April by the Numbers

No single month has passed faster than April. Seriously. Not even short little February. I think it's the fact that a) my birthday is in 10 days, and b) I'm so busy I don't know what day it really is. If it weren't for my birthday being in 10 days, I'd be totally lost.

Did I mention my birthday is in TEN DAYS?!!!

Just want to make sure you know.

ANYWAY. In honor of one wedding that will be taking place the same night as my party, replete with kilts AND hawaiian t-shirts, lets get this damn list done:

3 consecutive weekends with at least one of the Girls
3 birthday parties
1 pretend mountain lion used as a diversion
1 rockstar night
2 bands
7 of us trying to sober up at the Hollywood IHOP
4 photo shoots
665 pictures taken
2 happy hours enjoyed
1 dungeon bar discovered
4 new friends made playing "Asshole" at Library Bar
3 disappointing location scouts
300 dollars wasted on that
40 minutes riding around in a new Kompressor
100 dollars for a French lunch
3 conversations denying I chew men up and spit them out (I really don't)
3 completely different men trying to convince me I do
1 baby brother who promised to break the arms of a man who physically hurts me (yay!)
1.5 hours spent at the downtown courthouse
4 sheriff boys flirted with
1 Clippers game
2200 dollars paid to our evil government
80 million hits for pictures of my boobs (hi, Switzerland!)
10 days left till my birthday!!!

I love this time of year!

I Love Presents

At long last, the invites have gone out and now it's just a mere few days until the best day of the year: May 10th. The best thing about birthdays? Aside from the royal treatment, that is? Gifts!!

I am very lucky to have friends who a) listen to me, and b) have really good taste. They know what I like and they get me what I want. Also, they read these warnings and are afraid of being cast into GPG Jail.

I'd rather be loved that feared, but fear is good too.

Okay, I kid. Presents aren't imperative. But they're really great to get!

Some things I've received over the years I've truly treasured. Not necessarily for the object itself, but more for what they represented: an inside joke, affection for my latent tomboy predilictions, encouragement of my beloved vices, or just plain proof that my friends read my blogs.

In no particular order, here were my favorites:

- black Louisville slugger, kids size (24th birthday, from a guy who proposed)
- red lollipop (same birthday, from a certain man who I love)
- Lite Brite (Xmas 2005, from Krazy Mommy)
- 20D (Xmas 2004, from Dad)
- iPod nano (28th birthday, from the family)
- a tequila obsession (28th birthday, from a cat burglar)
- completely drunken happy birthday sung to my voicemail by my own private rock star (23rd birthday, a certain man again)
- poker set (Xmas 2005, from Dad in an engraved case)
- Scrabble deluxe edition (Xmas 2002, the Scrabble partner)
- a jar of maraschino cherries (2001 housewarming gift, the new roommate)
- an "I love you" from the stage, in the middle of a live show (2003, the pretend boyfriend)

Nobody has given me that Greek manservant yet, but I remain optimistic. And I know for a fact that a I'm in for the long sought-after vintage Etch-a-Sketch this year, so that's much to look forward to.

It's going to be a fabulous birthday. I can just feel it.

Confidential to someone who deserves a good spanking: Happy birthday, my cheeky monkey! Did you bring me a t-shirt from Coachella?

Photoblogging Friday 4.27.07

While sifting through piles of pictures looking for evidence of previous years' birthday debauchery to use against The Girls, I happened upon shots I took at the WeHo Halloween parade in 2004:

Don't look it in the eyes!

Even the man staring at the he/she is frightened. And completely revolted.

This walking monstrosity had the nerve to hit on my brother. Who was dressed as a bus driver. He was getting cruised left and right that night, which was quite hysterical.

For me and his girlfriend. We contemplated pimping him out to the gay boys, but then realized we liked him straight.

I'll wait a little longer to post the incriminating shots from my drunken birthday parties. I know they still haven't bought me my presents yet, and I don't want to jinx it.

I'm a total brat.

