The week of the slug.

Have not exercised in days.
Since Sunday morning, to be honest.
Feel like a slug - a lazy, lazy slug.

How do those people who run 10 miles a day do it?
How do those people who go to the gym every single morning or evening do it?

I do well for a few days, and then have one day that just derails everything.

I'm really fascinated by how much I miss that feeling of accomplishment that comes with breathlessly stepping off of my Air Climber, but I guess not enough to drag myself out of bed this week. Arrgh.

But like Scarlett O'Hara said, "Tomorrow is another day ..."

"Someone call the Gendarmes!"

So we've established that yesterday, I was an absolute bear.

After feeling better after my tan, a good journal venting, and a nice toddy, I set off for bedfordshire.

Knowing I had to be up and out of the house unnaturally early this morning for an assignment, I had a restless night.

I was nervous that this would be the first time I'd miss my alarm, and was such a worrywarts I actually dreamed about missing my appointment!
(The dream involved a former coworker flying in from Florida to cover for me because I was sitting in my car trying to take pictures of wind turbines through the windshield. Uhh ... must have been the toddy ...)

So when my alarm did wake me up, I got up and got going and turned on my Sirius Satellite Radio - as I do immediately every morning.

What was the first song, you ask?
"Murders in the Rue Morgue" by one Iron Maiden.

Honestly, any day is automatically better when it's started with a little Maiden in the morning!

There I was.

How can something so bad make me feel so damn good??

Had "one of those" proverbial days today.
Decided that, despite the frigid chill that's kept me away all winter, I was going back.

As I drove in the gloaming, I knew what I was going to do was wrong.
I knew that I was not going to feel like going through the whole rigamarole of disrobing, rerobing and then going back out into the winter night.

But there I was, back at my trusty tanning salon.
There I was feeling the fake rays beating into my skin vitamin D, making me envision myself laying on a white sandy beach somewhere fabulous instead of standing upright in a tanning booth.

There I was, back at my trusty tanning salon.

And it felt so good.

I felt those could-be-cancerous fake rays beating into my skin, and beating away the demon thoughts festering inside me all day.

There they went, those demon thoughts.

As I bundled my warm-for-the-first-time-in-days-it-seems body back into my wintry garb, I felt so light and free.

It was exactly what I needed.
Ahh, like a mini-break for my pale, ashy face - and my mind.

If only each visit came with a frothy drink ...

And the winner is ...

God, I adore the Oscars.

I love the pomp, the circumstance, the history.
I've walked - as a tourist - up the same steps that the stars walked up this evening at the Kodak Theater and gawked at the names of past winners hanging on the scrims. I've been in the ballroom of the Roosevelt Hotel where the very first Academy Awards were held.
It was such an awesome experience to see those things for myself, and even pretend for just one second that I was an Oscar nominee, much to the chagrin of my brother who took me to those places.

I even kept my burgundy sequined senior prom gown for "when I go to the Oscars." Believe me, it'll never go out of style.

Right now, we are about 35 minutes into the show and I have to say that I am more enraptured than ever before. And not just because the sexiest Aussie ever, Hugh Jackman, is hosting. He's so refreshing a performer.

Also take the stage set up, so classic, like a '40s-era club, complete with the band on stage, that floor design and all those sparkly crystals hanging from the ceiling. It captures the very best of the movie industry, that by-gone era when men like Cary Grant walked the earth - devilishly handsome and classy - and the ladies were, well ladies.

This is true Hollywood tonight.
It's an homage to those that came before Brangelina (who I adore just as much as the next person), Meryl Streep, Heath Ledger, and even Kate Winslet (who happens to be my favorite actress ever).

Side notes:
- The speeches always make me feel a little uncomfortable for the speaker, but I can only imagine how I'd feel being up on the stage. I'd probably be the first person to vomit at the podium if - no, no, WHEN - I win my Oscar. ;)

- J'adore the clothes. I mean look at how fabulous SJP looks right this second on stage. Say what you will about her, the lady knows style. And Daniel Craig standing next to her ain't bad either ...

- Is anyone else sick of "Slumdog Millionaire?" Honestly.

- And speaking of "Slumdog," which was nominated for not one, but two songs, I am terribly peeved that Bruce Springsteen's Golden Globe-winning song "The Wrestler" wasn't nominated for Best Song. WTF was the Academy thinking?? It is an incredible and goose-bump inducing song. For shame!

