01.07.03 - 9:36 p.m.

Speechy speechy speechy. I don't watch Buffy with many high hopes anymore, but I definitely don't watch it to have her Tony Robbins her way through every episode. Yes, we get it. The biggest, baddest of them all. Must defeat it together. Must have faith. Blah blah blah. Speaking of, when is Faith showing up? I could use a little bit of truly bad-ass chick right now, not the watered-down schtick of that sassy slayer-in-training Kennedy. Grrr. Arrrgh.

And has anyone figured out whether Giles really is Giles? He still hasn't touched another living soul.

I watched a lot of telly while in the trenches with my stomach virus yesterday. It's a wily stomach virus, the kind that keeps your appetite intact and fools you into believing it's safe to eat solid foods. Sado-masochist. So I end up watching Emeril Live with tears in my eyes because the crabmeat and olive salad cannot be mine. Those people who attend tapings of that show are fools. Why must they always clap when he uses garlic in a recipe? If the audience were in my kitchen, I'd get standing ovations every night.

And I watched Joe Millionaire. Because how could you not? Says girl with thong straps sticking out from her low-rise jeans, upon entering the chateau: "I am SUCH a princess, I feel right at home here!" Yeah, sure you are, dear. Tiara with that ass crack? Or shall I instead ponder this fine quote: "I always told myself I'd be married by 23." This out of the mouth of someone who is 24, poor old maid, must have used up all her chances for a may-an, and boy, she's behind schedule on popping out those kids. Is that like when I was seven and read Sweet Valley High and thought that 16 was a really old age, not to mention the be-all and end-all of social existence?

But, um, JOEvan himself? Yes, good-looking. Good-looking enough that you'd be willing to overlook a few of his social faux pas if you really, truly believed that he was worth $50 million. But then you see him on a morning news show and he's talking about how he'd rather be getting a blow job in the Oval Office and you're like...yeah. Maybe that's why the girls don't come a-running in real life, JOEvan.

Sigh. I just like my menfolk a bit more refined, is all.

And to end this tangential entry, a quote from a piece in The New Yorker on my one true love, Tar-zhay:
"And it is important to go to Target in a car, not by subway or bus: unless you load up your trunk with six or seven Target bags filled with things that you're not sure why you bought, get home and unload them, hoping the neighbors won't see you making several trips back and forth to your car with armloads of stuff, and feel both pleased by your sharp eye for a bargain and slightly ill from a sensation of excess -- even if the excess is on a reasonable scale, like paying seven dollars for three twelve-packs of Diet Coke when you need (and have room for) only one twelve-pack -- you haven't really shopped at Target properly."

Ah, New Yorker author, thou knowest me all too well.