I'm just not that into you

It has been a heck of a few weeks. I'm tired from all of my travel; I'm stressed out from work; I'm cranky from both. I am wearing the most appropriate underpants of all time today: Oscar the Grouch on the front, with "I feel grouchy today!" across the waist band. These actually make me feel much better.

Anyway, one of the things at work that's been an annoyance, sort of, but not overly stressful, was sending out a request for proposals to work on a new project. Standard stuff: got some good proposals, some not-so-good ones, enough difference between then that everyone on the review committee agreed fairly easily on the right choice. So yay.

And then, the task of calling everyone to let them know the outcome. Boo.

I suck at this. More than that, I panic and sweat and feel like I need to do a shot before I dial. And I guess, really, I don't have to get all worked up about it; I could, really, just send a letter or an email or something and be done with it. But I feel like, if they put forth the effort to send a proposal -- even one I think was really crappy -- I at least owe them the courtesy of a phone call to give them some feedback if they're interested. But, ugh, the knot in my stomach, and the huge bolus of anxiety.

Sometimes, the firms appreciate it that I do take the time to call and offer feedback. One of them today sent me an email thanking me for my "lovely message" (I used to have a strict policy against breaking up with a firm by voicemail, but today I just couldn't face the prospect of phone tag). But it has happened that the person gets incredibly defensive or angry; disses the firm we picked; argues that, no, they do have the best experience and ideas, and boy are we making a big mistake by not picking them (please note: this is among the best ways to get yourself excised from my shortlist for future projects).

I think I find this so hard because I just want to be liked; I'm just glad I got them all out of the way, finally.

Minnams pointed out to me today (in addition to pointing out that I haven't posted in a dog's age) that I give subtle clues about how I want to be treated. For example, Minnams is perceptive and sensitive enough to recognize that perhaps my issues related to food and germs might somehow spill over into a weirdness about personal space. She is quite right about this. Again, though, she pointed out that not everyone can make those links, or has the same feelings I do about personal space, so I think she had only limited sympathy when my boss made me give her a hug. Give my boss a hug, not Minnams.

Basically, this boss is usually very much an in-your-face, send-a-million-emails-a-day, let's-sit-down-and-talk-this-out, rah-rah, go-team-go kind of person. She has unparalleled energy, and it's often exhausting to me to try to keep up with her and her excitement over every new idea (but I also kind of like her for it, and have enormous respect for her because she works at least as hard as she expects us to -- she's one of those rare leader/doer combinations that I appreciate). But lately, like the rest of us, she's been totally stressed out and pulled in a million directions, and I've gotten like 5 emails from her total in the last five days, when usually it's closer to five an hour.

So I was growing concerned about this, and I saw her today for the first time since Tuesday, and I asked how she's doing, and she gave me the "Fine. Fine." and I said okay, I just wanted to check in to make sure she's okay. And she stopped, told me how her husband and her dog treat her so well that she's able to keep it all together, and then she gestured for me to stand up and go for the hug. "Thank you for your concern, so much." Which, awww, nice, but also, the sincere verbal thank you would have been sufficient.

I have issues, I think.

My other boss, meanwhile, has told me that the best way to get through this crappy time of too much work and too few resources is, essentially, to embrace mediocrity. Which initially sounded like a good solution to me, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I'm hardwired not to agree with that philosophy. I agree -- and have completely embraced during my tenure here -- that one can't always be a perfectionist, and that it's debilitating to sacrifice the good in favor of the perfect, but for my boss to support actively the notion that I half-ass it at my job? A little unsettling.

The Smelmooo and I, now that we are finally in the same place, have committed to spending the weekend just with ourselves and the puppy, and I couldn't be happier about that. Yes, I've also been lacking a social life lately and have allowed entirely too much time to pass between visits with other friends, but on this beautiful fall weekend, I am all about sticking close to home with my little family. Which makes me much less grouchy.

Irony

So, earlier this morning, I started writing a post called "Smile! It'll make you feel better!" And it was all about how I'm embracing a positive attitude to counteract my earlier ranting blog, and I started a list of things that make me smile. It was all very lovely and heartwarming, and it did actually boost my mood a teeny bit.

