Have you ever been to Florida? It's a criminal population. It's America's Australia.

Florida is all humidity, sun-baked palm trees, six-second showers and heat that smothers around you like a thick, heavy blanket.

It's big bombastic thunderstorms that rattle the windowpanes and cause car alarms to blare. It's rain so heavy, you can't see five feet in front of your face. It's the nostalgia and familiarity of Jason Davis and the Elevator From Hell. It's driving 20 mph on 95 due to the weather, singing along to non-offensive pop rock from the 90s and Steve Miller's Rockin' Me over and over and over again.

It's trying to surprise your mom but failing (thanks for keeping the secret, asshole) and walking into her work shouting, "Hey lady! How much for a shirt?" It's remembering just how tiny your Mom is. It's giving your dad a big hug and surprising yourself by getting teary-eyed over how much you missed the guy.



It's the world sweetest, smartest dogs -- Phoebedog's noises, Maya's wagging tail, Nala's big brown eyes, bellyrubs, stinky kisses and stealthy poops.



It's hugs-hugs-hugs-hugs, new jokes with old friends, apologizing for apologizing for calling one of your best friends a bitch while playing video games, dirty words on the board at Lush Manor, margaritas, Sparkletinis, berry vodka with soda while watching your memories flicker on screen and listening to the craziest, dirty-dirtiest hip hop.



It's homemade Indian food and the constant pestering to eat more, gossiping until midnight, the omnipresent prattle of the Indian satellite channel and watching Mom go gangbusters on bugs with her broom. It's the world's most comfortable couches, the head-nodding lullaby of the fan and raindrops hitting the big window, discovering ancient Judy Blume books in your old bedroom and laughing hysterically at Just As Long As We're Together and Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.



It's Spanglish on the radio, reggaeton blaring from souped-up Hondas, the excitement of discovering Jarritos in plastic bottles, it's talking about the space-time continuum from Lost and the grandfather paradox at the kitchen table and seeing condoms and pregnancy tests next to one another in the clearance aisle.



It's home. It's family. It's your heart. It's never wanting to leave but knowing you can always come back.

When Temporary Hearing Loss is Worth It...

I get to the gym and notice the place is pretty busy.

Damn it.

Then, I notice both TVs are tuned to Fox News.

Damn it squared.

Glenn Beck is prattling on idiotically about how monogamous gay marriages will eventually lead to people marrying cupcakes or beavers or some other ridiculous, baseless shit (weren't arguments like this considered null and void with Loving vs. Virginia?)

Luckily, I have my trusty iPod, headphones and a collection of B.S. Reports featuring both Bill Simmons and Adam Carolla.

I switch it on at a pretty low volume and hit the treadmill.

Beck's still blathering on and I hear the following conversation:

Scary Buff Dude Who Doesn't Seem To Have A Home As He's Always At The Gym: (referring to Beck) Oh, I love this guy! He's great!
Exercise Bike Woman: He is! And he's right -- soon, it'll be three women marrying one man! It's all wrong!

Damn it cubed.

ClickclickclickclickCLICK!

That's the sound of my iPod hitting the highest volume and Adam Carolla blowing out my eardrums by bellowing about how he'd remove Talia Shire from every movie ever.

However compared to the fact that people actually buy into Beck's insipidity idiocy, it was a dulcet lullabye.

I'm down with Voltaire and believe that while I may not agree with what you say, you still have the right to say it....but when you're nodding emphatically at anything that comes out of Glenn Beck's mouth? Yeah....it's probably a better idea to just keep your mouth shut.

I love you, Mom!

Ten Things I Love About Mom:

10. She's forged in steel. No matter how tough the situation, she handles it with grace and placidity. I am amazed by that because my modus operandi is to fall to pieces.
9. She's beautiful. She looks at least ten years younger than she really is and when she gets dressed up, she looks twenty years younger. It's amazing and I pray feverishly that I have inherited those genes.
8. She's an amazing cook. Every time I visited home from college, she would make potato and pea curry because she knew it was my favorite. I never even had to ask. I tried making potato and pea curry by myself and even though I followed the recipe exactly, it came out dry and crap-tasting. Damn.
7. She understands the importance of gossiping and being unquestionably judgmental. There is nothing better in this world than getting together with my mom and sister and talking about people.
6. She's really, really funny in a very dry way.
5. She's immensely intelligent. She speaks about four different languages, has a degree in accounting and knows exactly how to shut up her mouthy daughters and husband.
4. Paps would be useless without her. Now, I love him and all, but if she ever left him -- even for a day -- she'd come home to a smoldering pile of ashes and a rather forlorn man wearing clashing clothes and complaining of blinding hunger.
3. She doesn't put up with anyone's crap -- least of all, mine or Paps'.
2. Biggest work ethic I've ever seen. Mom puts Ryan Seacrest to shame.
1. She's my Mom. She had a hand into bringing me into this world, she played noughts-and-crosses with me when I was a kid, she makes laugh hysterically even when she's insulting me and she's the glue that holds our family together. We're a band of buggered without her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!

P.S. -- I didn't take Paps' copy of Angels and Demons. You know what I think happened? I think he left it at work and then, lost it. Now, he's looking for a convinient scapegoat and you know what? It's not going to be me! Besides, I offered to buy him a copy of the stupid book well before he started making these wild accusations!

You could put that fancy mustard on a shoe and it would taste pretty good to me.

Sean Hannity, Laura Ingraham and Rush Limbaugh are criticizing a man for his choice of burger condiment.

Let me reiterate.

These three schmucks dedicated airtime to admonishing President Obama for his condiment choice.

The Republican party is imploding and this is what matters -- what the president puts on his burger.

Kudos. Way to hit him where it hurts.

Shouldn't you assholes be figuring out a way to make yourselves look a little less like exclusionary buffoons and more like capable leaders?

Oh and a helpful hint -- if you want to be the party of the future, try not to reference a commercial that came out twenty years ago

Why do you have to break up with her? Be a man. Just stop calling.

vice., originally uploaded by hocouture.

Dear Diet Coke:

We need to talk.

We've been together for a little while now and we've had a good time but it's time for me to move on.

It's not you. It's me. Actually no. That's not right at all. It's you. All you, actually.

The thing is -- you're bad. Not in the fun way that involves tequila shots and utterly regrettable pictures the morning after, but bad in that whole Aspartame causes cancer in lab rats kinda way.

I love you. I really do. You're refreshing, sweet, bubbly, always there when I need you and God, I love the way you taste...but I can't do this anymore. This just isn't a healthy relationship anymore.

Listen, you're going to find someone new. Someone great who loves you and is totally willing to overlook the fact that some scientists believe that diet soda actually leads to weight gain and that Aspartame converts into methanol in your body.

Me, though? I'm moving on.

Thanks for the great memories.

Love:

Jaime xx

P.S. -- Restaurant booty calls are still OK under the Geneva Convention of Break-Ups. We'll do it fountain-style!

I'm losing my perspicacity!

I think I have the Simpson Gene.

Yes, the last name 'Simpson' is about as prevalent in India as neighborhood steakhouses are, but the song remains the same.

Ladies and gents, I am getting dumber.

For those of you who didn't dedicate untold hours watching and rewatching episodes of The Simpsons, the Simpson gene is a cognitive anomaly which causes one to gradually lose their intelligence as they age and end up doing things like this:



Luckily for Lisa, the dreaded Simpson Gene only affected men. However, in the real world where people have five fingers instead of four -- The Simpson Gene is gender-blind.

In the past four months, I've stopped writing as much, I've forgotten where I parked my car, completely forgotten the definition of the word, 'esoteric', the capital of Nevada, whether it was Thomas Hobbes or John Locke who said that life was, "nasty, brutish and short" and sucked at Jeopardy. I never suck at Jeopardy!

What the hell is happening to me? I used to be smart as a monkey and now, I'm as dumb as a chimp.

Is this what happens post-college? You stop going to classes, you stop steeping in academia and you become a moron? Your intellect starts to molt and before you know it, you're actually taking Glenn Beck seriously?

I read constantly (books I finished this weekend: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore and Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes -- granted, it's not like I polished off War and Peace or anything, but hey -- give me credit for not spending my weekend nose-deep in Twilight), I'm much more politically involved than I used to be (well, as involved as one can be without actually partaking in the democratic process by voting), I have conversations with my buddy Will about the vastness and complexities of the universe and damn it, I watch Lost and spend hours theorizing about the show.

How can I possibly be getting dumber?!