New Wrinkles in the Brains

I've decided that I want to learn something new every day. Today, I picked up a bunch of knowledge. Such as:

- Waking up at 4 am does not mean you will go running at 5 am
- Or at 6 am
- But you will be starving by 6:30 am
- 7-11 does not sell salad dressing
- Neither does Rite-Aid
- But you can pick it up at Ralphs
- And you can also pick up men with freckles while standing in the cashier line
- It's probably not best to flirt with men who are only buying ramen
- Even if he started it
- Windows has a great view
- The view is not worth bad steak
- Medium well apparently means "burnt to a crisp"
- Having bad steak will not stem your craving for meat
- You should have ordered the ahi tuna
- When you realize it's 7 pm and you swear you'll leave by 8 pm, you aren't leaving until 9:30
- Even if you don't get home from work until 10 pm, you're still going to fucking blog

I'm retarded.

What did you learn today?

I'm in Charge

There's a class at the Wharton School, taught right there in Steinberg Dietrich, that is called Management 100. Rest assured, this class isn't worth shit in the California state school system. Except for elective credit. But as an undergrad at the best business school that Donald Trump ever went to, you cannot graduate without taking it your freshman year.

It supposedly teaches you how to lead. I don't remember much about that class, other than half our grade being based on working at an afterschool program in the inner city. Which just happened to be smack-dab in the middle of Kensington, a notoriously ghetto section of Philly filled with Puerto Ricans a-plenty.

(They had an AMAZING bakery there with the best Puerto Rican food I've ever had. Better than my dad's even. Oh man, that was so fucking good. If there's one thing I will forever miss about that wretched city...)

But there was also a focus on "the big picture." And in my newly-formed faux-management role, I'm having to consider this constantly. I don't get to make decisions based on what's best for me in that moment, but on what's best for the majority in the long run.

It's frustrating.

And this is why most world leaders are completely ineffectual. The long-term goals are too broad to help in the right now. And will most likely never come to fruition. Unless the goal is war and oil. Then there will be much war and excessively expensive gasoline. This sucks.

Which is why I'm voting for Canadian J in the 2008 elections.

Who Am I?

I've spent the last few hours undercover. I got home from the gym, showered, and then changed into one of the least feminine outfits I could ever conceive:

- baggy jeans
- black Airwalks
- baseball cap
- t-shirt spoofing Rolling Rock beer that I picked up at the Warped Tour...in, like, 1999

And then I ran errands. As a total boy. A wannabe skater punk boy.

Rad.

Betrayed by Red Lipstick

"There's something magnetic about you," he told me while holding a drink, his wedding band glinting in the light. "You're very charismatic and attractive. And that smile of yours..."

I continued sipping my tequila and merely said thank you when he finished this very pleasant assessment. And tried very hard to keep my lips from betraying me.

I receive a lot of compliments on my crooked smile. It's my best feature (better than my boobs--and yes I did just admit that). This "magnetic" thing comes mostly from people with whom I don't want to be involved. Like the married man up above.

L'sigh. At least I've learned not to let people set me up with men who are completely wrong for me:

About 5 years ago, a woman told me that since I was a photographer, I would get along perfectly with her brother. He was a materials engineer by trade, but a sculptural artist by passion. Two artists, obviously we'd hit it off, right? Well, she wasn't completely ugly, so I figured her brother couldn't be that bad looking. She didn't inform me that he was pushing 40 and had probably never had sex.

Or talked to a woman.

Or been to planet Earth.

I arrived at the Indian restaurant in Hollywood nicely dressed since I had just come from work. He was sitting in a back booth. All I saw after the white socks/berkinstocks/palm tree-patterened shirt tucked into his too-high khakis was The Moustache. It dominated his face. Like Magnum PI, but without the 80s irony.

I knew I was in for a long night. The staff snickered. I tried pleading for a rescue with my eyes. They continued to snicker but would occasionally throw pitying looks my way.

The Moustache ordered so much food, I thought I was never going to be able to leave. In fact, he ordered FOR me. And then proceeded to talk with his mouth full for the next 2 hours. Never once did he ask me a single thing about myself, he just kept talking about materials. And engineering. And his cement "art."

I wanted to stab myself in the head.

Finally, he'd stuffed himself full enough to quit and I made up a story about wanting to get over the hill to see my niece before she fell asleep. I tried running to my car. He didn't let me get away without first giving me an awkward hug and then a present: a glass rose. Red. It had been wrapped in his jacket the whole evening. Which is how I wish he'd kept it. Clearly he didn't get that the date was unsuccessful.

Why the hell would you wait till the end of the date to give a girl a glass rose, especially if it turned into the DATE FROM HELL? Because you're a social retard. A moustachioed Social Retard.