And I just returned to it to finish up my list, and it was nowhere to be found. Not in drafts; not published in draft form. Poof. Gone. Disappeared.

So now I'm extra-cranky, and I don't even want to make my list, because it seems futile. Sigh.

Hello, it's me

I know that the title there is not grammatically correct, but I have that song running through my head, in Paul Giamatti's voice from the movie Duets. Shut up; it was good!!

Anyway, in that movie, Paul Giamatti hurries into this meeting for which he's late, gives a presentation to the group, and suddenly realizes that he's talking to a bunch of chicken farmers or something in Texas, when he thought he was in Florida talking to a bunch of amusement park investors. Or something. The point is that he's on the road so much he can't tell which end is up, and he's just living in airport hotels and slowly going batty. This is where I fear I'm heading, that next week I'll go out for cigarettes and never go back to work, trading it all in for a life on the road to karaoke.

Not really, but I am tired, tired, tired of traveling; luckily, the end is in sight, at least for now. I just arrived in San Francisco, one of my very favorite places, but I'm here less than 24 hours, so it's a little bit of a drag. But I'm delighted to have Elite status on the plane, and to be in a lovely, smoke-free hotel room with free high-speed internet and friendly staff. Heaven.

I first visited San Francisco on a family trip through California when I was 10, and it was my very first business trip, so I always get a little nostalgic when I'm here. As I was heading down the escalator in the airport, I realized that I haven't been here in four years; the last time, I had just started dating the Smelmooo, and I called him from that escalator to let him know I'd arrived safely. It had only been a couple of months, but I had already fallen hard for him, and missed him terribly. So I have some extra-special nostalgia this time, smiling as I think about how lucky and happy I am, and marveling at how quickly the time has gone by.

Work trips (to good places, anyway -- I suspect I may not feel this way next week in Missouri) always get me thinking about fabulous vacations, far away from my laptop and meetings and voice mail messages. There are a million places I want to visit with the Smelmooo, but among the top ten, I think, is the Bay Area and wine country. Maybe we'll do a big fat trip and throw Vegas and the Grand Canyon in there as well, in one fell swoop. But for now, we're seeing each other pretty much in our dreams and in passing, although both our travel schedules will be easing up soon, fortunately.

-------

While I'm here, I'll give you a rundown of the highlights of the last week, since I have been delinquent in updating this space:

-- Hande and I saw Just Like Heaven on opening weekend, and although it was almost surely not an empirically great movie, I loved it anyway, almost despite myself. It sucked me in, without my even realizing it, and suddenly I'd just be choking up or laughing out loud. Although I totally saw the Tony Danza thing that Minnams sees in Mark Ruffalo, albeit fleetingly.

-- I started Tucker in "puppy kindergarten," which means I get to cross another item off my list, which I'll update at some point. He did pretty well, although I got chastised for being wimpy when I told him "OFF!" when he got jumpy. I think it's largely because I think it's fun when Tucker jumps up on me, so my heart wasn't really in it, even though I know it's unacceptable behavior outside of the immediate family. Seven more to go; we'll see how it goes.

-- I thought the Emmys were kind of boring -- probably because I don't watch most of the shows that won, and also because my expectations for Ellen were too high because of my recent obsession with her -- but I thought that so many of the women looked amazing, and there were some great, great moments, my favorites being Felicity Huffman's speech, the woman who lost her acceptance speech in her dress, and William Shatner's face when it was announced that Donald Trump won the sing-off.

-- I am watching more TV now that we have DVR. I am liking the new season of Gilmore Girls very much, although I am hating, hating Luke's stupid hair. Leave his baseball cap on, please. I didn't enjoy Head Cases -- I couldn't even watch the whole thing -- but I did like My Name Is Earl and the first episode of The Office. I'm on the fencde about How I Met Your Mother; I think I'm leaning toward "it's annoying" and crossing it off the list, but I may give it another go next week.