Has anyone else experienced this? If so, how did you overcome it? Read more? Wrote more? Did quadratic functions for fun? Dove headfirst into spirituality? Became BFF with Stephen Hawking?

Please let me know. I'm rage, raging against the dying of intellect and would really appreciate a little light.

That'll put marzipan in your pie plate, bingo!

Love is decorating each other's hands with bingo markers (orange and teal -- Go 'Fins!)
True love is terrorist fist jabs.

Eulogy For A Desktop....or, Dude, You're Getting (Rid Of) A Dell!

My desktop is dying a most undignified death.

It takes twenty minutes, no exaggeration, to boot up and load one Firefox window. Opening iTunes takes another five minutes and if I open up more than three tabs? The entire system schitzes out and needs to be reset.

Ol' Desky is finally heading to the glue factory (or Staples for their computer recycling program).

I've had some great memories with the lumbering beast, though.

It was the first computer I owned. Not a family machine or something I had to share, but solely mine. That ownership meant I could download Paul Frank icons, emblazon the screen with wallpaper that showed off Ron Livingston's exposed rear (Body Shots -- awful movie, awesome scene) and set up my email so that every time I got a new message, a gruff voice would shout out, "Mail, Motherfucker!"

I remember meeting Dan for the first time and spending the night watching Before Sunrise and True Romance. Movies to fall in love to...and we did.

I also watched One Night In Paris on that computer -- approximately eight of us, smooshed together in my room critiquing Ms. Hilton's technique and deciding that she was a lousy lay.

I discovered and downloaded amazing music -- everything from Stevie Ray's ode to Oreo cookies to Rage Against The Machine's condemnation of corrupt political systems.

I uploaded over a thousand pictures -- artsy shots like the one of buddy Paul dressed in his martial arts gear slicing a blue sky with his sword and drunken snapshots of the night we decided to slide down the hallway on beanbags.

I played lots of free Tetris and spent even more time talking to tech support after Pepe's extensive porn viewing crashed my system (thanks, dude).

And I wrote. I wrote. I wrote.

Articles, emails, blog entries, Livejournal entries, papers about the Geto Boys contribution to hip-hop and about the philosophical definition of art, screenplays, unrequited love letters, requited love letters, rants and bits and pieces that have never seen the light of day since.

I brought the desktop with me when I moved to Pennsylvania and it helped serve as a lifeline to my former life. We've had some good times together but now, it's time to move on.

Vaya con Dios, Ol' Desky. Hopefully you'll be recycled into something that gives someone else as much happiness as you gave me.

On Writing

Most writers can be distinguished by four inalienable traits:

1) Their egos. As massive and fragile as Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.

2) Their ability to be unashamedly self-congratulatory. In high school, I had this amazing English teacher named Terence Oliga who also happened to be a writer. After writing a particularly pleasing piece, he would lean back and pronounce, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!" I blatantly stole this quirk from him and every time I write something that moves me, I lean back, smug and self-satisfied, and proclaim, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!"

3) Their desperate insecurity. It's like erectile dysfunction. They glare at the blank page, seething with an increasingly visceral anger. They stalk the room, clutching fistfuls of hair, wild-eyed and wondering why the words won't come. They lament the death of their gift by drinking until they're either as jittery as hyperactive children on sugar benders or until they slur their words and collapse in a heap - cheap whiskey lingering in the air like rancid perfume.

4) The fact that when it comes down to it, writers are essentially assholes. The worst being the Public Writer. Real writers hate this guy. You know the type -- he sets himself up at Starbucks, laptop and iPod in tow, pretending to be an artsy type when in actuality, he's just a hapless prick who spends more time leering at the cute barista than he does actually writing.

These traits aside, I started thinking about what it means to be a writer. Anyone could be an insecure asshole. Anyone would be egomaniacal and self-serving. But, what defines a writer?Publication? The constant fluttering of fingers over keys? The ability to craft a thicker, juicier sentence than one's peer? The almost orgasmic glee that comes with the organic usage of polysyllabic words?

It's been two years since I had anything published and these days, my fluttering fingers craft more emails than anything else.

This drought lead to a bit of a personal crisis for me. Could I really even consider myself a writer anymore? Am I a neverwas hasbeen? Is this the bit where I start drinking?

