Monday, December 12, 2005

Getting back in the game one step at a time

I've developed my first ever TV crush. Evan Solomon. Oh man, oh man, he is one accomplished babe. Journalist, editor, television personality, novelist, simply delicious. I can't believe I'm gushing. Okay, I can, because he is so fine, like a lemon meringue pie or a rolled sock in the trousers. 31-years-old and seemingly a workoholic, I can totally deal. His travel plans wouldn't interfere with my worshipping him. Oh, sure, he'll get up from breakfast to fly to Hong Kong and leave me sifting flour by the bread bowl. And yeah, he'll be on assignment to meet Bono or the guy who plays the King of Siam ... 's mentally retarded chimp on Broadway and ruin our anniversary plans. So what? I'll get used to it. Being second banana comes with being over-shadowed. I'll greet him at our studio loft in an apron and nothing else, and we'll sit by the overhead projector and discuss world politics on PowerPoint and gossip about Kofi Annan and "What was he wearing?" and laugh when I bring out the steak because he was with Eric Schlosser "just yesterday" listing the number of cow parts in a conventional burger.

Tee hee hee, I'll say, rubbing his knee and squeezing his bicep. Stop it, you're too funny.

We'll have a night cap before bed after reading articles from the New Yorker to each other, shaking our heads at the media frenzy surrounding Jeffrey Tambor's transexual confession and the arrest of Nicole Brown's killer in a Kazakhstanian golf course. (OJ's hunch had been right all along!)

Three hours later, we'll wake up to have emergency sex because he'd been relocated to the Kenyan bureau. But darling, I'll say as I brush the semen from my teeth, I'm pregnant. He'll walk out without a word and return four months later accusing me of sleeping with Dan Rather. I'll obviously deny it. Don't make this about me! He'll apologize for what he said and send me a bouquet of camillas, making all my girlfriends mad with jealousy. I'll see him walking through the factory doors wearing a uniform he picked up from a dead insurgent overseas and he'll ask where I am and the ladies will point That way, and as he goes to pick me up in his arms, he's shot from behind.

By Dan Rather.

*sniffle, sniffle* Rest in peace, my love. Rest in peace.

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