Please Won't You Not Be My Neighbor?

So my brother, for God knows what reason, decided to find out if any registered sex offenders live in his neighborhood in Harlem. Apparently, he lives within 1,000 feet of a guy who raped a 21 year old. I decided to check out my 'hood here and found out that the gentleman pictured at the right, who lives about two blocks from me, was convicted of criminal sexual assault a couple of years ago. There are also several other sex offenders who live within a mile of me.

I consider my neighborhood to be very safe, so it freaked me out a bit. I also plugged in the addresses of some other people I know who live in what I consider "safe" neighborhoods. Every one of them had a sexual offender living within a couple of blocks of them. There was an article in the Trib last week about how every block in Chicago with the exception of one reported a sexual assault in 2005. I've always been a bit naive about things like this because I live in a "good" neighborhood. I've never been one to look over my shoulder when I walk down the street. Knowing bona fide creepy dudes live so close to me probably won't change that, but at least it'll make me a little more aware, which can't be a bad thing.

If Your Nose Is Running and You Think It's Funny, It's Snot

I never get sick. OK, I very rarely get sick. But now I am sick. My nose has been running for three straight days, I want to claw out my very itchy eyes and I think I've sneezed on every Brown Line rider in Chicago. My co-worker J has been witness to my misery and yesterday gave me a Q-Tip slathered with goo and told me to stick it up my nose. I guess these swabs are called Zicam and they're supposed to cut the time you have a cold in half. I don't know if I buy it, but it's suprisingly fun to stick goo-covered swabs up your nose. Trust me, don't knock it til you've tried it.

Anyway, I really shouldn't be coming into work. I can't concentrate, I'm not being productive, and by the end of the week I likely will have infected at least two of my co-workers with my virus. So you would think I would call in sick, right? For once in my life, I actually have a legit excuse for taking a sick day (Although I've always claimed a lunch date with Maury Po. to be a highly legitimate sick day excuse).

My problem is that I only have one more sick day, and we just got a huge lecture from our boss about abusing the sick day policy. Apparently, too many people used their sick days last year. Keep in mind, these are sick days each of us earned, but we're allowed to actually take a certain number each year. They have threatened to fire people for taking too many sick days.

So now I am scared shitless to call in sick. The only way I will do it is if a lady spider bites me in my sleep and lays its eggs in my face and then they hatch inside my head and disperse in my body. Then I might call in. Am I the only one who works under a ridiculous sick time policy? Because I kind of get the feeling that my management would rather me come in to work with a highly contagious flesh-eating Ebola-like virus than use my sick days.

Nobody Ever Says "I Wanna Be a Television Junkie When I Grow Up."

Or at least, I never did. I always said I wanted to be a regular old junkie. Wanting to be a doctor or a ballerina is so 1995.

But I digress. The point is, I never meant for it to get like this. When I first graduated from college, I barely watched any television. I was working crazy hours and was actually going out and doing stuff with real people, and sitting on a couch and staring at a box for five hours a week didn't really appeal to me.

Flash forward two and a half years later. I am officially addicted to American Idol, The O.C., My Name is Earl, The Office, Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy. Not to mention Reunion, before it got cancelled, and Veronica Mars and Rescue Me, both of which I became addicted to because friends lent me the DVDs, or, in the case of Veronica Mars, forced me at gunpoint to watch. Curse you, Clifford!

Now that I have a DVR, the situation has reached Code Red status. I can watch shows on the new, awesome TV in our living room (big ups to Kristin for that awesome purchase) while recording shows in my bedroom.

Every time a show I was previously addicted to starts a new season, I vow not to watch, not to become sucked in again. This was the case with American Idol, after I realized that watching the Battle of the Ages between Carrie and Bo had sucked about 20 hours out of my life. 20 hours I could have spent tending to my rose garden, caring for sick puppies or doing research on the mating habits of centipedes.

Seriously, though. This is pathetic. Most of these shows aren't even good. In fact, most of them really suck. The only ones I actually think are quality are The Office, V-Mars and Rescue Me. Why, then, do I have a panic attack at the thought of missing one second of Patrick Dempsey and his miraculous head of hair making out with a severely underfed Ellen Pompeo on Grey's Anatomy? Why do I think I might die if I don't find it if Marissa and Ryan did it on The O.C.? Why do I freak out if I don't get to hear "Seacrest, Out!" every Tuesday during AI??

