I am unwritten ...

Drench yourself in words unspoken, live your life with arms wide open. Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten. -- Natasha Bedingfield, "Unwritten"

I'm officially old today.

OK, not really, but in the last week or so, I couldn't help but think of that fact that I have finally caught up with Lois Lane.

When L&C first started airing, I was 11 -- and Lois was 26. That sounded so grown-up to me. After all, she was so accomplished as a journalist -- and she had the hottest guy in the universe (literally) following after her with stars in his eyes.

So in honor of turning the same age as the venerable Ms. Lane, I decided to do my best come-hither journalistic minx pose in the Calvin Klein coat Chris gave me for my birthday and my beloved Coach sunglasses.

(And now that I'm looking at the pic, I see that I don't do come-hither so well.)

You can't really see my new highlights in the first pic(they're a very subtle chestnut color and best seen in natural light, and it was taken at midnight), but here's a better pic, taken Tuesday at work. I really like the color, and even better, it was free. (The stylist needed "models" to get certified to cut hair at the ultra-swanky Salon 7 in Seattle, and one of my bosses told me about it after she got her hair cut there.)

Anyway, new coat, new hair, new year.

I feel like birthdays are a personal new year of sorts -- on your birthday, you are presented with a clean slate. After all, the calendar year encompasses two different ages, and that can be both a blessing and a curse. Case in point: I got married in June 2006 (at age 23), and found out my husband was losing his job in December (at age 24). Likewise, in February 2007, I was on top of the world after earning a permanent position at The Times, and six months later, I turned 25 at rock bottom in the aftermath of my miscarriage.

24 was a year of change -- adjusting to married life, making the decision to have a child, geting my job, struggling to get pregnant, and then losing the baby ...

25 was a year of healing and self-discovery. It was a horrible year, but I feel like I learned a lot about myself, and there were definitely high points, especially my trip to L.A. and getting new opportunities at the paper, including slotting and my work in Editorial.

Today is where the 26th chapter of my book begins.

The rest is still unwritten.

Did I ever mention I own pink mixing bowls?

Clark Kent ruined it for every woman on this side of Krypton. He's hot, he wins journalism awards -- and he cooks. So it should come as no surprise that at the ripe old age of 13, I decided I was going to marry someone who would have dinner waiting when I arrived home from working toward my next Pulitzer.

It also should come as no surprise that I married someone who can't really cook.

Well, technically, he makes great garden burgers, and he browns ground turkey for me since I suck at it, but that isn't exactly what I had meant.

When we bought our house in 2004, I started out simple, with spaghetti and tacos and chicken Kiev, and the irony is, the more I cooked, the more I liked it, and the more adventurous I became.

Adventurous enough that when we registered for our wedding, I scanned a ton of cooking stuff -- everything from pots and pans and a KitchenAid mixer (swoon) to a meat thermometer and different types of measuring cups (who knew they even made different types!) -- and two years later, I use it all. (And about those pink mixing bowls, they were an unexpected wedding present from William-Sonoma, and I LOVE them.)

It turns out I love to shop for food. (Well, it's no Nordstrom anniversary sale, but really, what is?) I have so much fun wandering around in Trader Joe's or Whole Foods, or even Costco (even if I do have a tendency to buy cantaloupe or sour cream in bulk and then have a "what the hell am I going to do with this?!?" moment when I get home). I like trying new recipes and reading food blogs and swapping ideas with a certain Igloo at 3 a.m. ;-)

Who'd have thought I would be able to make quiche and homemade chili and strawberry rhubarb pie and truffles? I don't know if Lois would be impressed -- or disgusted that I broke ranks.

Unfortunately, these days, my problem isn't a lack of talent -- it's a lack of time.

I always make out my grocery list with the best of intentions -- and then get mad when the vegetables rot and the bread molds, and I'm telling Chris we're having Taco Del Mar again.

But I have a little more time these days (you know, when I'm not writing fic, planning a baby shower, going to work and juggling 200 other tasks) so this afternoon I spent a couple hours pouring over recipes, made an ambitious meal plan, and went grocery shopping. I planned eight meals (I cook four days a week), and I'm going to post them here. That way, it will be a little harder to blow off dragging my pathetic pink self out to the kitchen. (Especially since finding sun-dried tomatoes was no easy task.)

