Who's a bad boy?

I just discovered that spraying a water bottle at a misbehaving boyfriend is as effective as it is when dealing with a naughty kitten.

More like a cinnamon bun in the oven

Hey Target! You know, I'm a big fan. And I think it's great that Liz Lange is designing supercute, trendy maternity wear for your stores. If I ever decide to undergo the horror of childbirth, I'll be sure to check out the collection.

Or maybe not.

You see, Target, I have a bone to pick with you. I saw the commercials. I know those glowing mothers-to-be aren't really pregnant. Affixing a fake belly to a size three model does not an expecting woman make. And frankly, that's just mean.

Imagine a pregnant woman. Her back hurts. She feels disgusting. The 'roids are acting up in a big way. She perks up when the Target commercial airs (because, really, who doesn't?). Then she sees an otherwise perfect woman with a little lump of a belly. How do you think that makes her feel? And what about when her husband says, "How come you're so much fatter than the pregnant chicks on TV?"

And as a women who is not with child, I don't need to see pregnant women who are thinner than I am.

Wondertwin Powers, activate!

This is me as a superhero. How hot am I? I fly, too!

This is seriously the coolest toy ever.

It's a man's world and I'm subscribing to it

I loathe Maxim, FHM and the like. And I also loathe the way famous or barely-famous women I otherwise have no moral obligation to shed their clothes and answer questions like, "If you had to get it on with either Britney, Christina or J.Lo, who would it be, and why?" And for God's sake, why not just read porn? It's like watching Skinemax when you're already paying for the Spice channel.

So I'm strolling through Grand Central on my lunch break and see FHM with a giant Buffy girls spread. And who's on the cover? Alyson Hannigan, the only girl the boyfriend could ever talk me into having a threesome with. The girl I love...in lingerie.

And because a certain artist friend once appeared in an issue of FHM (fully clothed, thank you very much), I now own two copies and can never throw them away.

Add in my Eminem habit, and you've got one bad, bad feminist.

Bye Bye Buffy

I'm getting misty reading articles about the end of Buffy. Damn you, Sarah Michelle Gellar. More on this after the series finale.

Clockwatchers

Temping is weird.

Someone who does his or her job (presumably) well goes away and you sit in their desk for a week and make a mess. Like Theressa, whose seat I am currently occupying. She has adorable children and a stylish black cold office jacket. She has a great deal of Big Apple pride, and one of those little yippy dogs. She wears sneakers to work and then changes into one of four pairs of black sensible shoes. Her rubber band use is astounding. Theressa, or someone she knows, has been to Bermuda and Bear Stearns. She goes to the gym on her lunch break and has allergies.

Next week, when Theressa returns, what will she know of me? She will know that I rarely answered her private line, and therefore respect her privacy. She will study my messy handwriting in the message book and imagine me scattered. Perhaps I will forget my water bottle, and she will notice my lipstick shade. And that I took copious notes in her notebook. And not so copious ones. She might ask next-door-Stephen what I was like, and he will surely say, "Young. Kept to herself. Very pleasant." Just like I do much less work than she does, I will leave behind little to no legacy.

Well, unless she sneaks a peek at my Internet history. Then it's all over.