SANJAYA'S A FIGHTER

Well, most of you know about my betta, Sanjaya. He's the most beautiful, talented, smartest fish in the world. And for those of you who haven't met him, I'll go ahead and answer your question: Yes, he was named after Sanjaya Malakar.

Now, before you write me off as another offbeat, sycophantic American Idol groupie with no life, let me explain. Very rarely have I ever watched the show. I mean, I know Simon is mean, Paula is batsh*t crazy and Randy calls everyone "dawg". And I know William Hung, because his rendition of "She Bangs" was just way too hysterical. But that's really the extent of my Idol worship. Except for Sanjaya Malakar. Now, he was a global phenom... or rather, his ever-changing hairstyles were. You couldn't escape the buzz about Sanjaya's hair earlier this year.... even those of us who don't watch Idol knew all about him. I read People magazine every other week while I'm getting my pedicure. Between that, "The Soup" and a little water-cooler talk at work, I manage to stay somewhat in the know. And at the time I got my betta, Malakar Mane Mania was in full swing. Now, since this species of fish can dramatically alter its apperance by puffing out its gill covers to look more showy and impressive, Sanjaya was the perfect name for my little guy. It was kinda funny. It was kinda metaphoric. But more than anything, it was kinda a matter of timing just like everything else in life.

Admittedly, I'm probably a little biased, but Sanjaya is beautiful. Ya'll, really. He's a frilly, brilliant-blue crowntail with scarlet markings on his rays. And don't think for one second he doesn't know he's hot. He's a bit of a show-off, in his fancy aqua-palace... and pretty well-traveled, too, but I won't go into that or you'll think I'm as over-medicated as Paula Abdul.

So what I'm leading up to here is that Sanj is sick. And I'm troubled. The past couple days, he's been laying over on his side. At first, he looked dead. But his little fins are moving, and at intervals he's able to bring himself upright before drifting over to the opposite side. The poor thing. I was out at Ruth's Chris having a fabulous steak last night (yes, I rank right up there with Brittney Spears as a parent! Gasp!) when K-Fed... I mean Mark... stopped by my house and TM'd me that Sanjers had taken a turn for the worse. I rushed home to see about him.

Does anyone out in the blogosphere know about betta fish? If so, could you offer a diagnosis?

After much research, Mark has concluded that Sanjaya's having trouble with his swim-bladder... he's been overfed and needs to poop. [Imagine, me over-feeding a pet... hmmm. Those 15-lb siamese cats should've been a cautionary tale.] Anyway, Mark called at 7:00 this morning to report that a shelled pea might do the trick. Apparently, this acts as a fishy-laxative. Can anyone believe I'm taking the time to post this? Can anyone believe my boyfriend loves me and my fish enough to play vet? Moreover, can anyone believe I actually took the time to cook peas before I went to work? Sanjaya is the best $6.43 I've ever spent, and I'm just not ready to be without him.

But here's where it all gets fuzzy... cooked peas sink. So how's a surface-feeding fish with a swimming and balance disorder supposed to get to the pea before it hits bottom? I have shelled several peas tonight and am drying them, in hopes that dry ones float so my little fish won't. Please message with answers, if you have any. I'll try anything...

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Ok, so I just read this entry and realized I spent way too much time proving that I'm not an American Idol kind of freak... just to prove I'm more of a "boil and shell peas to save a six-dollar pet" kind of freak. Sheesh. Maybe I should just start watching Idol now.

I HAD THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT... I JUST DIDN’T HAVE THE ABILITY...

Well, you probably recognize that headine... I ripped it off from Ron White. And if you know me like I think you know me, you know I love me some tater salad. Ron is about as subtle as chainsaw, and I must admit I have my moments like that, too.

In fact, I had one Friday night. And it was a doozie.

Now, if you've read my "Poop Is Funny" blog, you already know that there are very few topics that are off-limits at our office... in fact, I can't think of a single one. Nothing (I repeat, nothing) is sacred. So when one of our favorite co-workers showed up at work last spring with a huge bite on the back of his arm, there were questions. Lots and lots of questions. Suffice it to say that after a lame excuse of "a tree limb fell on me" (which we were soooo not buying, because none of us has ever seen a tree with an overbite), we finally coaxed out of him that it was indeed his wife. Apparently, after an evening of imbibition, she came at him unprovoked as he brushed his teeth, and proceeded to take a chomp at the back of his arm. It left the most kaleidoscopic bruise I've ever seen in my life... seriously, it was like tie-dye... various purples, blues, blacks, yellows and reds, all jockeying for position across the triceps.

