If I believed in New Year’s Resolutions, mine would be to somehow look that awesome (see above) all year. That’s a relic from August ‘07. My friends — The Team — and I were in Michigan for New Buffalo’s illustrious Ship ‘n’ Shore Festival (holla!). A somewhat drunken but TOTALLY CHILL dance party to a playlist I’d created called “It Couldn’t Be Lamer: Dance Hits from the Mid-to-Late ’90s” ensued. We’d already eaten our weight in cheeseburgers, but dancing is tough, and being the motherly provider I am, I decided to root around in the laundry room fridge for something — anything — to replenish our calorie count. By some miraculous intervention a.k.a. “Dee Barrett being awesome,” there happened to be a spare cherry pie just sitting in there on a dish towel. Heavens!

Anyway, I could never do it on this blog because my name’s all the F over it and I would never want people to think I’m even slightly self-absorbed (ha!), but I kind of want someone to do a “Looking Great in ‘08″ series. It’d just be a pic of that person every day and then she’d scathingly critique her own appearance because half the time she’d be unshowered in a college hoodie. It’s only January 2nd and therefore still doable. She’d just have to fake a photo and say it happened yesterday. Maybe I should start an anonymous blog and just go for it. Hmm. Look for this anonymous blog around May when PopWatch mysteriously links to it. You think I’m kidding.

Could I look anymore obnoxious? (Probably!)

Watch the video.

I love this: Recently, people have found this website by googling “Liz Lemon Half Eaten Lunch.” Why wouldn’t they do that? This framed photograph hanging in Tina Fey’s office on 30 Rock is one of my favorite things about the show, which means it’s a very big deal. The giant eating utensils on a different (or maybe the same) wall are also awesome. So was this episode.

Anyway, I’m making it easier: You can buy Liz Lemon’s amazing office portrait featuring fried chicken, fries haphazardly glazed with ketchup, and some unidentified yellow sauce (yum) for the meager price of $600. It’s part of EW’s holiday gift guide for TV addicts, found here. Happy shopping — you have about an hour and a half left!

(Is everyone enjoying my horrible Photoshopping effort involving a yellow-to-red gradient intended to subliminally signify shitty fast food?)

Whether I’m being extra cheesy, extra self-reflective, or extra awesome by posting a picture of the Magic Hat #9 bottlecap I just dropped on the floor, I don’t really care.* Happy 2007.

*I totally care, otherwise I wouldn’t post it on my blog. Or… have a blog.

(That’s an old, scratchy saucepan, for those of you wondering! Were you wondering? I thought it was so cool. I think I am so cool.)

What to eat now… Bag of Doritos or giant Twix my mom, Dee, stuffed into my suitcase?

I have more to say about Doritos tomorrow, which doesn’t mean I chose them.

I chose them.

Psych! I chose both.

Mouth-swishing (Magic Hat + Twix) = highly recommended.

It’s a very good place to start.

This is our next-door neighbor Rose’s holiday window display:

This is ours:

We’re really giving her a run for her money.

Our second window looks the same but without the snowman. Who, by the way, is at such a perfect tilt. There’s a real art to positioning a plastic window decoration. You want to make it look really chill, really cazh (yes cazh), and not like you peeled it back off seven different times because you didn’t think the snowman looked friendly enough.

Aw, look at him. He’s like, “Hi!”

You’re like, “Hey.”

Great post.

I really am still blogging, I swear! Here’s a smattering of proof.

–‘The O.C.’: “Help us!” Love, the Cohens

–The Constantine: Everybody else is wearing it, so why can’t you?

–Dancin’ Dave Price may be the next Bob Barker. Who knew I’d ever have a chance to plug the only video I’ve ever made? No one! You idiots! NOTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. Or is it everything happens for no reason? Not everything happens for a reason? Longer treatise on this to come.

*

Center-aligned asterisks make me seem so prolific!

*

This was 2006’s installment of the “Tangled Up in Blue” Halloween costume (founded in 2001 by DR correspondent “Mughan” Dunn). Definitely my worst effort to date. Blatant lack of feathers. Zero leg action. Tiny bit of yarn and a scarf. Pizza.