-- Something must be in the water at work, because every meeting I was in yesterday was rife with totally inappropriate innuendo, including from one of our lawyers (whose job it is, as someone pointed out, to keep this kind of thing out of the workplace). Everyone always looks at me when these kinds of remarks come out, because they know I'm going to be completely red-faced and mortified. I've recently decided that I'm uncomfortable less because I'm personally offended than that I'm worried that other people are going to be offended and it's going to get ugly, although I know that some of it is just my being a little bit uptight and prudish.

-- We had Gina and Jack over for dinner the other night (and Gina made the most heavenly dessert, puff pastry filled with peaches and raspberries -- I'm not doing it justice, I'm sure, but yum), and ate on our nice china and stuff because it's a year old and we've only used it once before and I've decided that's absurd, but I realized that we don't have proper napkins. I mentioned this to a few people, all of whom have had proper dining rooms and dinnerware much longer than I have, and without exception they agreed that cloth napkins are a pain, and somehow they always seem dirty, and they are just not worth it. Maybe I will compromise and get some pseudo-elegant, heavier-duty paper napkins. Who am I that I concern myself with these things? I should focus on learning to make Gina-worthy desserts, if anything.

So now you're all caught up and, again, I prove my husband right, that I only blog when I'm out of town. Catch you on the other side of Kansas City, then.

Disproportionately irritated

I am not a patient person, or a tolerant person. I try not to use this space too much for ranting purposes, but it's one of those mornings:

Screw you, front desk person at the Hilton, telling me I have a "house" reservation, meaning I get whatever crappy room you put me in, even though my reservation confirmation clearly says "Non-smoking confirmed." And screw you for secretly calling maintenance to remove the ashtray after I showed you my confirmation. I know you totally put me in a smoking room, and I'm writing a letter.

And you, three different people from the same organization calling and emailing and leaving me voice mails asking for my street address, because FedEx won't ship to my P.O. Box, even though I gave you my business card, and always include the street address in my email signature, and forwarded the address after the first email.

And you, cab driver wearing too much cologne and having the radio so loud that you drive me to K Street instead of P Street, because really, they sound so much alike.

And you, Cosi that's actually on K Street, for not having s'mores. What kind of Cosi doesn't offer s'mores at the table?!

And you, Union Station McDonald's, for your ice cream machine being nonfunctional.

And you, Victory 2005 survey designers, for telling the pollster on my doorstep to convert my "I will not be voting for either of those candidates" to "undecided."

And, finally, you, black hole into which so much of my stuff -- including my black dress with the purple flowers, the ring that the Smelmooo gave me for Christmas in 2001, my favorite bracelet from my mom, and Tucker's very sturdy, rainbow-colored rope -- has disappeared.

That felt good. Now I'm done, and will be little miss sunshine for the rest of the day.

Girls' Night

I've never been a good girlfriend. Well, I've been a fine girlfriend to some of my boyfriends, I guess, although I'm sure there are one or two who'd disagree with that assessment. But I've never had a gaggle of girlfriends like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or Sex and the City. I'm sort of a one-on-one person more than a group person, and I've always had friends who don't quite go together, which was kind of a drag when I'd be home on break from college, because one big party or night out with all of my friends wasn't really an option -- it was one or two people at a shot, for the most part.

Anyway, since I've been with The Smelmooo, that's changed a little bit. He also has friends from all different parts of his life, but he's very good at bringing them together and getting people to know each other. There is a core group of poker buddies -- or there was, until one of them became a daddy and the other became a political candidate, but maybe that'll pick up again in November -- who came complete with a core group of "poker wives" (sexist, I know, but it's our reality, although now with the dwindling of the group is our opportunity for integrated gambling). We would go out to dinner or a movie or have game night or whatever, and it's been really fun getting to know these women better, and have a little club, even if the four of us are sort of a far cry from Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte (although if we have to assign those roles, I think I'm Charlotte, and the other three can fight it out among themselves).