- I love how they're having past winners talk up the current nominees. It's such a nice touch.

- You know how the winners always seem to have that note they pull out at the podium? Well, how about those non-winners feel about having that unused speech in their pocket? What do you do with it? I'm so ridiculous I'd probably keep it. It'd probably make one hell of a grandchildren story, non?

- Best line so far: "You look like you work at a Hasidic meth-lab," said Natalie Portman to Ben Stiller acting like Joaquin Phoenix on Letterman.

- I have to say that I'm loving the little lead-ins for the categories. It's making the show not drag, but we all know why we're all watching. Best actor, actress, supporting actor, actress, song, director, picture. Just give them to us please. I don't even understand what that comedy short guy just said but hey, he's now an Oscar winner and I've got an unfinished screenplay. I'll stop talking now.

But you be on the look out for me someday - I'll be the one purging at the podium in a burgundy sequin dress with a slit up to there.

Guilt free Friday.

Today was the first day I didn't do some sort of morning exercise in ages.

For 11 of these 20 days of February, I've walked, done a yoga routine from SELF magazine or spent some time on my Air Climber.

Not too shabby methinks, which is exactly why I didn't feel guilty staying in bed late (and late for me lately is 7 a.m.) - it was everything I knew it would be. I just listened to my body when it said, "Not today, sister. It's too damn cold to get out of bed."

(Now if only my shivering-in-the-freezing-cold-office self would be so smart and get under those same covers toute suite ... )

"Sleeping in" was everything I knew it could be!
Plus, I didn't let the fact that I decided to be a slug this morning derail the rest of the day, and made sure to stick to my eating healthy habits.

I even pushed through a massive chocolate craving! Quite superhuman strength for me I tell you!


I've come a long way since the beginning of January, and that's worth a few snoozes here and there.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a down comforter with my name on it!

Show, don't tell.

"Writing well means never having to say 'I guess you had to be there.'" -- Jef Mallett, "Frazz" comic strip

Such words to live by ... rather, words to write by.

Recently, I read a concert review that was so dry and devoid of any emotion that it got me thinking about how people write - and how I write.

I'm a very nosy person by nature, so I'm always looking around or researching to the fullest extent to ask that "one question" no one else has ever asked someone before (wishful thinking I know, but I digress). I'd like to think it just adds a certain something, you know?

If I'm covering a concert, or reviewing a CD (as I am doing the latter this week so be sure to check it out at www.theweekender.com, you're welcome for the shameless plug), I want a reader to hear it like I did, or see what I saw when I listened. I want to capture every single moment and relay that.

I guess it stems from being a chronic journaler since the age of 17, where I'd capture nearly every single second of my day - who said what, what I did, where I went, etc., etc.

Or, it could be from my worrywart Mom who always told me to "get the big picture," meaning be observant of my surroundings - and keep myself safe, because as you well know, bad people lurk every where ... God forbid.

(Ahh, my auto pilot reflex phrase, another thing to thank Mom for inflicting into my daily life ...)

C'mon get Hallmark.

Everyone has at least one - at least one talent that is all their own.
Be it writing, painting, singing, piano, ukulele, whatever, everyone has something they are good at.

Naturally, I'd like to think that I have several veritable talents (thinking naturally and oh-so-modestly, LOL). Like my horrid singing voice, which I use constantly to just about everyone's dismay. Or my inherent clumsiness. Or my uncanny ability to pick what person another person is a doppelganger of.

All kidding aside, one of my greatest talents is picking out the absolute perfect Hallmark card for my loved ones.

It's taken years to get to this level of Hallmark shopper (and probably close to a million Gold Crown Points) and I do revel in it. I will have you know that I have been a Gold Crown card carrier since 1997. A Preferred Gold Crown card carrier, thankyouverymuch.

I just love the whole production of scouring the card racks for as long as it takes to find that a perfect display of my affection for said loved ones.
(Tonight's Valentine's Day purchase took well over an hour. I only had to buy four Valentines and one birthday, BTW).
I just seem to always hit the nail on the head, and can proudly boast that I have made my mom cry on more holidays than I haven't made her cry. It's an art form really.

