Like a moth to this flame.

Being the red-blooded American that I am, I can’t help but be enthralled with the Olympic Games: High-speed skating, aerial ski jumps, rough-and-tumble hockey, and men twirling on ice in a delightful combination of sequins and spandex.

Yes, it gets right into the core of me.

But with the exhilaration of watching these lithe, toned, athletic machines, comes that familiar pang of disheartening regret.

For I am not an Olympic athlete.

Although, to be fair, I do run 35 miles a week and have a resting heart rate of 55.

But alas, I will never mount that grand podium or feel the weight of gold around my neck. Nor will I entertain sponsors or flit about in flag-printed tracksuits.

But it is of no matter, for I have, in an attempt to assuage my open wounds of inadequacy, created an array of alternate Olympic events at which I am confident I’d come away the victor.

The committee can contact me directly for adoption. Potential opponents can contact me directly to commiserate.

Olympic Fro-Yo Survival: this will test the brute resilience of a competitor in surviving solely on sugar-free, peanut-butter-cup flavored frozen yogurt.

Olympic Excuse-Making: may the best reason to get out of a meeting/date/appointment/(ahem)relationship win.

Olympic Vehicle Demolition: The first to wreck their car three times in one year takes the gold.

Olympic Freestyle Living-Room Dancing: Points will be calculated based on a 2/3 ratio of neurotic/unsexy.

Olympic iPhone-Shatterer: This one is self-explanatory (and extremely expensive, believe me).

Olympic Shoe-Buyer: Speed plus style are imperative. As is an AmEx.

Readers, committee-members: no need to thank me.

PS – when do I get my track suit?

Love is in the (70 degree) air

Ah, mid-February. A time to bask in and savor the sweet, sweet romance around us. It is because of this very special time that I'd like to talk about my deep, passionate, and committed relationship. . .

with California.

That's right, folks, the golden state and I are celebrating a golden anniversary (minus 49 years) this month. And I'm pleased to report that we're still going strong.

I've been wined, dined, and cleverly seduced by one Mr. Saint Diego. Is it the sunshine? Is it the surf? Is it the shopping? Is it the fro-yo that pinch-hits as my daily supper?

Yes.

And maybe perhaps that this is the view from my back deck:


Or that this is how I get to spend my free time (and, let's be serious, some of my work time):


Or that California brought me this handsome boy:


Happy One Year, Cal. Here's to another.

And no, I still won't go blonde for you.

Intellect or internet?

I’d like to make a confession here.

I used to be smart.

And I’m not talking count-my-own-change smart. I’m talking IQ-over-150-reading-Tolstoy-at-10-premier-MENSA-material kind of smart. I asked for Rand McNally atlases and electronic typewriters for Christmas. A telescope with moons-of-Jupiter magnification capabilities sent me into a frenzied excitement.

And then I discovered the internet.

Now, I’m not trying to assign blame here, and I don’t (really) expect your condolences for my plight, but I want to be very clear here: I could have been someone important if not victimized by the age of information sharing.

And I don’t think I’m alone. While the World Wide Web is brimming with up-to-the-minute news and politics, extensive resources on history, science, math, art, and anything else I was mildly amused with in college, it also houses television shows, entertainment blogs, Meccas for online shopping, YouTube, ESPN and, dare I say it? Facebook.

That’s not to say that, as a generation, we’ve stopped learning, but somewhere along the line, we stopped talking about it. I don’t remember the last time any of my close friends brought up the Paleolithic period, but I have had roughly 1,245 referrals to the “David at the Dentist” clip on YouTube.

And then there are the ads – enough to send a helpless girl with ADD into a downward spiral of pointing and clicking. Just yesterday I was (wait for it) researching the coming exhibits at the Getty when presented with an advertisement for Bloomingdales.

Getty who?

Even my attempts to keep up on the latest news are foiled by the more entertaining “Highlights from the Golden Globes” videos presented on CNN. Suddenly the Haitian earthquake or the state of healthcare reform are overshadowed by the Valentino Jennifer Anniston wore on Sunday.

And so, while my work ethic or general capability to stay on task might have something to do with my waning intellect, I’d prefer to blame the Internet for the schizophrenic tendencies of my –

Hold on, I have a new tweet.

Why Men don't Understand.

Kristen: My new boots came in the mail today!

Boy: Which new boots?

Kristen: Brown, suede.

Boy: Don't you have like five pairs of brown boots already?

Kristen: Six, I think.

Boy: You needed another?

Kristen: These ones go over my knees.

Boy: Why would you need boots that go over your knees?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees get cold.

Boy: But you wear tights.

Kristen: Not when it's warmer

Boy: Why would you wear boots when its warmer?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees feel fat.

Boy: Your knees aren't fat.

Kristen: Right, but sometimes they feel fat.

Boy: But you run like 7 miles a day.

Kristen: But I still get my period.

Boy: And that makes your knees feel fat?

Kristen: Well, yes.

Boy: I don't understand you.