I realized three years into the costume that maybe 50% of the people I encounter on Halloween weekend have ever actively listened to Bob Dylan… and only 30% of those people recognize the title “Tangled Up in Blue.” My friend TG, who’s seen the costume three times now, had no idea I was ever supposed to be a song. “I thought you just liked that yarn,” he said. But he was right — that’s really the whole point of the outfit anyway. I cannot get enough of that ball of yarn. Next year, I won’t even bother with the explanation.

*

IS THIS YOUR VAN?

I need it. We totally bonded.

*

Take a look at this. If you’re not into “reading” (which would be ironic), I’ll summarize: according to CNN, pregnant women across the nation decided to delay the births of their assumedly non-evil spawn because the date was 6/6/06. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life.

Here’s a sample for those too lazy to click:

A Chicago, Illinois, obstetrician, Dr. Scott Pierce, performed a C-section on Monday on a woman who didn’t want her son to be teased about his birthday and called names like Damien. Damien is the lead character in the movie “The Omen,” about a sinister boy who turns out to be the Antichrist.

That entire paragraph was inane, but let’s focus on this: kids never remember or even know their friends’ birthdays. It’s like a rule. I still don’t know a bunch of mine — which probably just means I’m a bad friend, but hear me out. Who cares when someone’s birthday is?

Not to mention, school’s out by June anyway, so the bullies who could potentially tease your afflicted progeny about his birthday probably enjoy his general company little enough to steer clear of him during the entire summer vacation. Think about it.

And besides, by the time your Devil baby’s birthday is “recognized” by his friends, he’ll probably be an able-minded teenager (assuming those exist — I certainly never qualified) and not care anymore. For shits and giggles, let’s call him “Damien.”

Damien is a sinister boy living in the year 2022. He’s sinister because pop culture continued its trend of flushing itself down the toilet ever since his birth and he can’t stand it anymore. His classmates’ boobs are already fake, he still has to pretend he’s into rap, and Jessica Simpson CONTINUES to infest the national radar with her complete and utter foolitude, only instead of slightly impersonating a duck, like she enjoyed toying with in 2006 with her big fat lips and wig-like ‘do, she is now an actual human-size duck — and the most profitable attraction the San Diego Zoo has seen in decades. People love it with that quacker!

Now I’m terrified, and it has nothing to do with the numbers.

“When I tell people my birthday, the ones who are really brave give me the look and say, `That’s scary!’ ” said [newly over-the-hill Jill] Haub, a practicing Christian. “And I say, ‘Actually, I have an extra 6 — born on 6-6-66 — so that’s four sixes. I’m good, not evil.’”

Wrong, Jill. You are evil for making such a moronic statement. I’ll see you in hell, where you are unquestionably headed due to your unfortunate birthday.

Just kidding, of course. I think having a 6-6-6 birthday would be cool! Our massive wheat-colored sectioinal sofa arrived this morning, and for the last two weeks we’ve been nothing but psyched about its delivery date. “Yes! Evil couch!” or something more creative was likely uttered. I don’t remember because I was eating. Yes. For the entire two weeks.

Oh look: Ladytron has a message for babies born yesterday:

This is happening
For your pleasure
At your leisure
Use your evil
When you want.

[Click for rad video.]

Just realized elementary school never gets out by 6/6. Oops. Or does it?

Kate forwarded this to me around Easter… I just remembered it becuase I’m still working on a Fannie May Solid Milk Chocolate Rabbit from a few weeks ago. (Ew!) It’s all part of the Great Apartment Eat-Out, my self-imposed plan to eat only the food in my studio before moving to the Slope in two weeks. I was going to document The Eat-Out daily on DR, before I realized it was really boring and trivial “in the scheme of things” — like everything else I seem to care about only worse!.

The word “Solid” on the box is so key. Dee only sends solid chocolate animals, as we share a deep-rooted resentment for hollow ones like those pictured. Who do they think they’re kidding? Nearly everyone! What a buzzkill.

We will not stand for this. It’s solid or bust! Dee enjoys the bonus chocolate. I like the “ski slope” skid marks I get to leave on the rolling plains of solidity with my teeth. Also: the bonus chocolate.

Those “crumbs” in the graphic look suggestive of feces. I’d still eat ‘em.

I’ve been meaning to get some things off my chest.

–I think I should become a more healthy eater, so I’m turning vegan. No more candy! And thank god no more cheese. Cheese is just nasty, especially when it’s smothered over nachos.