Let me say that our poor friend has endured hours of ribbing about the now infamous biting incident over the past eight or nine months. He has been so good-natured about it... what a great sport. Really. Heck, it's not personal or malicious. You're not "one of the gang" unless you can handle merciless taunting and teasing about an assortment of inappropriate topics that are better left outside the workplace. It's a lawsuit waiting to happen. We like it that way... We go to extreme lengths to cultivate that sort of environment... We want to make sure it stays that way. Frankly, it's what keeps all of us loving our jobs and gives us the will to get up and come in to work, day after day. I mean, trucking is neither glamorous nor particularly fun. But the people r-u-l-e.

So we've established that (A) We are ruthless, and even the more so to our own inner circle and (B) To exist within the circle, you must be either thick-skinned or extremely forgiving. And there should, apparently, be one more bylaw to running with this crowd: (C) Tell your spouse / cohabitant / inamorato about all the crap you take at work... because they're going to hear about it at the office Christmas party, anyway. And if they hear about it there (instead of from you) and it catches them unaware, it ain't gonna be pretty. You could find yourself sleeping on the couch for a week.

Let's get to the 2007 party, then. This is where it gets good. I made the phenomenal mistake of referencing said biting incident to the biter, herself, in the course of normal conversation... in front of no less than ten people. Oh, yes, I did. She did not find it one bit humorous, either. And you should have seen the horrified look on her poor husband's face; it ran the gamut of emotions: Astonished. Apologetic. Mortified. Beat down. One faded into the next, just like the colors of that big, ugly bruise. I was the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. All of a sudden, the music scratched to a halt, all conversation ceased, a giant spotlight shone brightly down on me alone, and the crickets began to chirp... Total silence as I crammed my size 9 foot in my mouth. And in that moment of profound awkwardness, the biter looked at her crimson-faced husband and said, "It's time to go". Gulp. Boy, do I know how to clear a room...

Well, naturally, it's my turn on the hot seat at work now... Amid the snickers and winks, I've been admonished for my 'biting' comments. I still can't explain what happened to my filter (or lack thereof) that night; it was the most natural thing in the world to bring up the bite... we've been talking about it for months, it's the stuff office legends are made of. And within the past few days, we've told "the rest of the story" dozens of times. I've apologized to the husband tenfold and still can't manage to look him square in the eye. I probably never will. My girlfriends think it's the most hysterical thing ever (yes, there have been high-fives, they consider it kismet) but I still feel ugly. There's definitely a lesson to be learned... well, several, actually... at least one for each party involved. Wives: Don't take yourselves too seriously. Your man will really take a beating if you emasculate him in front of his office peeps; they won't let him forget who's wearing the pants at his house. Husbands: Grow a set and keep your wives in the loop that your co-workers are hooting it up at her expense and yours. Explain to her that it's not personal. It's totally not. Bystanders: Keep your big freakin' trap shut and remember that the office Christmas party is no place for fun. Oh, yeah, and everyone else: No biting. We should have all learned that by the age of 4.

WISDOM OF GIFT-GIVING

I recently read in People magazine that Scarlett Johansson gave boyfriend Ryan Reynolds a rather unique, albeit personal, gift for his 31th birthday: one of her wisdom teeth, dipped in gold and fastened to a gold chain so he can wear it around his neck.

Hmmm... How does one lose touch with reality, to the point it seems plausibe to give a loved one a piece of jewelry fashioned from a forceably-extracted body part? And what's next... Swarovski-encrusted nail clippings or platinum-covered kidney stones?

Guh-ross.

This instance of gift-giving lunacy segues right into the real heart of my blog, though: the holiday season. That meants it's time to start my seasonal rant. Bleh... Phooey... Bah-humbug. Frankly, feeling this way year after year is the only holiday tradition I consistently observe!

People are always surprised that I (with my Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm outlook on life) don't enjoy the holidays. But I really think it's a lot of rigmarole and essentially a giant hoax, perpetrated against hapless consumers with a lemming-like penchant for following the herd. Uh-huh, I'm one of them, too. I mean, how do you break away from the pack and stop the insane obligatory giving?

