It's always a mixed bag coming back into work after a long vay-cay. There are the mundane tasks of catching up on mail (interoffice, snail and e-), clearing off the desk, forgetting the new intern's name and catching up on the gossip.

Highlights include:

• The company's decision to move all employees to my old insurance carrier. Yay! I get to have my primary care gal again! Only, BOO! I have to do a "health assesment" which includes (according to rumor) an HR-administered BMI. Since I only used my current health insurance twice last year (annual and a killer migraine), I resent this. Then again, we have someone on the staff who underwent a stem-cell implant last year, so maybe they have a point.

• The teen-driven section will be going on summer hiatus and replaced with a 20-34 year-old demograpic driven section and I get to write for it. WOO!

• The "Breakfast Club" cast (minus Emilio right now) will be reuniting for the MTV Movie Awards. Insanely happy.

• TPTB installed new, retina-scarring red LED clocks in the middle of the newsroom.

• Liz Smith gave Sarah Vowell a shout-out.

• As usual, my computer was frelled when I got back.

• Apparently? Not a good idea to respond to the question of "How was your vacation?" with "Too long."

Coming back into work on a holiday always makes for a nice transition. Holidays in the newsroom and everyone has their heads down, trying not to pay attention to anyone else and just get out. On holidays, I can wear jeans and hide behind my monitor and answer the few questions that are lobbed my way, but really? Nobody cares. Just as it should be with a bunch of jaded journalists.

Twenty-one hours ago, I was trundling through Honolulu International singing the best of Motely Crue. Tonight (tonight!), I'm home (sweet home).

I could regale you with many a tale of the voyage, but I shall leave you with this: humans are not meant to hork while snorkeling.

And here's a turtle.

I am here.



Back to regularly scheduled blogging next weekend.

Okay. Let's review.

First, it was the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes Italian tour.

Then it was the announcement that Bennifer II was expecting a baby in November.

And now you're telling me Reneé Zellweger married Kenny Chesney?

Jesus. I'm beginning to feel like I can't go on vacation, lest I miss the inevitable Paris/Paris engagement announcement. Oh, wait...

Oh, god. Ben Affleck's breeding.

This totally blows Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise out of the water.

Seriously. Someone storm the CBS offices and take the yellow pen away from Darek Daley. He circles everything for the dumb Americans who don't know what...a tire is.

"Look at this. The round black thing is called a wheel, the black part is called a tire. Let me circle it. Yes, that propels the driver forward."

No kidding? Really? Could you enunciate that, please, because I didn't catch it the first time. "Tyyyyyyyyyy-re."

Then he circles another piece of machinery."Now, if you take a look at this thing here, this is the steering wheel."

That's amazing. I thought F1 was so advanced, they were driving telepathically. Steering wheel. You don't say. Could you tell me more?

"It's not made out of steel or leather, but rather the light-weight material called carbon fiber."

And then, in the penulitmate lap, Webber makes a deseperate block right before the first turn to keep his position from Giancarlo Fisicella, something we see weekend after weekend in this series, but Daley goes nuts with the disdain. "I feel awful for any teenager watching at home wanting to be a Formula One driver, because if he tries this move, he will die. I want to send a message to Max Mosely, telling him that if he continues to allow blocking, someone will die."

Ya wanna borrow my socket set so you can wratchet up the hysteria a little more there, Derek?

The other commentary guy is a Cosell wannabe whose nasal dronings worked with the engines screaming up to 19,000 r.p.m. to knock me right out. I missed 40 laps, but I don't feel deprived. Friday at midnight, Speed will have the rebroadcast, and I think we've got the timer set.

Speed, now there's commentary. You've got the former head Benneton mechanic, Steve Matchett, who's the geek's geek and can explain complicated engineering details with such simple elegance, any English major can understand the inner workings of the car. You've got David Hobbes, former sportscar racer and color commentator, another Brit, talking about the drivers, the tracks, his memories of driving in the 60s and 70s and giving the occasional shout of "LOVE A DUCK!" when something awesome happens on track. And then, as much as I lothed him in the past, there is Bob Varsha ("Shut up, Bob!" -- Adam), token Yank and total gossip hound. Makes for an entertaining two hours.

I pity the casual viewer who was curious about the sport and stumbled across the CBS broadcast. They missed the insightful, intelligent commentary of the Speed crew and got...

Darek Daley, his yellow marker, and a voice reserved for developmentally delayed four-year-olds.

Now we're watching "Garfield: The Movie" to take the bitter taste of yellow marker out of our mouths, but it's not working. The turkey baster state of suck that is the F1 race continues keeps us bathing in the moisture of our misery, because we are just that emo.