–I wish people would just say what they mean.

–Sometimes, when no one else is around, I find myself thinking that hipsters are cute. They’re so small, and skinny, and colorful. They’re like Colorforms. I loved those things. We intellectual snobsters just have trouble admitting to ourselves that hipsters are the most creative people in this city.

–Why does everyone keep hating on Ryan Seacrest? I think he’s kind of cool. Just a normal guy, trying to get by in a Hollywood that doesn’t give him nearly the attention he deserves. We should stop making fun of him, because who are we? We’re not better than him.

–You people who download music illegally need to stop doing that, because it’s wrong.

–People who watch The Biggest Loser are despicable human beings. It is morally corrupt, and not an amazing amount of fun, to watch obese people swim across Olympic-sized swimming pools while towing their goal weight in gold. This is not even a humorous concept. I am visualizing this activity in my mind, right now, and not even cracking a smile. It’s just wrong. As a sidenote, Caroline Rhea looks super-cute in a plaid, pastel poncho next to multiple bushels of baguettes.

–Uptown Manhattan is awesome. I should hang out there more. So many fun bars, restaurants, and the people! Ah, the people. It’s a rockin’ part of the city.

–McDonald’s has mozzarella sticks now, and I for one think that’s gross. I’ve definitely never ordered them in the two-story branch on W. 44th and 8th Avenue.

–iPods are overrated. I’m not obsessed with mine, and it’s sick if you are with yours. Get a life.

Click here to solve the puzzle.

I’m tired. I clearly don’t care a lot about today’s holiday, even though I’m obsessed with green. Instead — to keep in theme with the winter that despite last week’s tease will apparently never end — here’s a camera pic of a tap shaped like a snowman. It’s appropriately called “Snow Man Ale.” The bartender promised it would taste like burnt marshmallows. I’m promising you it tastes like crap.

There.

Now I’m going to do something I never thought I’d do and invite readers to “have a good weekend.” At least it’s in quotes to convey possible disingenuity. Keep it challenging.

How adorable is that tap though? Come on.

Yes! Dee just sent a box containing three Reese’s Eggs. (I don’t see what would have been wrong with four.)

I’ve been meaning to do a thorough comparison of all of the Reese’s holiday variations on the traditional Cup. I now have an Egg, a Heart, and a Tree (I think the tree is from 2004, ew), so I just need to wait until this October so I can pick up the Pumpkin. There’ll be a photo shoot and everything. (Tyra Banks voiceover: “Come on, Tree, I wanna see fierce! Show me your wild side. Show me who Tree really is.”)

Right now, the Egg is my favorite. I suppose the Egg is my favorite right now because it’s what I’m eating… right now. That has to be a conflict of interest. A huge chunk of it is literally melting on my tonuge. My lazy teeth have sort of sunk into the top of it, but I’m just going to go with it. It’s heavenly.

Here’s photographic evidence of how heavenly I think the Egg is. Before eating, I placed it right at the most important area of my apartment (the trackpad), and the flash has produced an eerie, almost outer-space effect. The Egg is like that wondrous black monolith in the move 2001: A Space Odyssey. (Roll over the pic for a visual.)

But I think I’ve always actually favored the Egg. It’s the closest in shape to the original Cup, and yet due to its impressive surface area, you feel like you’re getting a ton more out of it than you do during a usual Cup experience. So size alone matters, and then there’s also the element of shape/contour. This may sound blasphemous to Reese’s purists, but I actually prefer the holiday Reese’s over the Reese’s Cups* because I’m not totally wowed by the crinkled edges on the Cups. If anything, I find them slightly burdensome. All those sharp angles make for a somewhat jarring job for the teeth and tongue. The pointy sections don’t melt on their own very quickly, like the peanut buttery part does. You have to break all those ridges up with your teeth. It’s not like I don’t have the time for it (this post serves as evidence to the contrary) but why should I have to go through the routine if there’s a specialty Shape around? The Shapes, on the other hand, have smooth and softer edges. Bites of Shapes are already at a near-perfect consistency right when they enter the endless black hole that is Annie Barrett’s human mouth. The procedure ends up being so seamless. Sometimes I finish an Egg and think, “That was nothing. I think I’ll have another. If only Dee had sent four.” Then I cry.