I've never written for glory (because let's face it, it's not like I was writing for Rolling Stone, The Guardian or The Times) and neither did I write for money. I wrote for myself. Because I could. Because I was good at it. Because it was the one thing that made sense in a world filled with uncertainty.

For a while, everything I scribbled seemed like effete rubbish. It was soulless and devoid of intellect.....like a Fox News anchor minus that creepy plastic sheen they all seem to have. Lethargy and the daily grind won out over inspiration and I just stopped.

And I hated that. For me, not writing is arrhythmic -- not life-threatening, not devastating, but annoying. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and impatiently huff until it passes and I can be me again.

My heartbeat regulated itself and I've started writing again. Nothing epic, but I have a good feeling about this. I hope it lasts.

And on that note -- what makes you feel like you? Your ability to talk politics/religion/money without inciting a riot? Your ability to make anyone laugh? Your athletic skills? Have you ever had this ability wane? What happened when it did?

Something to think about...

Cook Free or Die

Anthony Bourdain, originally uploaded by blumpimag.

Reason #4784512310320365479411 I love Dan:

Dan (On the phone after a long day of work): So, we're having pizza and I'll start it if you want, but could you work the dough? You're better at it.
Jaime: Yeah, sure.
Dan: I'll be your sous chef.

He watches Top Chef, No Reservations, Man Vs. Food and Kitchen Nightmares with me and uses the term 'sous chef' in everyday vernacular.

My guy rules.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY D!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DANA!

Meet Dana.
She's one of the best friends this girl could ever have.
She's hilarious ("It looks like the weight I lost in my ass went to her face!" Hands down, the best D-ism ever).
She's got great taste in pretty much everything.
She's sweet, creative, smart, thoughtful, gorgeous and about a thousand other complimentary adjectives.s
She understands the importance of good food, music, movies, books and friends.

For the most part, I find girls to be lousy friends. They're catty, dramatic and ridiculous. D completely changed that and I am so lucky to have her in my life.

Have a fabulous birthday, darling! Here's to hoping you get everything you could ever wish for and that this will be your best year yet.

Love you! xx

Tumbling and Tweeting

Quick consensus question:

Who's Tweeting (Twittering? Twitting?)?

Who's Tumbling (Tumblring?)?

Have we established that I have entirely too much and not enough time on my hands? Right then. Good.

New Year's Resolutions: An Update

It's been a few months since I made my New Year's Resolutions, so I figured an update was in order:

Write more -- Fail. I haven't really written anything of note since the new year started...but I did revise the opening of my novel. For the six billionth time. Since 2002. Yeah.

Be a better writer -- Fail Squared. Trust me. I re-read the opening.

Read more -- I've been pretty good about this one, actually. In the past two months, I have read the following:

Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris
Love All The People by Bill Hicks
The United States of Arugula by David Kamp
The Summer of Naked Swim Parties by Jessica Anya Blau
It's Not News, It's Fark: How Mass Media Tries To Pass Off Crap As News by Drew Curtis
Climbing The Mango Trees by Madhur Jaffrey

Next on the list, F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Beautiful and the Damned. I'm excited. Fitzgerald takes me a while to sink into, but once I do it's incredibly rewarding.

Send Thank You Cards -- They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Mine will be paved with unsent Thank You cards.

Take more pictures -- I've been taking more snapshots which satiates me for now, but I definitely want to start taking better pictures and fiddling around with the settings on my camera.

Add To My Flickr Favorites -- I've been pretty good about this and have discovered some pretty great pictures.


Photo by Slidercleo.

This is probably my new favorite because it makes me think of this:



Eat healthier -- Pshaw. Not as long as macaroni and cheese exists in this world.

Eat better -- I had the world's best veggie burger at National Mechanics' when my sister was in town and I'm seeing Dana in May, so I'm sure the prospect of Middle Eastern cuisine is in my very near future.

Spend regular quality time at the gym -- It hasn't really been regular but last time I was there, I lifted 40lbs. For a girl who teeters around the 100lbs mark, this isn't too bad.

See the family in Florida -- I'm working on it.

See the Smithsonian in D.C. -- I'm also working on this.

Purchase cute and sassy costume jewelry and band tees -- No on the band tees but yes on the cute and sassy jewelry. Dan got me the Octopus necklace for my birthday:



but insists that it looks like HP Lovecraft's Cthulu.



I disagree.

