It's my party and I'll have it if I want to.

If I have one goal for the rest of the year, it’s that I’m going to have a damned birthday party if it kills me. Last year, I had this awesome plan ready for a happy hour at my favorite pub in Houston—spent a long and agonizing week working on the guest list, carefully crafted to bring together a blend of people from the various facets of my world. The day before I was going to send out the Evite, a woman from work sent around an email inviting people to *her* birthday-happy-hour thing the weekend before mine, at the same. Damn. Pub. Given that the core of my guest list was made up of people from work who had just received the preempting email, I cancelled mine. Feh. This year.

Monster.com commercials these days—the ones where the people stand up and give their please-hire-me spiel—make me unbelievably sad.

Went to the fella’s house last night for dinner…man, can he cook. I’ve dated guys before who felt like they cooked, but they were wrong. Cereal isn’t cooking. Skillet Sensations isn’t (aren’t?) cooking if that’s the extent of one’s repertoire. No, the thing about P’s cooking that is sooo delightful is that it a) isn’t a big production number—he just moves into the kitchen and casually produces real, actual food, b) contains real ingredients in interesting combinations, c) tastes fanfuckingtastic. You have to appreciate a man whose copy of The Joy of Cooking is flagged with Post-its. Props, mad props.

Speaking of food, I’m starved. If I listen really carefully, I think I can hear a Lender’s bagel calling my name from the freezer. I should probably go see what it wants.