where everybody knows our name

What are you doing this summer? If you're not summering in the South of France, may I suggest a worthy alternative? I propose that, if you haven't already, you become a regular at a local, non-chain restaurant. I don't mean "regular" as in you get the same thing every time you go and would probably recognize the girl who takes your order if you saw her in the checkout line at the grocery store. I mean regular like, when you've already eaten everything on the menu, you can talk the chef into letting you eat what the guys in the kitchen are eating. And regular like, when your imagination for cocktails is sorely lacking, the genius behind the bar will give you something you've never tasted before that involves a homemade gastrique and goes well with lamb. (Our genius' name is Bobby, and he has a blog.) Somehow, Blaine and I have managed to become this kind of regular at Beaver's and it has been worth every calorie.

it's the economy, stupid

Okay, I am freaked out. Are you freaked out? Because I am freaked out. What is going on with the gas and the food and the mortgages, and the money? The other day, I paid $3.27 for two apples. Are you cutting back? Because I'm cutting back.

Here's what I'm going to do for the greedy, greedy economy: I'm going to try not to go to the best restaurant in Houston more than twice a week; I'm not going to buy these shoes (probably); I'm going to forego mani-pedis in favor of Incoco's awesome, awesome stick-on nail polish. (I'm actually so excited about this one. You should try it -- it's only available at Walgreen's and it will make you wish that the recession would last forever.) I hope this makes the economy very happy.

so you think you can emote?

A strange thing has been happening since I let my talky-doctor talk me into "processing my feelings," which involves things like answering the question "how does that make you feel?" with something other than the word "fine" and saying the phrase "processing my feelings" without involuntarily rolling my eyes. Anyway, the strange thing that happens is that I get all weepy and emotional when I watch modern and contemporary dance. It started in New York when I watched the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater perform Revelations and noticed big tears rolling down my face. I wasn't sad, I was moved. It was an unnamed emotion, but I was feeling it. Take that, talky-doctor! Anyway, it wasn't a fluke. I cried when I watched the video for 1,2,3,4 and when I saw each of the following performances on the (you would think more lowbrow) So You Think You Can Dance -- my new summer obsession.

tattoo you?

Are you the kind of girl who wants to get a tattoo but haven't yet because you haven't decided what you would get if you got one? I'm not. I'm the kind of girl who has finally decided what tattoo I would get if I got one but I haven't yet because I don't want one (me no likee needles). If I did want one, though, I would want something meaningful, something that really gets at the essence of what I am, and the essence of what I am is crazy indecisive. Unlike my friend Megan, who will actually stop reading a menu once she sees something that she'd like to eat (even if it's the first item!), I will sit for half an hour, stomach growling, agonizing over whether to get sausage or bacon with my eggs (is it link sausage? patty sausage? chorizo? it matters!). This is because, in most aspects of my life, I am a maximizer, as defined by Barry Schwartz in The Paradox of Choice. I will not buy a pair of jeans -- even if they fit me and are the right price -- unless I have tried on every single other pair of jeans in the mall. As for that tattoo -- it would have to be a question: "Yes or No", "This or That", "In or Out", "Up or Down." In Old English script, of course.

ready to come home now.

I have been out of town for the last month. I've been to Beaumont, Atlanta, Jackson (MS), Dallas, San Antonio, and Beaumont again. On airplanes, I have been seated next to crying babies (not so bad) and weirdos who climb over me to get to the aisle from the window seat without any advance warning (unbearable). I am always seated directly in front of the person with the wettest, phlegmiest, hanta-virusy cough, aka "patient zero." I've eaten fast food, not exercised, failed to brush my teeth, neglected to remove my eye makeup, and fallen asleep to Sports Center's 2am broadcast more times than I can count. I've done all of this because I love my job and I love to travel. But as I sit at my computer and watch a three inch long reddish-brown cockroach wend its way around the walls of my hotel room, I think I'm ready to come home now.

half right

The other half of this sign should say, "If your dog is shorter than the red line, you must use the small dog run." This would cut down on the small-dog maulings that take place daily at the dog park thanks to people who insist that their yappy, nipping shih tzus are really big dogs on the inside. Maybe they are, but on the outside, they're still shih tzus.

boyfriend as photo-op decoy!!!

Galveston Island or the French Riviera?
If it weren't for the can of Busch, it'd be kinda hard to tell, right?