Showtime

After months of loathing the tangle of cords and unsafe overuse of powerstrips, I finally swallowed my pride and signed up for cable. When Comcast gave me shit, I upgraded to swanky Direct TV. In just 24 hours, all the worthless digital converter boxes and rabbit ears were gone. In their place was a tiny black box filled with hundreds of channels and XM radio stations.

It wasn't just the constant struggle trying to get digital reception in my garden-level apartment that finally did me in, however. It was a conversation with my girlfriends, rooftop at the pool. I was quizzing my ladies for updates on the dating scene...just in case I'd missed anything in the last year. Now that I've reclaimed fabulocity and dusted off my dating gear after the recent male train wreck, it seemed only right to make sure i had all the latest gadgets.

One of my girlfriends wisely explained to me that all the cleavage and mascara in the world wouldn't get me very far without ESPN. Her stance was that men just need to flip channels to be happy; that I simply wouldn't score unless my next man could check the score. Cable, she said, was vital to my dating arsenal.

"Fair enough," I conceded. I've always worried that BUST magazine and Shih Tzu would loose its allure before long. Men who date me tend to do an awful lot of waiting and my Libra diplomacy could see I needed to compromise. Also, I was beginning to entertain the fact that if i want to lay on a couch and rest my head in man-lap ever again, I might need something more than local weather and the box set of Ab Fab.

Furthermore, there are lots of ways I can benefit from my new cable as well. I can hardly wait to rationalize all this wasted money during my first Project Runway party. I also needed to do research for my own series on Food Network, which is forthcoming.

When i told the man who installed my dish our hypothesis, he laughed. Hard. He checked my order on his log and concluded that if i really wanted a man, I'd have to add the mega-expensive sports package with 24 hour NFL. "Baby steps, dawling," i told him. I hope my dates don't have time to watch that much TV. *wink*

Arithmetic

Leek parmesan smashed potatoes with chives from my garden next to Italian roast beef and sourdough...all on a vintage Holly Hobby plate that says “Count your blessings, not your troubles.”

I'm down with that.