The problem was that I'd been unfailingly polite the entire time. Smiling even. And that's what got me in trouble. Having manners. And the damn smile.

It's a blessing AND a curse!

He actually called me again a few days later, right smack in the middle of the baby G-brat having a violent tantrum. She was so obnoxiously loud, I'm sure he could hear it all the way over on Planet Retard, but he ignored it and tried making conversation. And a second date. I stared at the phone, dumbfounded that someone could be that dense. I told him it was a bad time (hello, screaming child in my arms!) and that we'd have to talk later. He gave me the most dejected "oh, okay" and hung up.

Mercifully, that was the last I heard of him.

The smile though, still gets me in trouble. Apparently.

Photoblogging Friday 4.20.07

Happy Friday everyone. What's better than Friday the 13th? Any fucking Friday, that's what! Especially ones I get to spend with my girls, drinking sangria and eating pizza.

I'd post a picture of one of the KM's kids, because they had a birthday party last weekend and I got the most hilarious shot of the little girl choking her daddy. But we'll save that for another day. Instead you're getting a picture of the tunnel I ran through during my last half-marathon, just before the uphill finish.

2nd Street Tunnel, East End

I took it the same night as last week's. At midnight, downtown takes on a distinct flavor.

The west end of this tunnel ends at my office building. I stare down it every evening when I leave, and watch the headlights on the other end cast a beautiful glow on down its tiled surface.

It's quite pretty.

Overheard on the Way to the Bar

La Ria has a degree in English. She really, really, REALLY likes words and language and etc. While we were on our way to a drinking establishment the other night, we passed a fast food restaurant. This ensued:

La Ria: Carl's Jr.

GPG: Yeah?

La Ria: I've never understood the name. Carl's? With an apostrophe S?

GPG: I've never actually noticed.

La Ria: It used to bug me a lot when I was younger.

GPG: God, you are SUCH a word nerd!

And then I bought her an Amaretto sour. Because she clearly needed it. My Word Nerd. She thinks too much.

Overheard in Bally's Parking Lot

My assistant (aka "the slave") is hell bent on teaching us a new hobby.

GPG: Oh, we're learning to knit tomorrow.

Princess: What the fuck?

GPG: Yeah, it's called a "stitch & bitch." I don't know. *shrugs*

Princess: Okay...

GPG: That's what happens when you have a slave.*

Then a black woman walked by. I'm so unfailingly and unapologetically politically incorrect sometimes, I just fall all over myself in hysterical laughter.



*For the record, my slave is a Greek girl. I'm just a half-step away from getting that Greek manservant I've been wishing for!

Overheard at Staples Center

As the Clippers wind down their increasingly disappointing season (still love them!), here are some excerpts of conversations overheard behind the basket.

Corey Maggette misses a key shot.
GPG: Dammit! Okay, he's on your team.
Princess: Ooh, I thought I was going to have to fight for that one.
GPG: He's hot. Incredible arms. But you can have him.
Princess: Just remember no taksey-backsies!

(It's a legal term.)

***

I spot a woman wearing the latest in Aunt Jemima hair accessories.
GPG: Oh damn, I left my green doo-rag at home! Now I'm completely underdressed.
Princess: Oh fuck me running! That's why I love you!

***

The ref calls traveling.
GPG: Traveling? Seriously?
Princess: No he didn't!
GPG: Who does that anymore? It's like getting the chicken pox at 29. It doesn't happen!!

(Okay, it does. And one of my clients just got it at 45. But I was trying to make a point. Traveling? REALLY?)

Then there was the cheerleader who kept getting thrown up in the air. You don't realize till you're sitting right next to it just how high up they get. I wondered out loud if she got frequent flyer points. The Princess laughed. It was funny.

The male cheerleaders were on my team. Because I was in the mood for excessively well-built, so-hot-they're-almost-too-pretty type of men. Then we went up to the bar and the excessively well-built bartender took care of us.

It was a good night. Even if they did lose.

Mmm, Boys

Four really excellent reasons why I got home at 1 am this morning:

At the corner of Melrose & Poinsettia

And now, bed.

CHG Confession #7

The Curly-Haired Girl does her job pretty well.

That's because she doesn't fuck up by showing up to her own events 30 minutes late.

She doesn't fuck up by failing to inform a venue that her guarantees have tripled.