Anyway, during the last couple of years, I've also taken part in a quarterly-ish girls' night out with two other friends; the latest of these was on Saturday. One of them is in a new condo, so we gathered to oooh and ahhhh over her place, and then walked down to a local pub for a greasy, delicious dinner and drinks. We just giggled over nothing and everything, and had a chance to catch up that wasn't a bullet-pointed email or a harried phone call with a million distractions, and it was thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable. I love these women, and they are just so good to me and good for me; they were the orchestrators of my bachelorette party last year, they listen, they give solid advice, they make me laugh and let me cry.

My friendship with both of these women started when I was introduced to them by other friends, both of whom are now former friends. I don't really know when the three of us started hanging out, but it makes me happy that we do, and grateful that we continue our relationship despite the severing of those initial ties that brought us together.

I think I've written here before that I'm not a big fan of the "everything happens for a reason" logic, but I was struck the other night of how I don't ever feel like those former friendships were wasted, because I learned from them and gained great new friendships as a result. But the anxious, insecure part of me is now thinking, "Okay, if I'm the bridge that brought these two together, how long until I'm extraneous?!" Which I know is silly, and the thought was fleeting, but there it is. I am a huge fan, the older I get, of allowing friendships to run their due course, and then just sort of accepting a natural end and moving on.

That's often easier in theory than in practice, because even if you both know it's time, often both parties don't arrive at that conclusion at the same time, and there are bound to be some hurt feelings. But, gosh, when a friendship just starts to be nothing but an effort, or nothing more than "God, remember that time when...?", it's time to cut the cord. And that should be okay.

I have myself struggled with this sometimes, wanting to hang on to the way things used to be, or beating the proverbial dead horse, or crying and wondering what I'd done wrong. The semester I spent in England, I became best, best friends with my next-door neighbor, Christian, and we were pretty much inseparable during those four months. We got each other through everything there. And then we went home, talked when we could, hung out a few times, I went to his wedding, and then...pffft. Nothing. It just wasn't tenable; we couldn't plop our relationship into our new realities, which included other friends and a girlfriend (then fiancee, then wife) and a boyfriend and family and school and work and everything else. We knew how to be very best friends, staying up all night with a bottle of wine or cider, exploring new cities, experiencing life together in another country; we didn't know how to have a casual dinner with other people in real life after having not seen each other for months. But we let it drag on; we both tried, halfheartedly, because we had had a huge impact on each other's lives, and how do you just let go of the person who was your rock for a very short but very intense and formative period of time?

But we did, and I think we both feel at peace with it, finally. Last year, I had a dream about him the night before his birthday, and I woke up and emailed him just to say happy birthday, no strings attached, you were a huge part of my life and I wish you all the best. And he wrote back, essentially, "Ditto," and neither of us started in with the "Oh, we should get together next time you're in town," or any of that nonsense, because we know it won't happen, and we're both okay with it now.

Most breakups aren't so smooth, but I'm grateful both for his friendship and for the peaceful end to it; it allows me to remember our time together without regret, unclouded by the hurt and ugliness that accompanies so many breakups when they're overdue.

So now I'm all about enjoying my friends when I'm with them, and while the time and the place is right for us to love and need and complement each other, to laugh and grow with each other, to learn from each other. And I realize that although it might not last forever, right now it's unimaginable that it wouldn't.

My celebrity crush

Every time I'm away for work, I find that I need to have the TV on as I'm falling asleep (and I love it when the Sleep function on the TV is working, and I have disproportionate anger and frustration when it is not). So last night, I turned in around midnight, turned on Leno and...behold! My girlfriend was in the chair! Reese Witherspoon.

I just love, love, love her for some reason. In high school, my friend Erin and I would watch "The Man in the Moon" over and over and over (although it's lost something over time; I now feel like it's a little too slow and a little too cheesy, but Reese is still awfully good), and I've loved Reese ever since. And I always hold my breath a little when I see her being interviewed, because I'm worried that at some point I'm going to just totally hate her, and I so don't want that to happen.

But last night she did not disappoint. She talked about her kids, which reminds me of the way Minnams talks about her kids, with a little bit of my friend Jenny thrown in there; she was incredibly gracious and had done her homework about Jay's history with Johnny Cash and motorcycles and stuff so she could ask him nice questions back; and she had moments of sheer dorkiness, where she was trying to be funny and just fell a bit flat. And it made me love her even more, because I'm a big sucker for a dork.

