Goin' to the beach, y'all.

I know, I know, I'm taking off weekends lately like it's my job.

But at least this time my hiatus is not for some lame reason like running a race, visiting my family in Michigan or heading down South to see my newborn niece. No, this time I have a legitimate excuse for taking time off, and it involves remedying a fading Summer tan and two and a half day's worth of wearing nothing but a push-'em-up-and-out bikini top and trolling the shores of St. Michael's for a man in Halliburton-logo swim trunks.

Some dogs sniff out narcotics, some sense natural disasters and still others know when there's an illegal immigrant hiding around the corner -- mine, strangely enough, has a nose for all-powerful, apple-shaped Republicans.

Don't you, smunchkin-pie?

See you bright and early on Monday morning!

The new beauty trend: post-clink glow

Paris Hilton bores me, and this whole prison saga bores me even more than her usual comings and goings (except for when Nancy Grace and her crazy-ass cast of characters do a segment on it - then I am gleefully entertained), but can we all agree that three weeks in the clink certainly did her face some good? I mean, I'm half convinced I should set aside this and this and all those other trannied-up pics of her and admit she is indeed a natural beauty.

It almost makes me want to indulge in a product-free lifestyle for the better part of a month and revert back to a time when it was just my bare-freckled face, a bar of Dove and a pump or two of hand lotion rubbed over the apples of my cheeks for good measure.

But then again, given that I almost cried when I thought I'd left my makeup bag at the office this morning (I didn't - Monte had strategically hidden it in one of his four beds to delay my departure), I think I'd better just let this nostalgia pass, not follow through with my get-in-jail plan to "do whatever it takes" to show Dick how good my rack looks in my XS "Cheney in '08" babydoll tee, and instead, for the now sixth time today, strut my butt to the little cowgirl's room to touch up my eyeliner.

MassAve chic

Since I started this blog back in December, I've been meaning to pay closer attention to the walkers-home - or more specifically, what the walkers-home are wearing - while I scamper Asics-style up and down MassAve chasing Oprah's 4:29:20 and burning off countless handfuls of Hershey's miniatures, at least three-inches of half-n-half and whatever non-vegetable topping (I allow myself one) I added to my Cosi salad that day.

Well, today, finally, I'm going to make good on that promise.

In between giving Dick my best Yasmine-Bleeth-running-in-slow-mo-on-the-beach impression when I pass by the Naval Observatory (he might see me, one day...) and carefully avoiding tripping (again) over that homeless dude on a hunger strike in front of the Sudanese consulate, I will take enough mental notes to prepare something good and juicy for you all.

And yes, I actually do have all three "Baywatch" themes - Save me (Peter Cetera/Bonnie Raitt), I'm always here (Jimi Jamison) and I'll be ready (Naughty Boy & Sunblock) - in a "Baywatch"-block on my training iMix as inspiration to nail that intense-eye-contact, heaving-bosom jog-past.

You know you'd watch it if it was still on the air.

Upon closer inspection...

After putting on my glasses, I realized my love-bite was no love-bite at all but just the new ink I purchased earlier this week in loving dedication to my favorite man-bot, Richard Bruce Cheney.

Or as I like to call him, "his Emperor-ship."

Note the eye-roll he's giving the rifle-wielding Chinese dude in the Cultural Revolution propaganda poster to his right. No matter which direction I'm facing, the veep refuses to acknowledge his presence.

What *really* happened

As our blogger/reader relationship continues to grow ever more intimate, I feel the need to come clean about last night and show you what really happened during my birthday festivities.

From now on, no more ruses, just plain-as-Julia-Stiles honesty. I promise.

(don't worry, I watched Dick wash his dose of Coumadin down with my Kir Royale promptly at 10pm)

Trying to think of something good to say that doesn't involve her boobs

There are some celebrities I just can't bring myself to criticize.

It's a small group, only two or three deep, and to be honest, there's no consistent reason behind any of their immunities.

Maybe it's rooted in my sad little fantasy that one day I'll cross Scarlett's - or Cate's or Liv's or Rachel McAdams' or Dick Cheney's - path, and after becoming fast BFF, she'll ask me if I have a blog, to which I'll say "yes," and when she looks at it and sees I've written nothing but positive things, she'll say, "Oh, you were so nice to me!" and then our friendship can play out as any famous/non-famous one does with the former taking the latter to Clive Owen movie premieres and Louis Vuitton fashion shows during Paris Fashion Week.

Or something like that.

That's why, when you see me post pictures of Scarlett looking like this, I'm not going to comment on the fact that her hair, handbag and shoes all look like they've been fashioned out of cream cheese frosting. Or that in her mini dress, she strikes a cross between what I always imagined Gretel would look like before she was incinerated Sylvia Plath style and a slightly-more educated St. Pauli's beer wench.

No, instead, I think I'll focus on my favorite 34D's, I mean actress's valiant effort to match her Proenza Pink lipstick to her balconet bra.