So here's what we'll be eating the next eight (cooking) days:
1. Spinach/ham/sun-dried tomato calzones made with whole-wheat dough and a Greek salad
2. French onion soup macaroni and cheese
3. Chicken cordon bleu, parmesan garlic orzo and steamed zucchini
4. Cheese tortellini with spinach/tomato cream sauce and a Caesar salad
5. Low-fat ground turkey chimichungas.
6. Balsamic chicken and garlic mashed potatoes
7. Cream-cheese chicken squares with puffed pastry and southwestern pasta salad
8. Ground-turkey chili and homemade cornbread.

And while I was writing my grocery list -- and talking to two friends -- I had an idea. Would any of you guys be game for, like, FoLC Iron Chef? (Yeah, yeah, look at me branching away from uh, ficathons.) Like where we all make the same recipe one night, and see how it goes -- and post about it on our blogs or something? It would be something easy to cook, and easy to shop for (since some people aren't in the U.S.) but I think it could be a ton of fun. So I figured I'd float the idea and see if anyone had preliminary interest in it.

After all, pasta has an effect on all continents. ;-)

The news ... and "the news"

I'm not going to lie and say I spend all my spare time reading seattletimes.com or the Poynter Institute's Web site. I read celebrity gossip sites, which I think is a good way to keep up on pop-culture events and trends (and it definitely can come in handy at work when the baby boomers start asking who Jay-Z is).

And furthermore, I've always had an interest in celebrity news, and, OK, if I'm being honest, the gossip side is somewhat appealing. (See Google Talk status reading: "It's just a little harmless lime-swapping ... right?!) After all, it's not like being a copy editor is particularly salacious.

I mainly read Celebrity Baby Blog, because it's fun to see all the trendy baby gear, and hey, it's always interesting to hear what celebs name their kids (seriously Gwen and Gavin -- Zuma?), and I also like Crazy Days & Nights, which has blind items that are fun to guess (even if I'm rarely correct). Considering the subject matter, I generally make a point of not taking what I read too seriously. (But I never made any such promises about rolling my eyes.)

But there's always an exception.

Earlier today I read in the San Jose Mercury-News that Teri Hatcher's molester (her former uncle by marriage) had died in prison. She is the one who, reputation be damned, came forward in 2002 and put him away. He had molested three young girls. One of those girls went on to become an award-winning actress with a lot of emotional baggage. One of those girls put a gun to her head, clutched a photo of her grandmother to her chest, and pulled the trigger.

I have to admit I wasn't too surprised when I heard about what had happened to Teri when her Vanity Fair interview was published in 2006. It definitely explained some things. Her relationship with her parents always had me thinking that if something had happened, it had been her father who had abused her. Turns out that they just turned a blind eye to it. And I really haven't ever commented on it -- on the boards, at least -- because what could I say, other than that I have the utmost respect for her for coming forward?

But what got my attention tonight was when I clicked on a link on a Google news alert and it took me to Perez Hilton's Web site.

I think Perez Hilton is a total douchebag. Always have. But I also know that instead of being bothered by the backlash, he thrives on being a controversial prick. Even so, I thought it was pretty reprehensible to publish a post about Teri's "alleged" molester having died, thus casting doubt on her story. Even better were the reader comments saying that she deserved it, that she is responsible for that girl's death, that she wanted it to happen ... talk about sick.

Like I said, I generally read the mainstream blogs. I didn't even know some of the more tasteless ones existed until I had to deal with the cyberstalker who was posting fake comments as me about Teri and Dean. (And you bet your sweet chumpy I posted a comment on the Perez thread. For the record, I'm not some vigilante for her -- or any other celebrity -- but I just couldn't help myself. I think the phrase "attention whore" came up -- and I wasn't talking about Teri.)

Yes, celebrities voluntarily put themselves in the spotlight, whether it's by starring in a movie, or swimming to eight Olympic golds. But it's kind of sickening when judgement starts being passed for things over which they had no control. I can't even imagine being judged over my miscarriage. And the thing is, if I was a celebrity, I'm sure I would have been.

And unfortunately, with the popularity of blogs and other forms of non-conventional media (defined as everything from shows like "The Soup" to the endless array of "news" magazines to people like Perez Hilton being interviewed about their take on current events), the line starts to blur between legit journalism and this crap.

And contrary to public perception, those of us who work for legitimate news outlets, and write such headlines as "Oil prices fall for second straight day," do not set out to write "OH MY GOD" headlines. I have a feeling that a lot of true-blue newsmen and women cringe. I know that I do. And we know better than to throw words like "alleged" around unless we have a damn good reason.

Fifteen-second journalism lesson: You can call someone an alleged molester until they have been convicted. Once the facts have been proven, the word is no longer necessary. Case in point, you don't see people going around calling Ted Bundy an alleged killer.