All of my male celebrity crushes -- Kirk Cameron, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Cruise, even John Cusack, sadly -- have all sort of had brief shining moments in the sun, followed by indifference (Kirk, Bruce) or ardent hatred (yeah, that's you, Tom), or peaks and valleys over time (Cusack).

But my Reese has consistently stood the test of time; may it always be so.

They say it's your birthday

Okay, I admit it: the Smelmooo is right. I am far more inclined to write when I am or have recently been away from home. I say "inclined to write" because, on this trip, I've been itching to write, but have simply not had the time.

So anyway, here I am, on Long Island, for work; I have to say that the sunrise here is astonishingly beautiful, although I've heard that that's a result of pollution.

Anyway, I arrived on Tuesday night, my birthday.

I have very complicated feelings about my birthday.

I'm not particularly big on my birthday -- I don't really want a big party or a big deal made about it -- but I always become very emotional when people acknowledge it, especially if I don't feel like they're obligated to do so (like, this woman I work with gave me flowers from her garden, and another woman at work made me brownies, and I got all choked up). And even when the people who are obligated to acknowledge me still make me feel overcome with love and appreciation and gratitude: when the Smelmooo brought me out an ice cream cake and then sat me down at midnight with a pile of incredibly thoughtful, fun presents from him and Tucker, or when my mom and dad had called me at work while I was in a meeting and serenaded my assistant, because they didn't realize it wasn't me answering the phone.

I nearly died laughing at that, because they are not so skilled in the singing department, and my poor assistant was saying "No! No! Don't waste the singing on me!" but they were so caught up in the song that they didn't hear her, but then I just started crying because how cute are my parents that they still make a big fuss over my birthday and huddle together over the phone to sing to me?

But I also kind of hate being the center of attention -- I was beet-red and couldn't look at anyone in the room when people sang "Happy Birthday" during two separate meetings, and it all makes me feel very uncomfortable.

And then, I realize that, for all of my saying that I'm not a big birthday person, I realize that I do have the expectation that I'll hear from the people who I do feel are obligated, at least in my mind, to acknowledge it. I was in a huge funk because my sister Kathy hadn't even called, even though her daughter did (she and my other niece left me a wonderfully giggly, enthusiastic, A+-for-effort message singing to me). And really, who cares -- it's just another day, and it's all kind of silly, but she's my sister, for pete's sake, and she's never not called on my birthday. And then yesterday I felt like a huge chump because it turned out she had called, and left me a message at work, but it somehow didn't come through on my alerts until yesterday. But regardless, the mismatched expectations thing sets me on a crazy rollercoaster, which I suppose was exacerbated by being here. This feels like a long, long week that's just the very beginning of a long, long month and a half of big-ass travel for work, and I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I'm getting too old for this.

Top Five Tuesday

So I'm off to Long Island for the rest of the week, but before I leave, because I think that the Smelmooo is just super, I today offer the sincerest form of flattery with the following:

Top Five Reasons Why I Heart the Smelmooo:

5. He remembers that my very favoritest dessert is ice cream cake, and indulges me on every special occasion;

4. He carries my ID and insurance card, along with our wine for dinner, when I don't feel like carrying a purse or shoving stuff into my pockets;

3. He listens patiently, almost without fail, after I've ingested half the bottle of wine and begin just talking and talking and talking;

2. He joined a knitting Meetup so he could find me some lessons.

1. He loves me even though I'm not 23 anymore, and he'll still love me when I'm even older and squishier and more wrinkled than I am today.

Shadow Blog

Yesterday was pretty darn close to a perfect Saturday: played with Tucker in the morning, went to the beach, and went to a barbecue at Seth & Leslie's, where the food and the company were both outstanding.

But how do you know I'm telling the truth? Seth and Leslie at least occasionally read my blog (hi, guys! last night was so fun!), and if Seth had overcooked my burger and the patio furntiture had been filthy or if Leslie had been a huge pain in the ass, I could never write it here (although, when I mentioned this last night, Seth pointed out that he'd have no problem if I called him out for bad behavior, as long as he deserved it). Nor could I write in detail about my job, or about personal things that other friends or family members are going through, or a whole boatload of things that really matter (although this person doesn't seem to have any of these issues).