This is why there need to be more occasions throughout the year to which the Reese’s corporation responds by manufacturing seasonal shapes. That way, we’ll always have the option of Cup vs. Shape. Fans of either genre will be constantly happy!

Timely example: I’m not one of those people who get obsessed with St. Patrick’s Day, but I certainly wouldn’t kick a Reese’s Four Leaf Clover to the curb right now if one knocked on my door. I could definitely have more fun with one of those than I could with a beer.

They could also have a default Reese’s per month, just in case there’s no major holiday in sight. Here are some ideas:

January: Snowman

February: Snowwoman (extra hair = extra Reese’s)

November: Turkey OR Indian Feather (Is that racist? Go with it. Or add Pilgrim Belt Buckle to even it out.)

December: Me (it’s my birthday, plus I harbor a secret fantasy about being sculpted into a Reese’s) Fine, or a Dreidel.

Despite my obsession with the Shapes, I’ll still be forever impressed by the Cup. If not for the Cup, the Egg would never be. And there you have your answer to the rhetorical quandary posited in this (possibly regrettable) post’s title.

What’s your dream Reese’s shape?!

*I wanted to put that declaration in bold orange with an asterisk because I feel so strongly about this. It is one of my strongest opinions about anything.

Monday was Halloween. At left, there’s me as a halfhearted version of last year’s very successful “Tangled Up in Blue” costume. (Props to M. Dunn for the original concept.) Look at me, all skeptical. It’s like I’m thinking to myself, “I know I’m bullshit.”

Here’s a comparison of this year’s and last year’s costumes. I’m really creative.

Okay, that’s the sexiest photo you’ll ever see of me.

Halloween was fun. I learned what a Snickerdoodle was. And I also told a bunch of cops outside my building who were staring me down while I was selecting scary-looking flowers at the deli that they had “great costumes.” One of them laughed. I considered that a success.

Now get back to work.

Hi everyone. It’s Diminishing Returns. The economic principle! No, just kidding, the crappy blog. Annie seems to have dropped off on me due to a lethal combination of supermarket wine and generic Nyquil, so allow me to take the reins for a bit. I’m sure Annie will post some sort of lame-ass New Year’s Resolutiions list within the next few days, so watch THIS! I’m going to preempt that bitch. Also, because she would probably be predictable and do 10, I’m going to list 11.

New Year’s Resolutions for DR:

11. Lose weight, eat right.
10. Feature one review of NYC nachos per week.
9. Focus more on The Issues!
8. Yeah right.
7. Develop better logo. This one is sooo 2004. Actually, more like 1995.
6. Stop sucking.
5. Update automatically, even if Annie is cranky and hungover. Feed Annie bruschetta in bed if that’s the case, then spew out something brilliant. Because I am brilliant. She only wishes.
4. Train vigorously for Sexiest Pathetic 20-something Soul-Searching Blog of 2005, or at least a place in the top ten.
3. The above referred to the blog itself, ME, not Annie. Who are you kidding?
2. Change name from The Anti-Blog to The Annie Blog without warning so that Annie seems extra dorky.
1. Stop being so blatantly a blog.

Contributions welcome! How do you think DR can improve?

Try to come up with something better than “Come on. Go back to the old biweekly features - they were better than this. Really.” because that requires more work and creative energy on Annie’s part and she’s stubborn, although if you pressed hard enough she might give in. Also, do not request “more pictures of hot girls!” because that ain’t happening.

(Note from Annie: Whew! I just woke up. It’s true. I try not to post pictures of myself on here too often. It gets excessive…ly hot.)

What? Annie, shutthefuckup. You know what? I (DR the blog) think my real NYR should be to take over this webspace. Yeah! Sexy, mysteriously anonymous blog trumps dowdy, identity-obvious blogger any day! Come 2005, you’ll have to answer to ME. I like this. It’s a plan.

I have decided to give rum-based drinks another try. Previously, I was adverse to them in favor of vodka-based guzzlers like StoliRazCran and everyone’s tequila favorite, the margarita. I must have had a bad experience with rum that made me hurl at one point within the last five years. But we need to look forward, forget the past. As John Kerry would say, We. Can. Do. BETTER! I mean, I still love SRC, and in the last few days have developed an amazing admiration for bottles of mediocre local beer. It’s just really hard to turn a snobby cheek to a frozen mango-strawberry daiquiri. I mean, really. I’d like to see you try. I dare you.