Pick up the guitar again -- Another fail. Maybe this summer. I've always preferred playing outside.

Floss regularly -- Bi-weekly (and by bi-weekly, I mean whenever I can be arsed to). Does that count?

Make more mix CDs -- This one is a technical fail solely because the CD-ROM drive in my computer gave me the finger and decided to stop working. However, I have been making more playlists for my iPod. I have a collection of pop-punk entitled, 'Young, Dumb and Full of....' because I am a classy, classy dame.

Remember to remember -- I'm working on it.

Quick Question

day two seventy five. leaning tower of thought., originally uploaded by ::reflecting truth::.

If you had a $25 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble (Thanks, Karen and Marc!) -- what would you buy?

I need some good recommendations.

You're the birthday, boy or girl!

Twenty-six

It's the atomic number of iron and John Terry's number for Chelsea. It's also the age I'll be turning tomorrow.

I'm a little freaked. Just a little. After all, 26 is officially closer to 30 than it is to 20. And the idea of 30 conjures up all sorts of terrifying notions of real adulthood as opposed to the faffing about you do in your 20s where you pretend to be an adult.

I'm not ready to be an adult. You know what I did last night? I ate two slices of leftover pizza for dinner (Amore's in West Chester -- so delicious!) and watched Batman: The Animated Series (Barring the Nolan films, it's my favorite adaptation of the character). I mean, I may as well be a seven-year-old.

I'm excited, though. Twenty-six is a brand new page to scribble all over. So, I'm blatantly ripping off one of my favorite bloggers (the fabulous Andrea of Caffeinate Me. If you're not already reading her blog, hop to it. Seriously. Go ahead. I'll wait right here).

Dear Soon-To-Be-Twenty-Six Jaime:

Happy Birthday!

Twenty Six is going to be great. How do I know this? I don't, but I said Twenty Five was going to be great and that worked out pretty well, didn't it?

This is the part where I'm supposed to give you some great piece of advice that will carry you through the year but the truth is -- I don't have any.

You're going to work a lot but you're also going to laugh a lot. You're going to eat great meals and some truly terrible ones. You're going to cry and do that thing where you clench your jaw and breathe very quickly through your nose. You're going to kiss Dan and that'll make everything all better. You're going to spend time with the people that you love and you're going to give dogs bellyrubs.

Basically, you're going to live. Some days will be fantastically amazing and others will suck beyond the telling of it. BUT, every day will be yours and will be an opportunity for you to do something. Learn a new word. Read a Wikipedia entry you wouldn't normally have clicked on. Order something new (all the while keeping in mind the wasabi-tangerine ice cream fiasco of 2004. What the eff, Coldstone?!).

Basically, do what you've been doing and you'll be just fine, kiddo. It's gotten you this far and let's face it, you are one lucky bastard.

Anyway, have a fabulous birthday. Don't forget -- print out directions to the airport (don't forget the exit), stock up on Thank You cards (Target has some super cute ones) and take pictures at dinner.

Have a great one!

Love:

Me xx

Funny Men in Flesh-Toned Pudge Suits

These dames ain't got nothing on these guys:



And sidebar -- damn, Paul Rudd! Like a bag of hammers....

An Open Letter To SPF

Dear SPF:

Listen, I think it's awesome how to help prevent cancer in people and all, but when you sneak into my moisturizer? Yeah, that shit ain't cute.

My face is now itchy, red and angry in that Old Testament/Wrath of God kinda way.

I'll be spending the day being cripplingly self-conscious and hiding behind my bangs.

Thanks, asshole.

Love:

Jaime xx

Oh stupid Oscar, when are you going to learn that there's no such thing as free shrimp?

The 81st Academy Awards are in just a few short hours and unlike years past, I'm actually looking forward to them. I've heard that the telecast has been revamped and modernized and while I love the classic schtick of Billy Crystal, I'm excited to see what Hugh Jackman will bring to the table.

I'm also psyched for the pre-show this year. In my world, gossip and judgment are the bee's knees, so bring on the glittering, bulimia-inspiring starlets drenched in diamonds! In years past, the stars have always talked about the jewelry they're wearing and how much it costs. Seeing as the icy grip of recession as taken ahold of the country, doing so this year might be a little gauche to say the least. However, I'm sure one dumbass will roll up and blurt it out. Puffy, I'm looking at you.