Now, before I get all het up and morph into a full-on Ebenezer, let me say I'm not cheap. Not stingy or parsimonious. Really. I have nothing against giving; in fact, I consider myself both generous of means and spirit. (I know, I know... there are three things everyone thinks about themselves: that they're not cheap, that they are creative, and that they have a great sense of humor. It just happens that in my case, it's all true... haha!) But seriously, back to the subject of generosity: Don't you agree that conforming to ritualistic giving defeats the very sentiment that lies in the heart of giving?

Like I mentioned, I get on this tare at about this same time every year. Chalk it up to frustration over having to forego the comfortable trappings of everyday life to sprint from store to store, just to ensure everyone on my Christmas list receives a suitably-priced trinket "because someone says we're supposed to".

I read recently that the average consumer will spend $923 on holiday shopping this year. And forecasters label this a "conservative" estimate, due to overall economic factors like the high cost of fuel. Doesn't that seem a little bit silly, dropping a grand just so you can walk in with a heap of shiny packages on the 359th day of the year? Since I'm a chronic last-minute buyer, I feel fortunate to be in a little better financial shape this year and that I won't have to rely on credit cards to fund the frenzy... but many of us will. 923 smackers? Wow, I'm really stuck on that figure... My first car didn't cost that much! (Ok, I just re-read that sentence, and now I sound not only really grouchy, but also really old!)

To those of you on my Xmas list, I apologize for this little tirade. I do pride myself on being a "thoughtful" gifter (thoughtful in the sense that I put a lot of sincerity into planning gift ideas and a lot of effort into the presentation; "guilding the lily" with gift-wrap is the really fun part... no cheesy pre-made bows or frosted Scotch tape!) And in all honestly, I truly do enjoy watching your eyes light up when you tear back the paper to reveal the present inside. But don't be surprised if, this year, your gift is a few centimeters long with a gleaming gold exterior. You guessed it... I'm going to look for a few relics that the Tooth Fairy may have left behind. (Mom, if you still have any of my baby teeth, please FedEx them right away!) And if I'm feeling artsy, I may even apply a little gold-leaf so I can score extra points for giving a hand-made gift. Oh, yes, I think this is the perfect plan for beating the over-commercialized HoHoHo'ers at their own game.

Hey, thanks, Scarlett! Maybe there's a bit of "wisdom" in your tasteless gift, afterall... Plus, I'll be about nine-hundred bucks ahead, so I can spend it on all of you when you least expect it. And in my estimation, that's really what true giving is all about.

PS: Has anyone seen the Sam's Club "2007 Gifts" catalog? There's a 12.25-carat diamond ring in there... for a mere $347,000. I rest my case.

NEW SHOES: SEX IN A BOX

One of my Fierce Fashionista Friends (side bar: you can get by without a BFF as long as you have a few good FFFs) from work just gave me a novel called "Shoe Addicts Anonymous". I basically devoured it in one Sunday-afternoon sitting, not so much because of the plotlines or the characters, but for the fact that it was spot-on in its revelations about how we girls feel about shoes. It's not enough that we keep our feet protected from the elements... No, ma'am, shoes are an extension of how we see ourselves. Or how we want to be seen.

My mother is on vacation in a tropical paradise right now. Want to guess what kind of pictures she is texting to my cell phone? Ocean views? Palm trees? Nope. She's taking pictures of her feet in a pair of sassy new black and white peeptoes, with the caption "Luv Them!" and I have to agree, they are fabulous indeed.

Some of my earliest memories as a little girl are of new shoes. You may be tempted to point out how shallow that sounds, but six-year olds are nothing if not shallow. And think about it: back then, the act of shopping for shoes always heralded the arrival of something momentous. Easter, for example, meant you went in search of white patent. The first day of school always scored you a new pair of tennis shoes. Summer vacation ushered in those flat leather sandals that buckled at the ankle and had the strap between the toes... it took almost all summer to get used to that strap, but those sandals were a childhood ritual. There was electricity in the air when you and your mom stepped into Thom McCann or Stride-Rite, and you eased your foot into that cold steel thingie that measured your still-growing foot. And let's not forget the heady tingle of anticipation as you waited for the salesman to return with a few boxes of shoes for trying on. Mind you, having your toe pinched to see where the tip was in relation to the end of the shoe was no picnic, but it was a small price to pay for shoes you just knew would help you run faster. Assign major bonus points if you were able to talk mom into letting you put your old shoes in the box so you could take those first glorious steps outside the store in your new ones!