So I'm thinking I may need to start up an anonymous shadow blog to get out all of the things that I can't really write here, because it would be impolitic or impolite. There's something freeing and comforting for me that comes from being able to process my experiences through writing, and it helps doing it in a space like this, rathter than in a written journal -- although sometimes I still write stuff down in notebooks, but I always feel like I'm being an adolescent drama queen -- or just saving Word files or something. But it's limiting, knowing that I have a small but important group of people actually reading it.

You, Kelly, are of no help!

So I'm not a big letter-writer. I mean that less in the writing-letters-to-friends-and-family way (I suck at that, too, but I have kept to the letter -- heh-heh -- of the 101 in 1001 task of writing Jenny a letter a month while she's in Africa, because she was in the States for part of July, so sending one only in August is passable, I think, although not in line with the spirit of the item. Anyway....) than in the "disgruntled or incredibly satisfied customer" way. I often say I'm going to write a letter when I have especially good service, because I figure people mostly write to complain, but only rarely do I do it, largely because I figure the recipient will expect some sort of ulterior motive).

I did write a letter to Fight Back with David Horowitz when I was a kid (which I feel like I've written about before, but couldn't find it, so maybe not), because I was positive that the scratch-off game on Thomas's English muffins was a scam, but otherwise, I'm fairly letter-averse. And I twice wrote to Netflix about crappy service, but I'm reluctant to send additional notes with idle threats. Really, I'm not inclined to switch to Blockbuster, and I've told them twice about the problem, and they've basically said, "oh well; sorry; can't do much about it," so why write again?

The Smelmooo, on the other hand, is a big letter-writer, and I'm pretty sure he wishes I were, too. He's good at the letter-writing, and almost always gets results -- free meals at restaurants, free nights at a hotel, whatever -- but he doesn't abuse it or kick up a big fuss over nothing. But I'm so conflict-avoidant that it's just not usually worth it to me.

But today, I decided that I've really had enough of this nonsense from Doritos and they're "Now Better Tasting!" claim on the nacho cheesier variety, which is a load of baloney. They are the exact opposite of better tasting now, and I'd like the old ones back, please. The Smelmooo knows that the best way for me actually to write a letter is, when I muse aloud, "I oughta write a letter," to respond with, "Right. You never write a letter."

Which is how it played out today, but I'm too lazy and cheap to write an actual letter, and too cowardly to call the toll-free number, so I figured I'd go to the web site and leave a comment.

What I got was Kelly, who the corporate folks at Frito Lay ultimately describe, if you click through far enough, as not a real person, but a computer program. Our Q&A went thusly:

Q: Dear Kelly, are we forever stuck with "Now Better Tasting!" nacho cheese Doritos? I disagree that they're better tasting than the original variety. Please bring 'em back!!
Thanks,
Tangent Woman

A: The enzymes used for the cheese in Frito-Lay snacks are NOT from an animal source. The enzymes are made in a lab for use in food. These lab-produced enzymes replace rennet, rennin or pepsin which come from animals. Many commercial cheeses used as a food ingredient are no longer made from an animal source.

Uh, okay. Good to know. I'm sure the vegans are thrilled, but that was so not my question. So I simplified, hoping that with fewer extraneous words, I'd get a more appropriate response:

Q: Now Better Tasting?

A: I really appreciate your wanting to share your suggestion with us, but we do not accept ideas for legal reasons. We do not want any misunderstandings over the origin of an idea such as yours. Frito-Lay's Marketing teams are responsible for developing all new advertisements and promotions.

Well, Kelly, may I suggest that your marketing teams knock it off with the false advertising, and your web team come up with some sort of program that actually provides suitable answers to consumers' questions?