Perhaps some of these "media" members should have taken News Writing (and, really, Media Law, too) before they started professing to be journalistic experts. But no, they prefer to gain "experience" by speculating if so-and-so is pregnant again, or if so-and-so is cheating on his wife.

As someone who works in the mainstream media, it's kind of disheartening that people can't get enough of this garbage -- and at the same time, newspaper readership continues to decline. To borrow one of my favorite L&C quotes (from SLV in Season 4), those type of salacious publications are "only after sleaze --you're a disgrace to legitimate reporters."

All that sleaze kind of makes me want to go take a shower.

History ... and hotness

I have an on-again, off-again relationship with the Olympics. It really depends on what the
A-list event of the games is. In 1996, I was captivated by the Magnificent Seven as they valuted and tumbled their way to history in Atlanta. In 2002, it was the heart-wrenching scandal of Canadian ice skaters Jamie Salé and David Pelletier being cheated out of the gold in Salt Lake City. (I also have a vague recollection of watching many heats of the slalom at
5 a.m. when I couldn't sleep. Gotta love replays.)

This year, I wasn't as jazzed. The time difference, meaning that nothing was being aired live -- no thanks to NBC -- coupled with my personal feelings toward China, the country that caused a mass outcry over lead in everything it exports except ramen, and has continually screwed over one of my friends who is adopting from there, had me kind of apathetic.

But then I got sent back to work in Sports two weeks ago, and we were watching the opening ceremony, which for some reason got me a little teary. There's something kind of amazing about seeing all these countries come together to celebrate their accomplishments -- and the world we live in today, opportunities to focus on the positive are few and far between.

And while it's impressive to see the delegations with hundreds of athletes, like the U.S. and China, I so enjoyed seeing the countries that only had five or ten athletes, waving so proudly as they entered the stadium. To me, that was far more moving than seeing LeBron James or Kobe Bryant (ew). And don't get me started on the hideous outfits the U.S. athletes wore in the opening ceremony. I love Ralph Lauren, but ... just ... no.

Being a former swimmer, it's, by far, my favorite sport to watch. Unlike, say, fencing, I understand it. And, well, once I saw the Superman in a speedo on the U.S. team, well ... I know he's younger than me, and I'm, you know, married, but I wouldn't mind doing the backstroke with him for a few hours ... in the pool, you sick people. (OK, just because I was told last fall, "Good job, Jenn. You do gutter so well," doesn't mean anything ...)

Anyway, it has been really cool to see Michael Phelps make history winning medal after medal. Eight gold medals at age 23 is kind of mindblowing. His butterfly is amazing. I did the stroke OK (I swam at districts in both the 200 IM and the 100 breaststroke) but he does it with, like, superhuman speed. And seriously, he's so hot. And he loves his mom. :::swoons:::

On an unrelated note that I am going to make related, you'd think more people would want to stay home and stare at Phelps on the Internet (see photo above) ... the traffic made me late for work five of five days this week. Hey, at least I'm consistent. One day, it took me more than 90 minutes to drive a commute that should take 45. Gas prices have more Americans taking "staycations" close to home, and I so do not endorse the never-ending stream of cars coming up from Oregon that don't realize the speed limit is 10 mph higher in Washington, or the people who clearly have never driven outside Whatcom County.

I thought about going up to Southcenter today, but with the way the traffic is, I think I'm safer sitting on my couch, and, you know ... staring at Phelps. Just kidding. I'm actually designing baby-shower invitations for the shower I am throwing for two co-workers, and working on my ficathon story. Uh, when's the deadline again? ;-)

Great expectations ...

Expectations.

They're a total minefield.

We all have expectations for how other people should act, the things they should say, the way they should look ... and we have expectations for ourselves, too.

It's one reason why I don't own jeans -- I have expectations for how a journalist should dress. (However, given that I'm not a journalist on the weekend, I'm giving some serious thought to lowering my wardrobe expectations for the two days a week that at home.)

The same goes for when a writer posts a story -- we expect that our hard work will be applauded, not criticized or ignored. And the more we write, and the more entrenched we become, the more we come to expect that we'll be lauded. And it's a really dangerous position to be in. Case in point: I was disheartened by the lack of initial feedback for Chapter 16 of "This Ain't a Love Song," especially since I about killed myself finishing it.

Anyway, back to the point. When our expectations aren't met, we're disappointed -- both with the people who failed us, and with ourselves for having those expectations to begin with.

