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You know how in "Gift of the Magi," the wife sells her hair to buy her husband a new watch band, and the husband sells his watch to buy his wife a new set of hair combs? (Or, something?) Dan and I kind of had that sort of situation, only in reverse, I guess.

Unbeknownst to me, he sold the bulk of his CD collection to help save money to move out to Los Angeles. I was at a CD store in Chicago and saw 4 Nights At The Palais Royale and bought it for him to listen to on the trip out west, thinking he didn't have the album already. When I surprised him with it, he laughed for about five minutes. Apparently as soon as he sold his copy, he regretted it -- and not two days later I presented him with a new one.

Maybe that's not like "Gift of the Magi." Just ignore me.

This afternoon my producer was unable to make it to our weekly post-show meeting. Which was fine, as he usually says the exact same thing every week -- "This was a great show, so-and-so did a fantastic job, the such-and-such was wonderful, I think we had a lot of good content, a solid show."

In his absence, I was going to do a snarky impression of the preceding quote. Before I got a chance to utter one superflous adjective, one of the managers said: "Well, everyone, this was a GREAT show! It was FANTASTIC! That story was WONDERFUL!"

And then my manager's manager chimed in with: "Yes, the show was SOLID, we had a LOT OF GOOD CONTENT!"

Then the boss of the whole damn station said: "See, this is why you shouldn't miss meetings."

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"The... thing."

"A frog? You're scared of a frog?"

"I'm not scared... I'm... confused."

Today there was a big red frog sitting on our porch, staring up at our front door. I've never thought of myself as a city girl, really, but my first thought was: "Hey, who left this big ceramic frog on the porch?" And then I asked aloud: "How'd this frog get here?"

Apparently it was a real frog, though I never saw him move, and apparently he hopped to our front porch from the river down the street. I'm guessing. I mean, he could have flown in on a tiny helicopter, but the real question there is how'd he get a pilot's license? Where is his tiny crash helmet?

If he's still there tonight when we get home, I'm feeding him the dead bugs I found in the corner of our downstairs bedroom. Unless, of course, he dropped in from another planet and would prefer instead to eat my brains. In that case, I'm spraying him with the hose.

I thought I was going fucking crazy yesterday. I couldn't sleep all morning because I heard bad drumming, and screaming. Turns out a band was practicing somewhere. What band practices at 6AM on a Saturday morning, I have no idea. They are obviously lame just by the determination in their rehearsal schedule, and will be shunned by me, should they ever Hit It Big.

After the drumming had stopped my head continued to pound, so I came home from work during lunch hour to try and fit in a nap. My brain was killing me. Unfortunately, I was unable to doze, due to someone else nearby practicing their bagpipes. Badly. And loudly.

BAGPIPERS. For God's sake, BAGPIPERS ARE RUNNING AMOK THROUGH MY NEIGHBORHOOD.

"Have you tried that new Coke Zero?"

"No. Is it like C2?"

"No. It's more like Pepsi One."

"But not like Pepsi Free?"

[confused stare]

"Heh. Pepsi Free. You know, like Back to the Future? 'Tab? I can't give you a Tab unless you order something.'?"

My first thoughts upon seeing the slug "Bullock Weds James" in our 11pm rundown:

"Jim J. Bullock got married? ....Isn't that still illegal?"

"Hey."

"What?"

"Your script says: 'In 24 hours, the new Harry Potter book sold six point nine copies.' How'd they sell nine tenths of a book? And to whom? That's the real story."

"Shut up."

Three kids living on campus were shot, execution-style. The only reason we're covering the trial of their murderer is because the three kids were white. The truth is, they were drug dealers. You could say "Oh, only one of them was a drug dealer," and be technically correct. But guess what? You lives with a drug dealer, YOU TAKES YOUR CHANCES.

Dave leaves to go back to Korea on Thursday and he still has not called or stopped by to say "Hello, you haven't seen me in a year and a half because I LIVE IN KOREA."

"Wow, I didn't realize that hot pink actually looks good on me," said I.

"Yes, it really brings out your freckles," he responded, as he pointed towards my shoulders.

Your police officers ("bobbies"?) carry guns now? When did that happen?

Also, welcome to the club! Two free handguns with the price of admission!

Sincerely,

America.

Note to self: Eating a giant platter of batter-fried jumbo shrimp is NOT a good idea when it's a thousand degrees outside with a heat index of eleventy billion.

Water... Must drink Lake Huron... Stat...

I enjoy living with a tall man. He can reach the top shelves of our cupboards, making him handy when putting away groceries. Changing light bulbs, hanging curtains, seeing over other people's heads in a crowd... all much more convenient with a tall guy.

This entry was brought to you by the movie Wedding Crashers. If you want a preview of what all my wedding photos are going to look like, just check out Vince Vaughn with EVERY WOMAN IN THE FILM.

Okay, kids. It's 103 degrees Fahrenheit outside today. (That's about 40 degrees Celcius.) There's thunder and lightning, but no rain. And the wind is blowing so hard, it knocked out several power transformers in the greater metro area, including the one near my house. The one that runs the air conditioning.

Is it safe to assume the apocalypse is nigh? Because it seems pretty nigh.

Occasionally, often with more and more frequency, I hate this town.

The slightest breeze blows up, power goes out to 30,000 customers city-wide.

A water main in front of our house has been gushing for over a month now. The street is starting to break up near the leak. No one seems to care. Yet, if ten black kids open a fire hydrant to cool off from the thousand plus degree heat, it's an environmental fucking crisis.

I HAVE DECIDED THAT IF STEPHEN MALKMUS, FRANK BLACK, AND THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS GO ON TOUR TOGETHER I WILL PEE IN MY PANTS IMMEDIATELY.

Look how nice my grammar is for being drunk. WHEEE!