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that I’m already a fan of the Denise Richards reality show. Memorial Day Weekend can’t come soon enough! Unless maybe I’m just a fan of the commercials? I just hope the show lives up to the commercials because they’ve set the bar ridiculously high/low.

Speaking of commercials, am I the only one who thinks the chemistry.com commercials are kind of ruthless? The ones where they show a passive-aggressive couple making promises to each other, promises like “I promise not to tell anyone that you pluck the hair in between your eyebrows,” “I promise not to tell anyone that your family is insane,” “I promise not to tell anyone that you wet the bed on a regular basis,” “I promise not to tell anyone about your DUI’s,” “I promise not to tell anyone that it took you three tries to pass the bar and by that point not even your close friends thought you would pass it,” “I promise not to tell anyone that you have a speech impediment and also, you’re tone deaf.” “I promise not to tell anyone that the way you sneeze bugs me,” etc. Maybe I’m just too sensitive? On behalf of strangers?

Well it finally happened. I made some gym buddies. Well, not really buddies yet, but I shared a moment with Thelma and Sam. Note: I don't actually know their names but they seem like a Thelma and Sam. Anyway, I was laying or lying on some ab crunch machine thing and I heard Sam say that working out is painful. Then Thelma, stretching on the floor, said it was boring! They were talking amongst themselves and I got up and as I was walking away I said 'I think it's boring AND painful!' They both laughed and nodded and invited me to go yachting with them.. I had to decline as I get seasick and I already have plans to go heliboarding this afternoon.

The thing is that I don't really find it painful and boring. I may change my mind tomorrow when those damn tens get me, but still, I like to meet people on their level. Don't worry about it, I'll come to where you are, I often say to people who are stuck in trees or drowning. I like to think they appreciate my willingness to be accomodating. Occasionally I tire of always being so selfless and altruistic and giving and generous and kindhearted and when I do, it's best to avoid me because I engage in petty theft and dabble in grand larceny, but I think it's justified because my daughter needs the medicine and that's why I had to also turn to prostitution and black out one of my teeth and begin speaking as well as singing in a French accent. Who am I? Shall I condemn myself to slavery? This is my opera house! Don't look at me! Turn your face away! Acunamatada! Means no worries? My knowledge of the Disney songbook is strikingly lacking although I enjoy myriad songs from The Rescuers and also Lady and the Tramp. Dumbo, too, but that shit makes me cry.

For my birthday I received the collector's dvd of emmett otter's jugband christmas, quit laughing at me, and it was excellent. I'd forgotten how good the songs were. And there was a bloopers reel which was hilarious and a whole behind the scenes documentary. I recommend it highly to myself. (Despite the fact that I'm kind of paid to be a critic, I don't feel comfortable imposing my otterphilia on you. Not yet at least.)

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Norma is having trouble sleeping. Some people are in love. For how long? Norma knows but can't believe it. Visine advanced relied eye drops help refresh, soothe and something else your eyes. This is what I gleaned from watching telemundo for the past seventeen minutes. Que lastima!
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because there is a thread over on The Activity Pit called “Alison Rosen’s hair” and it’s not entirely flattering—what’s up with the way it poofs out unnaturally—did I overdo it with the hairspray? Is it dry?—and I can’t quite explain why this intense follicular scrutiny makes me feel like I’m in a dream but it does. I think because I’ve joked so much about being obsessed with my hair that to be confronted with the way others are splitting hairs over it (get it? nothing to get here, move along) is strangely gratifying/disturbing.

But see, I feel I shouldn’t comment in the thread itself, yet if I don’t comment I’ll simply die! So here goes:

Yes, I wear a wig and extensions. In fact, under my long black hair is a blond pageboy. Under that is a mousy brown choirboy. My head is like a series of Russian nesting dolls.

The poofing you’re noticing is a result of teasing. Before I go on air the hairstylist shouts taunts at my head. “Is that your hair or did your neck throw up?” is my favorite.

Teasing or back-combing is how “anchor hair” is achieved. Not that I sit in the chair and request anchor hair, however I’ve noticed that I definitely prefer my hair with some poof in it. Otherwise it’s too flat, which is just no good on TV. In real life though, it’s pretty flat.

I don’t dye my hair. It’s naturally black. Truthfully. Don’t make me rip out a hair and show you the root because I so will. As proof I submit my mom and my sister, both of whom also have black hair.

I do straighten my hair though.

I guess that’s really all I have to say at this time.

Note: please excuse my spelling errors. There's only one dictionary at the gym and someone's on it.