For example, we expect our friends to be there for us in good times and bad. We don't expect them to basically cast us aside like a piece of trash when we're going through a hard time. If you're going to throw confetti and be over the moon for us when, for example, we announce that we're pregnant, you shouldn't be too surprised when your total 180-degree turn when we, say, lose the baby, may, you know, be noticed, and in turn, pisses us off.

I'm sorry if people are uncomfortable with the things I have been through in the last year. I really am. But this is my life. And to go from "I'm so lucky to have friends like you" to absolute silence -- it's kind of baffling. And the irony is, ever since she basically told me I'm a fertility failure, I haven't really been talking to my "friend," anyway, but, as petty as it sounds, it's kind of like, "where do you get off acting like you don't want to talk to me -- I don't want to talk to you!"

And really, I shouldn't care. There's a good 80 percent of me that doesn't care at this point. But the other 20 percent can't help but think, does my having had a miscarriage really make me that big a pile of broken glass that people would rather just walk around it than acknowledge that it actually can be put back together?

I guess, in this case, that my expectations were a little too high.

And along the same lines, when we spend a lot of time helping plan an event, expectations are borne of how it will turn out -- and how our hard work will be perceived. So when we're labeled as the bad guy, it's kind of like being sneaked up on and waterboarded. Some of you know what I am talking about here, and while I really don't want to get into it, I'm still pretty hungover from drinking Tang -- and it's been a month.

I am beyond tired of being the fall guy for what happened in L.A. It was my vacation. And I'm not spending my vacation sitting in a room watching a TV show I could watch at home for free. I'm not spending my vacation driving 40-something miles to see a beach that is inferior to anywhere I've been in Hawaii, when I could see Rodeo Drive. And I don't want to eat dinner at the hotel when I'm in one of the coolest food cities in the world. Where else are you going to have organic sweet-potato fries, or $7 ramen that you have to wait 90 minutes to get a table for?

I had a great time on my vacation. I don't regret anything about it -- except having set such unrealistic expectations about what was going to happen. But I didn't know any better. And for that reason, I am not going to feel guilty about going against the status quo and defying other people's expectations. I've spent the last month fighting the impulse to feel bad. If someone wants to nail me to the cross, they're going to have to make room for the other six people who were right there with me, and quite frankly, I don't think Home Depot sells a strong enough piece of wood.

And furthermore, I had expectations, too. I still do -- but I am going to have to alter them if I don't want to go crazy.

I'm tired of drama.

I really, really am. So here I am, saying my piece, and now I can go back to being zen.

Pain and passion: Writing the "Love Song"

"You and I were living like a love song. I feel so bad, I feel so bad that you're gone. Now I know you're the only one that I want. I want you back, I want you back.

Now I'm here to say I'm sorry, and ask for a second chance. Cause when it all comes down to the end, you were the best I ever had."

-- "Best I Ever Had," State of Shock

I've made a career out of meeting deadlines, so you'd think I'd have no problems with self-imposed ones.

Try again.

And tonight, I am going to break tradition and go into specifics about my writing.

Chapter 16 of "This Ain't a Love Song", was, without a shadow of a doubt, the hardest thing I have ever had to write. It made "Rain" look easy in comparison. I knew things wouldn't be easy once George and Lynn found out she was pregnant, but I expected the hardest moments to come later. I never thought it would be so difficult to write the lead-up to the worst moment of their lives. And I never thought it would take me almost three months to write it.

At first, I didn't even realize what was going on. It wasn't until Trin commented that she had never seen me have so much trouble finishing something that I stopped and took note of the fact that I was doing everything possible to avoid working on Chapter 16. Considering that I wrote all 35 chapters of "Inside Out" in less than two months, I couldn't exactly use being a slow writer as an excuse. And as time went by, I no longer could use my job, doing beta work or having to finish other stories as an excuse.

I went to Los Angeles and soaked up the "G&L culture." I visited The Grove, where the chapter opens. I toured the infamous Warner Bros. Studios. (And, much to my chagrin, I started thinking about Chapter 18. As in two chapters away.) I walked up and down Rodeo Drive, and all I had discovered was a craving for Sprinkles Cupcakes.

So what the hell was wrong with me? Visual research had certainly paid off in the past -- I went to Las Vegas in January, and started writing Chapter 14 on the flight home. Spago and The Paris, the fountains in front of the Bellagio and the dance floor at Pure ... the ideas came raining down like April in Seattle.

And then it hit me. I'm the happiness destroyer.

