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Being a reporter makes you want to shun all forms of communication when you finally get home from work. Reporting full-time is not doing wonders for my phone etiquette, my KIT (HAGS!) powers, nor my, you know, blog updating skillz. (Sorry.) You're on the phone all day, you're hounding people, you're hunting people down, chatting people up and then furiously taking notes on what they say. [Although it is kind of empowering to call someone, like, 4 times in one day. After years of waiting for boys' phone calls it's kind of liberating to be like, "NO YOU'RE GOING TO TALK TO ME NOW. I'LL JUST CALL AGAIN AND WE BOTH KNOW IT."] It's fun, but it makes me want to come home and learn ASL so I can sign to my boyfriend and roommates, "I'm going to watch LOST now, please bring dinner to the couch for me, thanks." At the very least, I plan to be a polite signer.

But nothing could remind me about my neglected blog more than hearing a guy, on the escalator this evening say,

"I didn't have much to say to her when we were married. Why would I want to talk to her now?"

Word, man.

I mean, people who don't ride public transportation with the rest of us masses are really missing out.

My Wolverine Action Figure is contemplating returning to desk life, but is wary of being taken advantage of. We may give him a test run back out in the real world soon. I think he's become a little soft, myself. (Love handles, people. Not that I'm one to judge.)