I don't know what they taught you in France, but rude and interesting are not the same things.

I have a tendency to become minorly obsessed with certain things. Ricky Gervais, A's son Ollie, fart noises, Get Fuzzy. I also can become insanely infatuated with certain culinary niblets such as the Pescado Taco "Nick's Way" from Nick's Crispy Tacos, the chicken soup with small rice noodle and a buttload of hot sauce from King of Thai, and of course, the fruit, yogurt and granola bowl paired with a large nonfat latte from Boulange de Polk. Sometimes I even dream about it, waking up to a ravenous stomach craving my French brekkie, and I've been known to cuss up a storm (internally of course, I have to maintain my "sort of" lady reputation) should something go awry and I am denied my delicious treat (they're out of yogurt, I'm running late, etc.). You're probably wondering, just what makes this item so scrumtrelescent? I'll tell you. Hearty granola piled high with freshly sliced melon, grapes, pineapple, strawberries and blueberries, topped with thick, rich, succulent (and no doubt full-fat) yogurt, finished off with a drizzle of honey that propels it into unbearably sublime territory.

This morning I had the itch, except I took it a step further by going to bed desiring it. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to get to work, it's a Friday and I knew their yogurt delivery was in stock (it comes on Tuesday, and yes, I realize that makes me a little bit sick), and I could sense it was going to be a good day. Oh how wrong I was.

It all started when they forgot to put my order in. My coffee was announced, but somehow my granola bowl slipped through the cracks. Not a problem, they were quite busy and I didn't mind waiting the extra two minutes it took to prepare it. But they were out of the plastic bowls they usually put it in, no worries. They ended up placing it in one of those take-out cardboardish boxes you might slap a brioche or croque-monsieur in, then placing it in a bag and handing it to me. I was a touch apprehensive, but figured they know what they're doing, and I'm too hungry to argue. I put the bag in my purse thinking everything was going to be alright, thinking I was a 15 minute bus ride away from taste bud heaven, thinking God couldn't be that cruel.

The 3rd floor elevator was locked when I arrived, so I pulled the emergency stop to prevent anyone else from calling the lift while I was still in it (it's an old crickety contraption) and plunged my hand into the depths of my purse to retrieve my keys. I was aghast to find the only thing I had a handful of was fruit juice. The brief and relatively easy journey to work proved too much for the delicious dish, which was wounded and bleeding to death in the bottom of my Jimmy Choo knockoff (yet another reason I'm glad I never pay full price).

My fingers frantically swam to find my keys so I could try and save what was left of my injured grub. I rushed to the kitchen and dumped the entire contents of my purse on the counter. Everything was wet, everything was sticky, everything now hated all things Gallic. After giving my possessions a sponge bath, I salvaged what was left of my morning meal and pulled up some real estate at my desk.

And you know what? That pouting French bitch was still delicious.

No, that's just Willow shaking from alcohol withdrawal.

Some crazy entertaining motherfellas I have the pleasure of calling friends have finally launched their creative production company, Planet of the Grapes, a hodgepodge of tunes, podcasts, public bathroom reviews, and other idiotically brilliant nuggets of imagination. Proceed at your own risk, because listening at work will cause co-workers to see you laughing hysterically at what appears to be nothing because you've got your iPod earbuds in and your hair is covering them, thus giving the appearance of Entourage being the most kick ass computer application this side of the Mississippi. And anyone who works with Entourage knows that is definately not the case.

No! I'm madly in love with you and it's not because of your brains or your personality.

The day has come. The day every little girl dreams of. Rico, the liquor and automotive account manager, has just asked me to be an evening wife. It's like I've won the lottery, only instead of a cash prize I get to be in heavy rotation with about 4-6 other lucky ladies (I just pulled that number out of my butt, there could be hundreds for all I know but I like to remain optimistic) whom he takes to client events so he doesn't have to go it alone. I can't tell you how magnificent this feels. I'm one of the chosen ones. It didn't come easily mind you, there was a vigorous screening process, I was monitored at previous events to see how I conducted myself a)with strangers b)with copious amounts of booze c)with a dance floor. And I passed with flying colors.

What can I say? Rico and I have a groove that doesn't come around often enough. We're simpatico if you will. Our first event was last Wednesday and while I admit I spent most of the time "sittin' pretty," as opposed to learning the mysteries of the world from the master himself (he did have to entertain clients mind you), it was grand.

I'm so glad that sexual harassment incident didn't set us back. He really is a sport.

Oofda, Das ist so suess!

Granted it was 87 degrees this afternoon so I might be going a little whacky thanks to poor ventilation in my office.

everybody's working for the weekend.

Olé

Remember, fans, Tuesday is Die Hard Night. Free admission for anyone who was actually alive the last time the Indians won the pennant.

When a Staten Islander and a Mainer by way of Nicaragua visit, livers get sent on a tailspin into the trenches of inebriation.

Friday:
Bigfoot Lounge
Beer.
Fencing jokes.
More beer.
Faux fights about whose native country is superior.
Last call for beer.
Late night texting about whose country is going down.

Saturday:
A lovely little joint called "Would You Believe? Cocktails!" So quaint, it's only customers are word of mouth, and possibly half an asian mafia.
Beer.
Pool and 90's hip hop.
More Beer.
Bodega.
Jesus candle.
Drunk enthused Russian who wants to spoon D.
G's apt.
A buttload more beer.
Peace talks initiate.
Snog.
Drunken cab home, still have wallet, bberry, keys and half my dignity intact, phew.

Sunday:
Double hangover.
BART
Ballgame.
Beer.
Nachos + Big Dog which is in fact quite tiny.
Little to no conversation due to sluggishness.
Half a farmer's tan.
Nap time.
Fight Club (the film, not my own organized underground conspiracy).
Tacos.
Beer.
Simpsons.
Night Night.

Monday:
Exhaustion.
Work.
Ballgame.
Beer.
Bleacher buddies.
Gave my coat to a fat guy cause he was cold.
Text-a-holic.
Bus home.

Tuesday:
Tearful goodbyes, at least they would have been had we not been so dehydrated.
My liver is on probation.

Wednesday:
My liver is off probation for good behavior...