[Put your hands on the wheel, let the golden age begin]

I think my LifeStyle front went over well; I’ve gotten a few scattered compliments. Friday I’m doing the Sunday Money front, and then I’ve been asked to do a KidStuff page and the Ed and OpEd pages Tuesday, which I’ve never done before. So that should be fun.

I don’t want to jinx it, but it looks like I’ll be off for the holiday weekend. I would like to go in and celebrate the Fourth with my family, per our tradition, but I haven’t seen Phil in almost three weeks and, pathetically, we pine for one another. I would also like to take Amber to Saltillo to witness our spectacular fireworks extravaganza (usually a $90 kit that fizzles out in about 15 minutes; it used to be a stressful process when we had a fire-eating dog named Sheba, who would attack the fireworks and knock them in our direction, scattering us and sending lawn chairs flying). So maybe there’s room for a compromise in there somewhere. I’d love for Phil to come celebrate, too, but he probably has to work. I might buckle and just bask in the ‘Boro for the weekend. But I haven’t decided just yet.

Been hearing good things about Farenheit 9/11. Phil said it shows nothing he didn’t already know, but that it was a fun time anyway.

Tonight is a meeting of the Young Journalists’ Club, a group at the News. It’s at a bar called The Garage, which was voted third best bar in the world by GQ in 2003. I have decided to go if I get off in time. I can’t hole up in my room forever, though it’s sadly tempting.

I can’t log into the Sidelines Web site. I’ve been deleted as a staff member, which is a kick in the teeth, considering there are people still on the staff list who quit before I became editor — and that was two years ago — who we left on there so they could log in and see how many reads their stories have gotten. I know I don’t technically work there anymore, but neither does Patrick or Amanda or Amy Jones-Foster or countless others still on the list. I don’t know why it happened or if it means anything, but it stings. It feels a little like “good riddance.”

On a brighter and more self-deprecating note, we ordered Thai food tonight at work. I have never had Thai food but I hate all forms of Oriental food, so naturally I acquiesced and forked over money when the menu and corresponding money envelope was passed around. I got the Sweet and Sour Chicken, of course, and when it arrived, I realized with horror that there were no forks here and I would have to use the chopsticks. I have never, ever used chopsticks, and I have fat, short fingers that are simply perfect for forks. So I fumbled my way through a few grains of rice, and said “Screw it, I’m a shameless American,” and searched the breakroom for some sort of flatware. I found a spoon, which worked nicely to shovel the rice into my mouth and cut the strips of greasy chicken into chunks I thought I could manage with the chopsticks. It didn’t really work out, and I ended up eating mostly with my grubby hands, full of self-conscious self-loathing. I’m taking the leftovers home, where I’ll introduce them to a fork — the eating tool of choice for a nation of fat-asses.