She doesn't take an entire afternoon off 3 days before a huge program, to go have her nails done and hang out with other retards just because she can, thus forcing her to into a last minute frenzy that inevitably has her fucking up said huge program.

She has, however, fucked up by completely ignoring a $17,000 invoice from a hotel. Until they called to gently remind her that it was 45 days overdue.

Oops.

Photoblogging Friday 4.13.07

Happy Friday the 13th.

In honor of my favorite Kentucky girl, who was always the perfect date for crushing the hearts and souls of boys in bars, looks great in black, and with whom I would be spending this 13th drinking if it wasn't for her being in fucking Kentucky, I present you this picture:

Frame #33: Library Tower, March 2001

Continuing with my unofficial series, "My Daily Route through Downtown Los Angeles," this is what the Library Tower at 5th and Grand would look like, if it was electrocuted. I think. Every year, the YMCA sponsors a run up it's 73 floors. I might do that this year, just to see how many floors I can get through.

How does this tie to our Kentucky Girl, Lex? She nearly electrocuted herself and set her entire house on fire yesterday while playing with live wires. That's fucking awesome, and I love her knee-jerk reaction to a noisy stove timer. When I read about it, I immediately thought of this picture, which I took over 6 years ago.

Confidential to my ballsy girl: I miss you. Boys are too easy to go home with when you're not here. The sex is good, the company is not. Come back!

T-29 Days

In exactly 29 days, I will become 29 years old. It's quite exciting, the birthday stuff. For me anyway. You're just along for the ride.

I woke up this morning and my first thought was, "Damn, I feel good. Thank god I didn't go out last night." Because I had briefly entertained the thought of meeting up with the boys. At 11 pm. That lasted all of 32 seconds.

Anyway, then I decided today was going to be the greatest day of my life.

The first phone call of the day was one naughty boy asking what I was wearing (all black, head to toe. Including a kickass pair of heels!). Then a hotelier brought me my favorite candy of all time (Almond Joy, even though I can't eat it!). And then it was back-to-back-to-back meetings. One of which was a discussion about the transition into my new position.

Being on top is a nice place to be.

T-29 was a damn good day, indeed.

Top 40 Ta-tas

I have been getting a ridiculous amount of traffic for a particular Google Images search string having to do with the female anatomy. And it's not just from American Google. I have hits coming from Canada, Ireland, Spain, Australia, Brazil. And that was only in the last week. This piqued my curiosity, so I did a little searching of my own.

And there they are, in all their autographed glory: the last picture on the second page. I think this is hysterical.

But it gets better!

Look at the picture below. Click for sense-making bigness.



See something wrong? Yes, you do. Why the hell is someone from the Kern County Superintendent of Schools searching for answers to the question "does a man like to feel my boobies when I hug him?" Does that seem inappropriate to anyone else?

Finally, in all seriousness, to the boys out there: does a man like to feel my boobies when I hug him?

Dear John Letters #7

It's been quite some time since we had an installment of these here at Exxy HQ. So clearly, you're all due. And I just so happen to be in a horrible mood. What timing.

Enjoy!

Dear Guy Wearing Sunglass at the Gym,

What the hell is wrong with you? Are you afraid the roof is going to open up--3 floors above us--and allow the sun to burn your retinas? Didn't you notice it was foggy out? Or, do you think you're sooooooooooo famous that you must remain incognito even as you sweat your man-boobs off on the elliptical machine? Guess what? You just look like a blubbering jackass. No one cares who you are. But they ARE all pointing and laughing at the moron with sunglasses on inside. At the gym, for crying outloud!

Jackhole.

***

Dear Quark v4.1,

I hate you. Probably more than I hate wannabe actors. Why is it that you cannot figure out that my document is landscape? Why must I reselect this option each and every time I print my marketing collateral? It’s a very pretty piece but you refuse to recognize this and continue to butcher it in portrait setting. Microsoft Word has no issues with this setup. You create a landscape document, it will print a landscape document, without my needing to request it pretty please with a fucking cherry on top! Do you know how many precious moments—and how much paper—I've lost with this stupid idiosyncrasy of yours? Why must you waste my time? I’m sure your newer versions don’t have this problem, but I’m stuck with you because upgrades are unheard of around here. I hateyouhateyouhateyou!!! Hard.