I have spent more than a year having a love affair with the characters of Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Writing about them has been my entertainment, my escape, what saved me from drowning. And I never, in a million years, would have guessed I'd fall even more in love with George Dailey and Lynn Thayer. They are amazing, intricate, maddening characters, and I have never felt so many emotions when writing as I have throughout "This Ain't a Love Song." There are moments when I just want it to be over -- to put them (and myself) out of their misery -- and there are moments when I wish that the story could go on forever. It has been my biggest challenge, and my proudest piece of work.

A good friend of mine has been going through a similiar situation, which makes me feel a little bit better -- and a little less crazy. "Kansas" is one of the most fastinating, heartbreakingly beautiful love stories I have ever read, and like me, she has spent the last few weeks struggling over how to put her characters through hell and still have them find their way back to each other.

I so badly want George and Lynn to get their happy ending. God knows they deserve it. But as I sat at my computer the last few weeks, typing word after word, I knew I was moving closer to destroying the love song they've been living the last few chapters. (And anyone reading the story knows it wasn't easy getting them there to begin with.) Even so, I knew it had to be this way. After all, the title says it all -- this ain't a love song. After everything they have put each other through for nine years, there is no way that happily ever after could come easily.

So I started edging them toward hell, and what better way to do it than give them exactly what they want -- the chance to truly be together. It's what George wants, what Lynn wants, what my readers want -- hell, it's what I've wanted all along. Why not let them hear the first verse of the love song? Why not let them be truthful and emotional and real?

After all, it makes for good drama. And believe me, I know.

Honestly, if I had known that July 30, 2007, would be the last day of my life that I'd truly feel normal, I probably wouldn't have gone to Costco, or watched "Friends" reruns all evening. I wouldn't have folded laundry or spent an hour flatironing my hair. And I'm pretty sure that if George and Lynn were real people, they wouldn't spend their last happy moments searching their souls in front of her pool.

I actually am thrilled with the way the chapter turned out, but at the same time, I can't stop thinking about the fact that I just turned off the love song. That the next time I open a blank Word document, it will be to ruin their lives, and potentially put myself through hell, too. I guess it's the perils of becoming so emotionally involved in your writing -- you feel their pain, and you feel like you caused it.

I'm going to end this with a passage from Chapter 16, which I finally finished at 6 a.m. yesterday. But before I do that, I have to take a moment to thank Trin, without whom I couldn't have finished this. Aside from being a total rockstar, she is the greatest creative consultant of all time.

Lynn looked down at the water, her body shaking with silent sobs. “George … I’m begging you … just be with me. Just love me. Please. I need you just as much as you need me.”

He tipped her chin up so she was looking into his eyes. “For how long?”

Her reply was barely audible. “How about the rest of our lives?”

His voice was rough with emotion. “Sounds good to me.”

Sounds good to me, too.

Here's hoping they make it.

Saving the world, one comma at a time ...

Being a journalist is hard work. And unfortunately, shows like "Lois & Clark" don't do much to negate the stereotype that reporters strut into the newsroom in their designer suits, file their front-page story (on the investigation they completed in mere hours), and win a Pulitzer, while systematically saving the world/going on tirades/flirting with their partner.

Well, Mr. Kent, and Ms. Lane,
THIS is journalism.

Newspapers are a 365-day enterprise. People are always shocked when I say I have to work on Saturday. Seriously, who do they think puts out the Sunday paper? And no, I can't go to dinner and a movie on Friday night; there's that little thing called the Saturday paper. We work hours that aren't exactly conducive to having a social life, we get home when our spouses are asleep, and we spend our holidays writing cutlines on photos of Fourth of July fireworks over Lake Union and editing stories about Christmas on the front lines of the war instead of being with our families.

You have to edit stories you don't care whatsoever about (see "Cadillac worms" or "Enron"). You get sent to work in other departments where the pace and protocol are totally different. (Did I mention I'm in Sports all week?) You have to deal with reporters who think your sole purpose in life is to piss them off by having the audacity to call and ask for clarification on something in their story so they don't have to write a correction. You have to sit and watch the wires in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, fighting back tears as you read datelines on stories that are places where you stood just weeks earlier. You have to write the perfect headline on a story about infertility on the day you've come back from recovering from your miscarriage.

You have to be objective, or you could get fired. And trust me, on some days, that's no easy task, especially on hot-button issues. I don't really get hot and bothered about light rail or the Sonics moving to Oklahoma City, but there are certain topics that, only out of respect for my desire to be employed for another 25 years or so, I do not write headlines like "Stupid bitch sleeps off drunken stupor while baby she's lucky to have drowns in bathtub."

