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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.

As you may or may not know, my birthday is Sunday, so I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about things like how old I am and also just me and what a gift I am and continue to be to this world. But I’ve also noticed there are things I’m beginning to do which are indicative of my advanced age. Embarrassing things. A list of them? Sure, why not:

Things I’m embarrassed I now do:

1. automatically glance at the ring finger of whatever guy I’m talking to

2. think about my 401K

3. find it harder to concentrate if there’s music or TV blaring in the background

4. put my teeth in a cup

5. wish my children called more often, even though I don’t have any

6. wonder where my pince-nez are when they’re right on my nose!

7. know what pince-nez are

8. talk about how stuff was “in my day”

9. wear a bumper sticker on my motorized wheelchair that says “I’m spending my grandchildren’s inheritance!”

10. it’s next to the bumper sticker that says “my other car is a temper-pedic”

11. and right above the one that says “I brake for Chick Hearn”

12. appreciate the complexity of flavors in applesauce

13. war bonds!

14. think about my eggs

15. deviled egg joke here!

16. I just don’t get facebook like I get myspace and I’m sure that’s age related

17. feel flattered when I get carded

18. except for when I find it annoying

19. dread my bday

20. fondly recall my time aboard the Lusitania

21. sometimes I switch to decaf because why drink that extra caffeine, you know?

22. talk about how my long hair used to bring all the boys around when I was just a village girl before I was sold into white slavery

23. it’s a grim story

24. sometime I’ll tell you. when you’re older.

So you know how gmail puts those little one line ads at the top of your email inbox window which somehow relate to your email content? Maybe you don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. Please try to keep up. Anyway, this is what was just adorning the top of my inbox:

Bird Poops In Mouth – www.SuperDeluxe.com – Watch the infamous video and story. Only at Super Deluxe.

It’s funny… because I was just talking about pooping in mouths, but where do the birds come in?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

UPDATE: See, it’s funny because I was actually talking about birds recently, not pooping in mouths. Just wanted to clarify although not sure it’s necesary.