***

Dear Cobalt-blue Z 350 Driver,

One of the few happies I can find in this overcrowded city of ours is Mulholland Drive. With its windy switchbacks, amazing views, and a full 10 miles with only four traffic light interruptions it's about as great an open road as you can get. That is, until you decide to test your braking system 3 inches from the back end of my car. What the hell possessed you to hot dog your way up my asshole all the way from Runyon to Cahuenga? Do you know how scary it is to see your bright blue shitbox in the rearview suddenly screaming to a stop so close I think you're actually IN my backseat? Did you notice the lack of turnoffs for me to escape your vicious tailgating? Did you see the car inching its way down the hill in front of me? I nearly hit him trying to a modicum of distance between me and you. The last thing I need while I'm revisiting the areas I've spun out on up there is a heart attack.

I hope you took a turn so fast, you fell off the hill in a huge, fiery explosion.

***

Dear Loudly Yapping People Working Out Next to Me,

Do you seriously think that professional hockey players are underpaid? What the hell is wrong with you? They're playing HOCKEY for a living! It's a GAME. 60 minutes of stick jockeying for a teeny black disc. On ice. With helmets. And fighting. I'm not saying it's not enjoyable, especially the fighting, but give me a motherfucking break. To say that ANY professional athlete isn't getting paid enough is like saying that Paris Hilton is a virgin: ridiculously laughable and patently untrue.

Also, the salary cap isn't $300,000 like you thought. The median salary for the team with the smallest payroll in the 2006-07 season was $850,000. If you're going to complain about the world's worst atrocities, at least get your facts straight. Assholes.

***

Dear Gum-cracking Twit,

I was supposed to spend 15 minutes on the stairclimbing machine. I chose the one next to you so I could watch the basketball game on tv. But listening to you crack your gum every 30 seconds was driving me so batty, it took all of my resolve NOT to punch you. Right at the base of your skull. Who the hell chews gum while working out? And didn't your mother teach you any manners? Cracking gum is like drinking OE out of a brown bag while sitting on a corner in the middle of the workday:
G-H-E-T-T-O. Not to mention you look like a cow chewing its cud. The laws of common decency, and the fear of going to jail for assault on a twiggy bitch-cunt, made me give up the machine after a mere 10 minutes.

But I really wish I had kicked you in your flat butt before leaving, you masticating asshat.

I Still Haven't Finished My Taxes

Fucking IRS. Fucking itemizing.

I took a break last night to watch the Clippers give it up in the last quarter to Denver. Fucking Denver.

I have never sat down on the floor at Staples Center. I usually manage to score a seat in a skybox, high above the action. Where the alcohol is free and the chocolate cake gives me hives just by standing too close to it. No joke, it's that potent.

But the Princess got us tickets down low, and I love me some basketball, so off we went. We rode the choo-choo, despite the fact that I have free parking just 10 blocks away. But walking 10 blocks in downtown Los Angeles, at night, is like asking to be ass-raped with a cactus. So we took the subway.

It's very clean, the LA subway system. Strange.

So down there we are, enjoying the fact that you can almost smell the sweat coming off the big, hot, black men on the court. We banged our noisemakers. We made friends with the surrounding Clipper Nation. I drooled over the older white guy in our row who looked vaguely familiar. We played several rounds of "My Team, Your Team."

Every single Clippers game I've ever been to has ended in victory. For us. Every. Single. Game. What was different about this time? I was down on the floor? I was with a girl? I wasn't drinking?

And we lost. Fucking hell.

That's the last time I do that. Next time, I'm drinking!

I Should be Doing My Taxes

But as I'm waiting for some documents to print, and my stupid bitch printer keeps threatening to run out of ink, I'm watching the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame induction and reading random blogs.

This leads me to two questions:

1. Is it wrong that I thought this would be a sex toy? I mean, really. A bong-bong boxer?

2. When did Eddie Vedder turn into a mountain man? Now, I have never been a Pearl Jam fan (even after repeated arm twisting by a certain man), but there was definitely a time when Eddie looked rather hot. Him being 15 years younger at the time doesn't count, since men only get better with age. Witness: then vs. now.

I like me a lumberjack. I really do dig facial scruff. I don't know why this is bothering me so much.

Ugh, back to reality. I really don't want to pay the IRS $2200. Anybody willing to do my taxes for me? This really blows.

But this, not so much. Oh, do I love me some musician nipples!