Not having a political identity -- or worse, having one that goes against the industry's norm -- can be very hard. I remember being back in Editorial this spring and two of the editors were talking about Obama and McCain, and they said, "Well, Jennifer's a McCain fan," and I was like, "Oh yeah? Who said that?" while looking around in fear that someone was about to appear and waterboard me for even acknowledging them.

They apparently could "just tell," (I am guessing only because I never join on their riotous Bush bashing/Democratic swoonfests, which, in my own defense, I could just be being quiet for the sake of having my paycheck signed off on by the News department) and then suggested I be McCain's running mate. Too bad I wasn't born here; I bet I'd bring in the pink vote, at least.

All this ranting to the contrary, I love it. Considering I'm not the most patient person, I like seeing tangible evidence of what I did all day when I wake up in the morning. I feel a real sense of pride when I see people reading the paper, or it's mentioned on TV or in a movie. (You should hear my reaction every time it's shown on "Grey's Anatomy.")

And, furthermore, it's the catalyst for two (technically unrelated) things I am very happy about right now.

Because of my schedule (in addition to my horrific hours, we get to choose vacation days by seniority, and some of the desk editors have been at the paper since before I was born), it's not easy taking a vacation. Add in the fact that between the high-school football he's covering and the college and pro football he's watching, my husband is pretty much MIA from the end of the August until Thanksgiving, and suddenly, we're staring at each other on opposite ends of the couch whining, "We never see each other, and we never go anywhere." (The latter complaint coming from me, a mere three weeks after returning from California.) Seriously, reporters and editors do not work the same hours, and it can be challenging at times. For those who know what I am talking about, "eight days, six hours, four minutes and two seconds" is an understatement at times.

So in order to beat the traditional cold weather/ holiday-stress meltdown, we decided to go to Las Vegas the weekend before Thanksgiving! We were going to go Sunday and come home Wednesday, but it was a mere $3 difference to stay a fourth night, so we'll be coming back Thursday morning -- just in time for me to go to work. Should make for an interesting offering to the desk's holiday dinner. Uh, I bought a can of cranberry sauce, but the TSA took it away. I LOVE Vegas, so I am thrilled to be going back (and yes, for those counting, that will make three times in less than 18 months, but what can I say, it's not too far, it's cost-effective, and it's warm!). I am SO excited to be staying at the very swanky Mandalay Bay. Look at me being a Desperate Housewife!

So, have I mentioned that being a journalist requires an ever-evolving work wardrobe? Uh, probably not, because actually, it doesn't. Just ask my boss, who wears jeans pretty much every day and makes fun of me for not owning any. (In my own defense, I looked at some at Nordstrom over the weekend, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.) I got it stuck in my head that a journalist should dress like you-know-who, way back when, and while I don't wear suits or anything, I do dress up for work every day (except Saturday). I have more slacks, skirts and heels than I do khakis, T-shirts and sneakers. Most of the clothes I buy are for work, and then I complain on my days off that I have nothing to wear. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

Anyway, I fell in love with this Calvin Klein wool wrap coat during the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, and my very nice husband decided to buy it for my upcoming birthday (despite me feeling bad for 15 seconds that I was basically telling him what to buy me this year and not giving him any creative liberties). It isn't hard to figure out why I wanted it so bad -- to quote my fabulous friend Clem, "It looks like you stole it from Lois' closet."

Hey, I deserve it. After all, being a journalist is hard work!

Extreme Makeover, Pink Edition

With a lot of support, a little self-reflection and a really long traffic backup, I made it through July 31 in one piece.

Now it's August 1, which means a new year -- and the perfect time for a little makeover.

So here's the new blog look. As for me, I technically just got a haircut, and I have a bunch of new shoes from the Nordstrom sale (see header photo) and a Tiffany necklace I am madly in love with.

I'll continue to consider adding other colors to my wardrobe. Not everything can be pink and black. (Technically, though, it was one of WSU's original colors, so I, uh, do it to represent for the Cougs.)

Maybe I will get on the treadmill ... or at least think about it.

I hope the next year is a little less tearful and a lot less crazy. It's one reason I changed the blog name. You can't find inner peace when the word crazy is right there in the header.

In the next year, I have two definitive goals: Finding zen, and telling it like it is.

And anyone who has a problem with my new stance can take it up with Lois Lane, who's been a bad influence on me since 1994.

You don't mess with the zen. It took a long time to find it. ;-)