, but, well, there are only like 60 hours in my weekend. And I have to sleep. And then what happens when I finish those episodes? It’s not like the show is over. There’s no conclusion. There are other more tortured souls than me out there right now just waiting to see the next episodes when they actually come on television. So this is my problem. I’m hoping that maybe after a few more days I’ll feel satiated. I will have had my fill of Jack and Kate and their constant sweating and concerned looks. Until then, assume my next entry hasn’t come yet because I’m pretty busy watching glorious HD streaming on abc.com.