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Greeting my little fuzzy dice. I'm here at the gym thinking that I've been able to bear children for twenty years now and I would have made a damn good mother at thirteen so just save it if that's what you were thinking. I was very mature for my age. I'd already read almost all the Sweet Valley High books and some of the Sweet Valley University ones. I couldn't even get into the Sweet Valley junior high ones, that's how mature I was. So but if you think about it, I could already be a grandmother. And thanks a lot for calling me today, kids. I swear, you give them life and what's your thanks? A macaroni wreath and a bookmark that says number one grandma? Actually, I'm so young at heart I told the girls that I don't feel like a grandmother yet so just call me Bertie. I feel like a Bertie.

Anyway, on this, my birthday, I've been thinking that it may be time to reinvent myself. I mean, not the actual me, I'm perfect as is, but the way I am referred to on tv because no matter what they label me as it just doesn't seem right. I'm a writer for magazines but I think that suggests something slightly other than what I provide on tv. Comedian is really closest to what I do on red eye, but I don't perform standup. Hrm. Anyway, which do you think sounds best (but I'm thinking for other shows, not red eye where I don't think it matters at this point since everyone knows me)

Writer and pop culture expert

Writer and pop culture and political analyst who is also funny

Tiny dancer

Smooth criminal

Blogger and tv commentator who also is a journalist

Of course I'm joking about most of these sadly. Am I giving up on this blog post? I am. I am sweaty and have no follow through. Maybe it's menopause. Oh goody!

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If you were a raccoon who also happened to be a raconteur, it would be tough to come up with anything pithy to call yourself. Perhaps this is why raccoons make such boring company.

If my window is open and I hear someone in another apartment across the way sneezing, should I lean my head out and yell “bless you”?

Because of my recent much publicized scandal, I decided to lay low last night. An appearance at the Time 100 gala would not be good for me right now, I announced to my fleet of flacks, ducks, handlers, personal assistants and the horse vet I keep on retainer in case I get a horse (equine health is not something to be taken lightly). They were disappointed, as they thought they’d get the night off and apparently they’d booked a private karaoke room, but as I told them when they were hired and forced to sign a multi-page confidentiality agreement, “[ … ]!”

Sadly the designer of my outfit, Hanes, didn’t get the credit for whipping me up one of his fabulous beefy T confections—this one with body of a bikini model air brushed right onto the oversized white shirt itself—and for that I do feel bad. I also feel badly, but that’s because these oven-mitts I’ve taken to wearing around the house really diminish feeling.

I suppose I’m going to need to return the genuine diamonelles I borrowed for the occasion, which is really a disappointment, because canary yellow suits me and really brings out the gold tones in my hair extensions. And I suppose I’ll need to be returning these canaries as well. One of them looks sick anyway.

I may need a bit of help out of these shoes though. Galoshes were a terrible idea—they hardly go with this T-shirt—and they smell likes tires. Plus when I try to pull them off they get stuck. I may as well be wearing two pickle jars on my feet.

Okay fine, you found me out, I was drunk and I shoved my feet into pickle jars and then I thought that I could fool you by calling them “galoshes.” Admit it, I had you going? Clearly you’re too clever for me though, so if we could just get past this and if you could just hold that right there and I’ll just…

Whoa. Are you okay? I should have warned you about that but obviously pickle jars are made out of glass and I don’t think, with both of us now sitting here bleeding, you obviously worse than me, that we really need to be arguing about this. In fact, I’ve had enough of you. I’m going to be needing my own private ambulance with security detail so if you could just clean up this mess and please arrange that right now, I would appreciate it. That will be all.

The following is upsetting and kind of disgusting and also sad, so if you don’t like those things, quit reading right this minute!

So I’m walking along and I see something on the street that catches my eye enough that although I’ve passed it, I go back to take a closer look. Is it a deflated balloon? Mucus? A weird blob of especially shiny possibly chewed food? Gum? As I get closer I realize it’s a baby bird, or something that one day would have been a baby bird. I can make out the darkness of the eye and the tiny little beak and the very very tiny little featherless wings. It had one foot sticking straight up in the air but it was so little it was easy to miss. And then there was a lot of brown blobby spherical action on the lower part, so I don’t really know what it was or how this happened or whether this little bird abortion ever hatched or if it was just about to hatch or if something pecked all its feathers off, which seems the least likely.

This is not a metaphor.

But it is strange considering all the bird talk on this blog. I mean, it was so small I couldn’t even poop into its mouth.

That will only make sense to those who’ve been regularly reading.

To anyone else: I’m sorry.