Not too long ago, my little girlfriends who grew up with me reminded me of a pretty embarrassing habit I had as a child. We all attended church together for years, their family sitting one row behind my family, week after week. And if I was sporting new shoes, the show was on: while standing for the invitation song, I would invariably find it necessary to rest one foot on the pew behind me-- putting said new shoes on full display for all interested parties to admire. Ok, so I was both shallow and a show-off... we'll blame that on being an only child. But let's face it, in the kid universe, fresh kicks rule.

Fast-forward 25 years to Sex And The City... every woman on the planet relates to SATC, and one of the central characters is essentially the Manolo Blahnik stiletto. Really, the Manolo is cougar number five. One of my male friends refers to the show as MAWOSB (Middle-Aged Women On Spring Break), which I find amusing because if hot, trendy thirty-somethings went on spring break together, their first adventure would most likely be shopping for shoes. And that's because new shoes are "sex in a box". Pure, dazzling, tissue-wrapped pleasure that never fails to excite.

For all of my adult life, my weight has yo-yo'd constantly. Unfortunately, there's about a 40-pound swing, which means at the top end I have to sacrifice the really cute clothes. But not the shoes. The shoes are faithful... they don't judge between size 8 or 14. They have your well-heeled back, either way. And you can even stay off your feet while adding to your collection, through the joys of online shopping. You should see my eBay Favorites list. It reads like a Who's Who of the blissfully bipedal: BCBG, Michael Kors, Moschino, Stuart Weitzman, Via Spiga. And one of these days, my scarlet-soled Louboutin... one of these days...

Men just don't get it, though. The obsession with shoes is definitely one of the more highly-evolved of the sexes, save a few metro-minded QE types. Ladies, how many of you have heard, "Why do you need so many shoes?" I know, it's an absurd question only a man would ask. They're not responsible for their lack of understanding and secret jealousy of our insatiable passion for shoes. Who could blame them, really? It's just that shoes kick-in so many positive attributes:

• STYLE. It's all about looking cute (for other girls). Or looking hot (for guys). Well, unless it's about comfort (which it rarely is), but you still don't want to hike in spikes-- so let's leave it at being appropriately stylish.


• VARIETY. We can indulge in a different shoe for every whim, mood, outfit, venue or activity. And since it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind, variety is of utmost importance.


• VALUE. The only thing we like more than a footwear bargain is telling all of our girlfriends about a footwear bargain. But admittedly we do like it better if the telling is in response to a compliment on the bargain item.


• CONSISTENCY. Boyfriends, jobs, hairstyles, hemlines, your taste in music, maybe even your best friend, and definitely (in my experience) your dress-size will change. But the one unwavering staple of your adult life is your shoe size, which makes shoes the perfect...


• INVESTMENT. If you buy quality shoes and stick with classic styles, you can wear them 'til the heel caps are worn through or you're simply tired of looking at them and decide to put them in your next garage sale.


• SELF-ESTEEM. Straight up, a new pair of shoes will make you feel like a girl. Giddy. Sexy. Invincible. Trying on any other item of clothing? Not so much. Jeans, bathing suits, bras... they all have the capacity to deal an ego-crushing blow that can send you face-first into the soothing embrace of Ben & Jerry faster than you can say "wedges are hot for fall". Shoes, on the other hand (or foot), always rise to the occasion.

Well, that's enough of the shoe review for now. I'll cap this off by reminding everyone that the dog is commonly regarded man's best friend. Undoubtedly, shoes are woman's best friend. A sleek little pair of kitten heels may not fetch your newspaper or greet you at the door with a wagging tail, but they also won't chew up your favorite... shoes! (Anyone else see the irony that man's best friend has been the destroyer of many a favorite pump?)

Anyway, shoes are ever-comforting, never judgmental, quick to boost your feelings of self-worth, and help you express your individuality. And isn't that the role of any true friend, afterall?