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So I go to get ice the other day and I can’t help but notice this strange little ice protuberance extending straight up from one of the ice cubes. It defies physics, or my I-didn’t-actually-take-physics-I-took-chemistry sense of physics. Speaking of taking chemistry though, or just math in general, last night someone joked that they “changed pi” and I actually said “they did?!?!” A hearty laugh was had at my expense and I didn’t have the energy to explain that of course I didn’t really think pi had changed, I just thought maybe some sort of official decision was made about where to cut pi off. That doesn’t really make sense though. But then Avogadro’s number came up and an old college friend whom I hadn’t seen in awhile said that it was 6.02 times ten to the negative twenty fourth and I said that actually it was negative twenty third. None of us went home and had sex that night. Incidentally, I used to fight all trappings of nerdiness when I was younger and yet as an adult I enjoy brief bouts of nerdistry. But while we all remembered once knowing about Avogadro’s number, none of us really remembered what a mole was exactly.

But back to the ice. Isn’t it weird?

I turned the horny cube on its side to try to better capture it. It didn’t work so well but you can sort of make it out.

Earlier we* were making preparations for an upcoming TV thing and I was asked if I’m going to show up to the taping camera ready or if I’ll need hair and makeup. I said that I was born camera ready but that I would need hair and makeup.

Then I saw the call sheet and it said “Full Hair/Makeup” so I think I will take advantage of this opportunity to request a perm and also that they make me look like a cat.

*By the way, I’m not lapsing into the royal we. There was actually another human being involved in this. His name is Ned and he’s invisible. He lives a pencil box on my desk and comes out when I am lonely, scared, or need a pencil.

If you don’t even have a pot to piss in then couldn’t you just use a restroom?

And let’s say all you have is a pot to piss in, wouldn’t it be better to still use the bathroom and save this pot for other things like making soup out of tin cans and newspapers, provided you could find those?

Unless “pot” in this case means toilet, like you don’t even have a toilet to piss in, in which case I would suggest using a Le Creuset 2 3/4 qt. soup pot. They come in an array of colors and according to the web site, “each pot is shaped to promote the natural circulation of the ingredients while simmering, so soups and stews cook evenly.” Imagine what it would do for your urine.

Also, you could toss your hay-pennies into this pot.

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.