WHY???

I don't know why. But if you hear me talking about wanting to start watching any more TV shows, please punch me in the face.

Let's all take a deep breath. Ready?

OK. Did you take one? Because I seriously think we all need to take one. Yes, Angelina Jolie is pregnant, or as US Weekly calls her, "preggers," with Brad Pitt's baby. Yes, the baby will likely be very good-looking, and yes, it's all very scandalous because Brad left Jen for Angelina and now he is no longer known as Brad, but as one half of Bradgelina (I'm personally more of a fan of the Pittolie moniker, but that's neither here nor there). But can we get some perspective?? Please??

The way some people are talking, you would think this baby was the second coming of Christ. Just because there was some hot peen/vag contact does not mean everybody needs to get their panties in a bunch. Think about poor little Maddox (or Mad, as I like to call him when I come over for our playdate) and Zahara. Do you think they appreciate this fever pitch level of hysteria? Granted, Zahara is, like, two months old and probably doesn't give a crap about anything but eating strained peas and watching Blue's Clues, but I think if she had any semblance of what was going on, she would not be happy. And I'll be honest. I am a little afraid of Maddox. He seriously looks like he could kick my ass. Yes, he's about a fifth of my size, but there's something about that mini-mohawk that gives me the feeling that he would stab me in the face if I tried to mess with Bradgelina. So I'm going to refrain from dwelling too much on this new baby. And I hope you'll join me.

MySpace Whore

It is official: I am a MySpace whore. After joining Friendster and spending countless hours searching for losers I lived with in the dorms and guys I made out with once freshman year and then never saw again (what's up, random guy from Joe's whose name I later found out because you worked in my dorm library!), I vowed not to get sucked into any other online social sites. And then last week, my cousin wanted to tell me a story, but she had already written it out on her MySpace account and told me I had to join MySpace and look at her profile if I wanted to hear the story. So basically, I was forced at proverbial gunpoint to open an account.

So now I am on MySpace and I've wasted even more time on it than I ever did on Friendster. And I am obsessed with getting friends (because clearly, the number of friends you have online is directly correlated to the number of friends you have in the real world, and thus directly related to how good you should feel about yourself as a person). I recognize that I am pathetic. And yet somehow, I do not care. But this, too, shall pass; within a week, I'll likely be bored and move on to trolling AOL chat rooms for underage boys (I keed, I keed). But in the meantime, if you are on MySpace, you should, like totally be my friend, because I'm friends with the Postal Service and Kevin Federline, which makes me totally cool, and you can be cool be association if you are my friend.

My funny little man

I am so very excited that Jon Stewart will be hosting the Oscars this year. I think he is one of the funniest comedians working today, and I can't wait to see how he uses the sense of humor he usually reserves for Capitol Hill to skewer Hollywood. Then again, I think Chris Rock is hilarious, and he pretty much bombed at the Oscars last year. So I guess there are no guarantees. But I think if Jon Stewart can't liven up the Oscars, ain't nobody's gonna be able to. Oh, Jon, don't let me down. If nothing else, at least try to be better than Billy Crystal. I think the only people who still find him funny get a social security check in their mailbox every month.

Setting the Bar Low

I hate New Year's. It's one of the holidays that, like prom, always holds the promise of being awesome, but never ends up living up to the hype. You wind up hungover, $200 poorer and pissed off that you expected so much out of it only to be disappointed. Or maybe that's just me.

So this year, I decided to go into New Year's with very low expectations. My only goal was to not be surrounded by assholes at midnight and to not spend more than $40.

And, lo and behold, it ended up being one of the more entertaining New Year's I've had. When the clock struck 12, I was with good friends and other assorted non-obnoxious people, and I only spent $20. Sweet.

I think this bodes well for 2006.

Things to do in January:
--Finally watch Boondock Saints, Happy Gilmore and Tommy Boy. I know, I know, I'm a terrible, terrible human being for not having seen them before.
--Actually make use of my gym membership.
--Use Jedi mind tricks on Kristin so she does not suck me into being addicted to yet another television show.
--Hang out with more has-been rock stars.
--Decrease the sugar-to-blood ratio coursing through my veins (current count: 3 parts sugar to one part blood).

Happy birthday to Jess, Erick, Amy, Courtney and Lisa :)