A: For more information, please look at the links I've displayed.
-- I was offended by the ad. (sorry; not our intention; we'll pass that along)
-- When did the Frito Bandito retire? (1970)
-- When was the Frito Bandito introduced? (1968)
-- I would like you to advertise on my site. (I'm flattered that you thought of us, but we currently have all of our advertising in place. But thanks for checking!)
-- Why don't you advertise with more minorities? (see answer to my second question, above).

No help. I may need to write a letter.

Crybaby

Despite my bouts of cynicism, I'm really a giant, hypersensitive sap (as my leadership coach put it when I was off the charts on my J -- judging -- characteristic on my personality test, I'm a "J with a heart.").

I was already on edge because of all of the terrible stories I hear and read coming out of New Orleans and the surrounding area this week, and it's all just so tragic. I was crying on the way home from work, listening to people who'd been separated from their families, hoping against hope that they'd manage to find each other in Texas, or from people who hadn't eaten in days saying they were fine, as long as they could somehow find milk or formula for their baby.

And then I got home, saw the Smelmooo in the driveway as he headed out to a dinner meeting the minute I arrived home (I tell you, ships passing in the night, we are sometimes), and settled in to watch Ellen. I gotta say, I love Ellen, and being able to catch her show is one of my favorite things about our new DVR.

So I watched an interview (and a dance-off! such a great show!) with Vince Vaughan, and then Ellen brought out this kid, David, and his parents; the show was taped on David's 10th birthday, and he was there because his doctors said he'd never live to age 10, because he had this incredibly aggressive form of cancer that caused a grapefruit-size tumor to develop in his head and throat.

So anyway, he made it, obviously, but they talked about how David decided that, to fight the tumor most effectively, he would call it Frank, short for Frankenstein, the monster he most feared when he was younger. And David and his parents settled on a "kill Frank" approach to battling cancer, and they found this incredible surgeon who'd developed a new approach to surgery that would allow him to remove the tumor through David's nose, rather than by essentially "removing his face like a hockey mask."

First, I started bawling at the "Kill Frank" thing, because it was just brave and sweet and scared all at the same time. I had always thought I was so smart and special for banishing my allergies to Canada when I was a kid (and it worked. I know there's lots of research about how one's attitude affects their health and recovery, but I wonder if there's specifically been work done in this area, with kids who just get angry at what's making them sick, and make a concerted, feverish effort to banish or kill it), but geez, Killing Frank is a whole different universe.

So anyway, after the family told the story, Ellen surprised them by bringing out the surgeon, and David's eyes got huge, and his mouth dropped open like Pac-Man, and he bolted out of his seat and ran over to the doctor and threw his arms around him with more force and enthusiasm and gratitude and unabashed love than I've ever seen. More tears.

And then, Ellen gave the family round-trip tickets to some amusement park in Ohio, and David looked like she'd given him the sun and the moon and the stars; and then, to top it all off, she brought out Kiss, his favorite band, who brought out a cake and high-fived him and stuff (I was on the edge of my seat wondering whether David would hug Gene Simmons like he hugged the doctor, but it was handshakes and high-fives all around. I guess even at 10 you sort of get that you don't hug Kiss). And Ellen pointed out how the members of Kiss all flew in on their own dime, and didn't ask for anything, just wanted to be there, and not-Gene-Simmons of Kiss said how honored he was to be there to celebrate David's birthday with him.

Sobbing. Sobbing. Sobbing.

And then, during the commercials, is the public service announcement about post-partum depression, which is so well done, I think. It's probably just a Jersey thing, because our acting first lady went through it and is very involved in the issue (so THERE, stupid Tom Cruise, who by the way has been blessedly, but puzzlingly quiet since the release of War of the Worlds. Hmmm.). It basically shows parents of newborns being approached by well-intentioned friends or co-workers, "So how's it going with the new baby?" and then the parent responds that she (or his wife, in the other version) is really struggling, and isn't as interested in the baby as they'd expected, and sometimes she's resentful and cries for no reason, etc., and then there's a shift, and you realize that all of it took place in the parent's mind, and they just smile and say "Great. Couldn't be better." And it's just so awful to watch and to know how much people struggle.

I think it's time to start using the other blessed DVR feature of the fast-forward button, at least for today.