Photoblogging Friday 4.6.07

What's better than being the number one listing under the Google search string "tijuana strip club peanut"? Better than Spanky dressing exactly as you asked him to for your breakfast program?

This:

Downtown Los Angeles, at night

That's what I get to see on my drive home. Or what I got to see before this bullshit "daylight saving time" thing we do here in the States. So fucking lame.

Nighttime in LA, though? Fucking awesome.

Playing Team Sports

Here at Exxy HQ, we play favorites.

Our favorite Canadian posted this timely blog, just as I was about to share with everyone my new favorite game. That I was introduced to while surreptiously checking out the plainclothes CHP cops working our event the other day. (The entire California Supreme Court was in attendance, and they had to make sure the justices could get from Point A to B without breaking a sweat. Or having any fun.) I was really hoping for US Marshalls, but the state boys were good enough.

My new little slave pointed to the hottest of the group and said, "my team." She then pointed to a less attractive one and said, "your team." And that's the game. You pick your teams based on hottness. You basically get dibs on who you'd fuck based on how quickly you name them to your team.

It's also great when you're comparing straight and gay. You know, trying to guess who plays for what team.

And it's so much better than fantasy baseball or whatever the hell is going on now that April has come back around.

For more team sports: go here (not really safe for work, but whatever).

Oh, and to everyone who's come around looking for pictures of my autographed tits: you're welcome. And hello!

Lust in the Aisle

In a crowded supermarket, two people approach the express line at the same time. She (your humble GPG) has exactly the allowed amount of items in her cart. He (short, balding, and clearly, painfully shy) is only holding milk.

Is it wrong that when he said "ladies first" and I heard the Irish accent, I was instantly attracted to him?

I almost asked him to join me for coffee right then and there.

But then I didn't. Because I'm a pussy.

Breaking News: Hot Coach Brings Home Second Straight Victory

Congratulations to the Gators. And their HOT coach, Billy Donovan.

Is it just me or is he getting skinnier with each passing season? Billy, please eat something before you disappear. Invisible guys are less hot than real ones.

A Missed Opportunity

Had I not spent my entire day in bed on Sunday recovering from four solid nights of drinking heavily and/or just getting home late (but mostly drinking heavily), I would have pulled something like this to everyone I know.

F-U-C-K-I-N-G B-R-I-L-L-I-A-N-T!

And I wouldn't have stopped at marriage. There would have been a sheepish call to my parents and both brothers begging them for bail money, a teary-eyed call to the Krazy Mommy about an unplanned pregnancy, an angry text message to one blogger about a sudden eruption of chicken pox, and finally a call to Jon Tenney asking him to marry me.

Except I would have meant that last one. Because I really want to have his babies. And by that, I mean I just want to practice making them. A lot.

But no. Instead, my lazy ass didn't even remember the date until my roomie's boyfriend called her at 5 pm to say he'd been in an accident. She freaked out and then he walked through the door yelling April Fools! That was funny to everyone except her.

When I finally decided to get out of bed a half hour later, it was too late to start having the Fool's Day Fun.

Oh well. There's always next year. I suppose.

March by the Numbers

90 minutes of hot Jon Tenney action
3 hours of Krazy hospitality
1 marathon not run
29 consecutive hours of successful programming
2 consecutive 3-day weekends
5 more consecutive weekends with at least one of the Girls
11 entire days off
13 hours at the happiest place on earth
3 birthdays celebrated
77 years of life combined
30 teeny little muscle relaxers in one bottle
3 drinks with one spank-happy lawyer
2 hours enjoying the view of downtown Los Angeles from a hotel rooftop
1 baby boy announced
3 questions by one 4-year-old asking how the baby got in the belly
1 exposure to chicken pox
0 pocks on my body
2 passes by 8763 Wonderland at 2 am
80 dollars equaling four drinks
5 more drinks bought by a random stranger
3 hours of sleep allowed making it worth his while
1 new fabulously reckless leaf overturned
5 days without internet service
178 dollars paid for that luxury
100 minutes learning about war-induced PTSD
6 various alcoholic drinks imbibed to try erasing the impact
1 DJ met in line for tacos at 2 am
2.5 hours at the ballet
2 intermissions
4 text messages with Final Four updates
10 points between revenge and loss
1 half watching amazing defense by both teams
1 Bushmills-loving blogger I adore for attempting to scream us to victory
1 doctor-cum-blogger undercover back in the homeland