I love the smell of Hallmark (especially the Dallas Shopping Center one). I love writing my own little blurb under the card's message. I love putting the shiny gold foil sticker on the back (and not only because it saves me from tasting icky envelope glue). And I especially love the reaction someone has to their perfect card.

It just makes me happy to Hallmark ... and especially when I get my members reward coupon. Hey, even card freaks have to be economical these days ...

Air Climbing with 'GMA.'

I've never really been one for news.
Local fires, murders, weather, those fluffy "water skiing squirrel" segments, etc., etc.? No thank you.

I prefer to get my news from the newspaper - I like starting it with my breakfast and finishing it with my dinner. Same grisly content, just easier to take than some anchorwoman in a shoulder-padded fuchsia blazer saying "Everyone has contracted a deadly disease ...more after this break." I love feeling the newsprint in my hand, even love how it sometimes leaves black ink on my fingertips and mon dieu, I adore the smell of our press room. Especially coming in on Mondays when my nose hasn't smelled it in two days. Deliciously addicting.

In a newspaper, all the info you need is right there in the first few paragraphs without the dramatic build up. Ahh, the sweet smell of the inverted pyramid.

But suddenly, after I acquired an Air Climber,



I began doing something crazy every morning.
I started tuning in to "Good Morning America."
Doing so also tunes me into some of my local goings on as well - or as "local" as the local news is, since so much of it isn't even from NEPA proper, but I digress.

I feel much more informed - I get some celeb gossip (today's scrim, for example, had the news that Chris Brown beat up Rhianna), news news like fires and whatnot, heartfelt moments like the Hudson plane crash survivors reuniting with the captain and crew - and it isn't really that painful.

Aside from how annoying Diane Sawyer's on-screen movements can be, I really enjoy the show. Sam Champion is an absolute delight and I really enjoy Robin Roberts' personality. It's nice waking up to them, especially since most times being up that early exercising is the last thing I want to be doing, but viewing the show makes my exercise time really fly by.

But know that I'll never tune into one of the hardcore news channels like CNN. My interest in world affairs wanes after about half and hour, just around the time my legs give out ...

It's starting to hit.

Spring fever.
It has sprung its ugly, yet hopeful head.

It hit me yesterday when it was so brilliantly sunny and bright, and I could hear the staccato drip-drip of the snow melting into colossal puddles on the front walk that I had to leap over.

It hit me this morning as I walked around the school in the spring-scented-yet-chilly winter air as I remembered seeing those same types of rays of sun coming down to earth in stripes through back lit clouds as a kid and thinking, "They're taking someone home to heaven" - how innocent and kind of profound for a young Catholic school girl with a crooked smile and vast imagination.

It hit me sitting at my parents' kitchen table with the sun pouring in around Mom and I as we read the papers and caught up, not needing the little heater for warmth for the first time in weeks.

It hit me as I ran out to my car before I left their house, as the moon - high and bright in the sky - ricocheted off the snow refreezing from today's defrost.

And it hit me when I got home and didn't have to crank up the heat too much to keep this drafty old house comfortable. (An Eskimo would fare well with me, me thinks, or a narwhal at the very least.)

That's the magic of spring fever I guess.
It's like a mirage - just when you are fooled into thinking "It's over!" and get the itch to crack open a window or stop wearing a jacket, you remember that it's only early February - we've still got a lot of winter left.
[Deep sigh.]

Haiku for a chilly, thoughtful night.

Listless and boredom
go hand in hand with the train
slowly rolling by.

A dark night, quiet,
footsteps crunch the snowy ground
to break the silence.

Lost in my own thoughts,
pensively pondering all,
my head is at war.

Going under cover.

Did you ever have one of those days where you just don't want to play anymore?
I think I am at that point today.

It's only 2:45 p.m. and I would offer up my much-adored leopard print scarf that is ever so jauntily tied around my neck to the gods that would allow me to go home and crawl under the covers again.

I'm not saying that I would spend the rest of the day sleeping said day away, no, no, no!

I would like to go home and be under those covers with my curtains wide open letting in the deliciously brilliant sun and read. Just read allllll day, catch up with Dorothy Parker (which I am still trudging my way through) and feed my soul a little. Maybe even be so bold as to catch up my journal and write a few haiku about the sun.

I smell a necessary play day off, sooner than later!