So, I clicked on the "Weddings and Celebrations" link of the NYT, out of sheer morbid curiosity. I've never read the Vows page before and I tend to get my fill of weddings doing the layout for the Albuquerque Journal's own Couples section, but today? Clicky.

Aside from discovering Senator Jack Reed (D, RI) tied the knot a few weeks back, I wasn't really feeling it, until I saw a familiar name. I clicked. Oh. Okay. Not her.

Still, there was that moment when I thought, out of all the people to come out of Ruidoso, New Mexico, she would be the most likely candidate to turn up in the Times.

Speaking of weddings, our fifth anniversary is coming up a week from Monday. We've offically beat the first set of marriage statistics! We lived together pre-wedding and still made it to the five year mark! Suck on that, sociology!

And really, to go screaming off topic here, isn't "Freedom 90" still just as sexy as when Naomi Campbell sauntered around with clamshell headphones fifteen years ago?

Fuck, that was fifteen years ago.*







*If there was ever a time to drop an F-bomb, that was it. Christ. When did that happen?

I'm proud to announce the newest member of the Wolf family!



babyPoddy!

Pink and adorable and I'm having a blast loading him (yes, him) (yes, he's secure in his masculinity) with all of my crap-tastic music. iPoddy is kind of sulky, but he'll soon learn to accept his baby brother.

Isn't he adorable? Awww.

Oh, now that I'm getting ready to retire him, he goes and grows a wicked sense of humor.

Press play and what do I get? "Without You" by Motlëy Crüe.

Honestly.

::waves lighter::

OOooookay, that last post was a little bit on the downbeat, so here ya go. Chapstick, iPods and Starbucks.

On the Chapstick front: I broke down and purchased a new tube of Chapstick Lip Moisturizer with SPF 15. This is also known as the blue tube. The Clinique goop just wasn't cutting it; it was the consistancy of lip gloss (because, doy) and I've never been a fan of the gloss. Take me away, blue tube.

Just, on the preventative side, I marked the top of the tube with my initials: SW. Only, the ink evaporated off the cheap PVC plastic, leaving only a shadow of my former glory. Or whatever. Doesn't matter, I can still tell it's mine, bitch!

iPods: I think iPoddy Junior will be coming home this weekend. Birth announcement and photos to be posted then.

Starbucks: and you thought my 'bucks habit was excessive...

I do admire that sort of dedication to a cause. I keep thinking about attending every Gran Prix one season, or drinking my way through every South Australian vintner, but at a time when Starbucks is averaging four new store openings a day, visiting all of them takes a certain insanity I do not posess. Vaya con dios, Winter.

Today is Holocost Remeberence Day in Israel and National Prayer Day in the U.S. Here, the president talked about the freedom to pray.

There, sirens sounded for a moment, and people stopped everything to reflect on the six million people that died sixty years ago. For a full moment, pedestrians stood silent, trams stopped, cars parked where they were.

Guess which video was more arresting?

I don't know why I bring it up; the juxtaposition amused me.

Well, I can cross off another one of my "oh god, I have got to do this before I turn 30" goals. I finally, finally (finally, finally) opened up a 401(k). Not only that, but I'm taking the max 6% deduction with a 3% match from my employer and it's being invested in aggressive international funds, because, hello weak dollar.

All those years parked in front of financial news paid off, I guess.

This was the last big responsibility remaining on my list and I've got 2 years 356 days left. Eep.

On Friday, the conversational tide turned to the Missing Georgia Bride, and how we were all convinced the groom whacked her before the wedding. I mean, fourteen bridesmaids, a country club reception and the Stay-Puft marshmallow man refusing to take a polygraph? 'Course he did it. Screw due process and clap that bastard in irons.

But, it was during the course of the conversation that I tossed an off-handed remark: "Well, if she did get cold feet and took off, you just know she's probably wandering around on Central somewhere."

Sometimes I live in fear of my brain.

Yesterday can only be described as yuppie porn. In short order we:

• Test-drove BMWs for cancer
• Seriously test drove a Mini Cooper S
• Had a little lunch
  
• Did a little shopping
• Watched the repeat of the F1 race
• Did a little more shopping at the organic food emporium
• Made a delightful chicken in ancho orange lime sauce (sooooo not my normal sauteed bird)
  

And then we spent the rest of the evening sitting around drinking a 2000 Foxen Pinot Noir that was just mindblowing and talking about just how mindblowing it was.

Yuppie. Porn.

(Wait, are we still calling them yuppies anymore, or did that go out with the Clinton administration?)