Like pretty much everyone else in the country, I've made predictions as to who will be taking home the gold tonight. Check them out and let me know if you agree.

Best Picture

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire - Lots of buzz, heartwrenching story, dazzling visuals and ethnicity abounds. It's a shoe-in.

Best Director

Danny Boyle – Slumdog Millionaire - He's up against some stiff competition, but I think Boyle will end up taking home a very pretty paperweight.
Stephen Daldry – The Reader
David Fincher – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard – Frost/Nixon
Gus Van Sant – Milk

Best Actor

Richard Jenkins – The Visitor
Frank Langella – Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn – Milk
Brad Pitt – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke – The Wrestler -- I loved Langella in Frost-Nixon. His portrayal of Richard Nixon is flawless, but as good as his performance was, it doesn't compare to Rourke's. Why? Because Langella merely played Nixon where as Rourke was Randy 'The Ram' Robinson. Both underdogs, both down on their luck and both desperately trying for one more shot at glory. Hollywood loves it when life imitates art and will reward Rourke for this portrayal handsomely.

Best Actress

Anne Hathaway – Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie – Changeling
Melissa Leo – Frozen River
Meryl Streep – Doubt
Kate Winslet – The Reader -- I know there's been a bit of controversy about this picture lately, but that doesn't discount the fact that Winslet is both a phenomenal actress and really damn likable. Couple that with the fact that she's a five-time nominee and hasn't taken home a statuette yet and the odds look good, but she's up against some serious competition, so I'm not entirely certain about the outcome of this one.

Best Supporting Actor

Josh Brolin – Milk
Robert Downey, Jr. – Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman – Doubt
Heath Ledger – The Dark Knight -- Come on. There's no way Ledger's not going to win this award. Barring the obvious reason, Ledger really was phenomenal as The Joker. He reinfused the character with a sociopathic glee that has only been seen in the graphic novels up until this point. Jack was good, but Heath was great.
Michael Shannon – Revolutionary Road

Best Supporting Actress

Amy Adams – Doubt
Penélope Cruz – Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis – Doubt
Taraji P. Henson – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button -- Tough competition again, but I predict Henson FTW.
Marisa Tomei – The Wrestler

Best Original Screenplay

WALL-E - Andrew Stanton, Jim Reardon and Pete Docter
Happy-Go-Lucky - Mike Leigh
Frozen River - Courtney Hunt
In Bruges - Martin McDonagh
Milk - Dustin Lance Black -- As much as I liked Wall-E and as funny as In Bruges is, Milk is where it's at.

Best Adapted Screenplay

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - Eric Roth and Robin Swicord
Frost/Nixon - Peter Morgan
The Reader - David Hare
Slumdog Millionaire - Simon Beaufoy
Doubt - John Patrick Shanley-- What's hotter than Catholic guilt? Movies about books about Catholic guilt!

Best Animated Feature

Bolt – Chris Williams and Byron Howard
Kung Fu Panda – Mark Osborne and John Stevenson
WALL-E – Andrew Stanton -- Bolt features Miley Cyrus. Anything featuring that banal succubus is immediately disqualified. My loathing of Miss Cyrus aside, Wall-E was incredible. Gorgeous animation and a great message. Loved it and so will Oscar.

Now just to clarify, when you say sister, you mean...

My sister might be coming to Philly for my birthday!

Best. Gift. Ever!

I hired a hot girl who can't lift an iPod to bring you out of your funk.

Dear Jaime:

Welcome to the 21st century!

Your purchase of an iPod (eye-pod) will hopefully encourage you to go to the gym more often, provide you with countless hours of entertainment while you spend your life waiting (in lines, for transportation...) and hopefully, help you lower your blood pressure as it will provide an alternative to listening to Sean Hannity during your afternoon commute.

Enjoy your birthday present to yourself and have fun making those playlists (you might want to reconsider the one entitled, 'Watch For Flying Panties.' Invariably, someone's going to see that and then, you're going to have explain things like how Howlin' Wolf is a big ol' bastard who could take your woman and people will think you're on the drugs and you're not....unless caffeine is considered a drug, which I guess it technically is and...look, whatever. Just think about it, ok? Right).

Lots of Love:

Me xx

P.S. -- Way to defy convention by picking yellow over pink. Bet they didn't see that coming!