We just drove home from Danny Buoy’s Irish Pub in our rented knockoff version of a European SmartCar, and within this five-minute ride, rather tipsy, Bill, Meg and I came up with a few verses to the tune of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” that revolved around my mom really wanting a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar as soon as she got home. We’re really bad. But she really wanted it.

I love Thanksgiving. Favorite holiday, hands down. It’s a HOLIDAY that is DEDICATED to DINNER. That’s brilliant. Halloween is cool, too, with the candy, but come on. You have to eat dinner before you start eating candy. Usually.

I also love my new Time Warner DVR cable box, but I’m beginning to think it sort of has a crush on me, too. It pampers me so. It’s only supposed to hold 15 hours worth of recordings, but I’m convinced that my list comprises so much more than that.

The show selection process is sort of like a game - or a formal courtship. I sit with my clicker, who’s like the go-between friend in junior high who would go ask your crush if he/she liked you. I scan through the weekday morning schedules and happen upon a gold mine: old episodes of 90210 and Dawson’s Creek and Ellen’s sitcom back when it was good - and feel incredibly guilty for wanting to press the red record button but simply can’t hold back.

When I press “record,” I assume that the love of my life will deny me access for going over the 15-hour limit with an “Are you sure you want to record this program?” message. More likely, it would say something like “Are you fucking kidding? Dawson’s Creek? Pacey failing bio? Annie, come on.”

But then my love grants me the recording, again and again. I swoon, and skip to Tuesday to hunt for more bounty.

But does my love toy with me? Are all those red “recording” slots just a tease, because he’s afraid to tell me there’s actually no more space? Would DVR rather have me convinced I’m getting lucky because he knows I’ll probably never have the sudden urge to watch Wednesday morning’s recording of a 1994 episode of ER?

Oh wait. I just realized that Sex and the City completely beat me to this idea. Remember the one about Miranda and her TiVo and Jules and Mimi? I can’t believe this. She even had TiVo, and I have Time Warner DVR. I’m like the low-class version of Carrie Bradshaw right now, except I’m not giving a fake-pensive look, smoking a cigarette, or wearing a sock for a shirt or whatever the hell else she was known for. That crazy Carrie!

I’ve clearly reached a new low. I can’t delete everything, because I really did think this was an original idea and this way, I’ll have something to show for inexplicably being awake at 4:30 a.m. I think I’ll go take out my frustration on Felicity reruns.

These “orange slices” were part of my massive sugar spread during Kandy for Kerry on Halloween.

Look! They were categorized as “produce” by Gristedes. This was one of the year’s Top Halloween Moments. Other THMs included seeing a couple dressed as iPods at the parade, convincing myself that an extra-large Jello Shot Surprise constituted solid food, and the subsequent extra-large pizza enjoyed at 3 a.m… way, way too late.

Yes, I do have more pics of Halloween but I’m waiting for other people’s shots (ahem! J&N) before I post mine. Sorry. If anyone cares, I was Tangled Up In Blue. It was easy, and actually I too look easy in that photo. Gross. But my costume was nowhere near as easy as How Could You Even Ask That? - James’ sudden brainchild upon realizing he would sweat to death in his Hulk suit. (It’s what he would say if you asked him what he was. Genius.)

More on that later. It’s 5. I feel like I’m 5, rebelling against Dee and Bill and staying up as late as I can. 18 years later, I’m still really good at it! I rule!

Watch out, it’s Friday the 13th!

Whatever the F that means. I don’t know much about holidays, but I’m pretty sure that the only point of acknowledging Friday the 13th (FT13) is so that people can unnecessarily scare themselves into thinking that horrible things will happen to them that day.

But I do that every day. It’s called a raging case of pessimism. And this could just be the pessimist talking, but I’m pretty sure that’s nothing to celebrate. What’s different about today?

Let’s say a big “Screw You!” to all these evil capitalists capitalizing on FT13 propaganda and hereby pledge to make this FT13 the best FT13 EVER!

Wait! Better yet, let’s make it the best DAY ever!

Who’s with me?! Nihilsm Bear? Anyone?

Party on! I want pizza.