The place: your own dining room. The time: a Saturday evening, just a couple of months from today. The setting: Your table is filled with happy guests - and they're raving about the spectacular Lobster Fra Diavolo dinner you prepared.

- From the French Culinary Institute, description of "Essentials of Fine Cooking" class.

One of the perks of my job is that they'll pay for "professional development" classes. I just have to convince them that Advanced Wine Tasting or the Pastry Cycle at the FCI will somehow further my career in school fundraising. My employers are French, so they at least waited a full 30 seconds before saying "no."

Lately, I've become somewhat obsessed with the idea of Self Improvement. I'm not sure what it is, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that, for exactly one year, I have simultaneously had a job, an apartment, and a relationship. All three. At the same time.

Back in the day, I was lucky to have one - occasionally two - of the above at any given time. Of course, its a cliche that New Yorkers are always searching for at least one of these. But until recently, this had always been the case for me ever since I moved to this city on January 1, 1998.

Amazingly, looking for a job, an apartment and a relationship are remarkably similar processes. A job interview is often compared to a first date, only without booze or the possiblity of sex (depending on your line of work, I suppose). And looking for an apartment in New York is simultaneously like dating and job hunting. You have to fill out forms and show credentials, like an interview. You risk emotional heartbreak when you realize that the gorgeous apartment/guy you have a wicked crush on is dating/being leased to another woman.

There's also a lot of false advertizing involved in the hunt for employment/housing/lovers. Ads for apartments always have more square footage and "exposures" (New York for "windows") than they really have, in the way that people on online dating sites purport to be taller, younger and much less desperate than they really are. And the job ads always make it sound like the position will specifically not involve changing the toner in the color printer, although this seems to be the central focus of virtually every job in New York.

Even now, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night thinking I'm late to a job interview, or with some confusion as to whose bed I've woken up in. Or, worse yet, I dream that I've showed up late to an open house for a rent stabilized 2BD HWF w/NE XVR.

"So, what do you, like, do with your time," asked one of my still-single friends, "you know, now that you don't date anymore?"

"Oh, you know..." I couldn't come up with an immediate answer. I felt a sudden urge to take up knitting.

It may come as a shock to those of you who read my three-page reports on the ethos of Transformers, but, my friends, I think I have a bit too much free time.

Maybe it’s the back-to-school season, but every year around Labor Day, the desire to bite off more than I can chew rears its ugly head. As a kid, this was the time of year that I insisted on signing up for ballet, soccer and art classes, in addition to (obligatory) violin lessons. A month later, it would occur to me that it is much more enjoyable to go home after school and watch cartoons than to be involved in activities that required talent, exercise, or - worse yet - both.

By November of each year, violin was the only extracurricular activity I couldn’t avoid by faking a sprained ankle. It’s not that I particularly liked playing the violin, but my mom would cry whenever I suggested it wasn’t “for me” - a fact that was abundantly obvious to anyone who heard me play. Neighborhood dogs howled in unison to my consistently sharp E-flats. Much like Britney Spears’ mom, mine remained committed to the noble illusion that sheer tenacity can make up for a complete and utter lack of musical talent.

My mother, who as you might recall is a founding member of a cello trio known as “The Yo-Yo Moms,” remained committed to the belief that I would follow in her musical footsteps, and that I was destined to become a Great Violinist. Which is kind of like the Bush administration insisting that the war in Iraq is going really, really well.

Later, in college, every August I would sign up for 6 classes in totally random subjects, like “Feminist Nihilism and the Victorian Novel” or Yoruba Language & Literature. Then, invariably, the day after the deadline for course refunds, I’d drop at least two classes because they were “too early in the morning” (3:00 PM).

So I've decided to take some classes. The only one I've signed up for so far is Creative Writing in French, which work will pay for. It was the result of an elaborate fantasy involving winning the Prix Goncourt, which is the French equivalent of the National Book Award. Not that I've ever written a book in French. Or English, for that matter.

But, really - how hard could it be? Most contemporary French novels - like French movies - are rather short, and feature lots of of gratuitous sex and existential pondering and bourgeois ennui. The whole "developping a storyline" and "conflict and resolution," and other things that might require discipline are considered small-minded American/capitalist constructions. So I came up with the idea to write an entire novel in the present tense, hence avoiding the inevitable conjugation errors.

Je m'ennui. Je me déshabille devant l'écran de mon ordinateur, tout en pleurant comme un petit singe. Hier. Chez mon comptable, on se fait sauvagement l’amour parterre sur le Wall Street Journal. L'amour n'est qu'une transaction économique ordinaire, n'est pas? L'amour n'est qu'une performance comme les autres. Je suis triste et seule. Et toute nue.

Trans.: I am bored. I take off my clothes in front of the computer screen, crying like a small monkey. Yesterday. At the office of my accountant, we savagely make love on the Wall Street Journal on the floor. Love is but an simple economic transaction, is it not? Love is but a performance like any other. I am sad, and alone. And totally naked.

Ooooooh, yeah. Prix Goncourt, here I come.

Hobbit Fabulous

So, Paul and I have finally figured out where we're moving after New York City. Forget middle America. We're going to fcukin' Middle Earth. Or, for those of you who insist on living in "reality," Middle Oregon. To be specific, "exactly in the middle of Oregon!" as the bumper stickers read in Bend, Oregon, home of "The Shire."

Now, before I go any further, I should offer a full disclaimer: I am a Dork. In my single days, I lived in denial of my dorkitude. This wasn't because I had lost interest in LoTR (if you have to ask what that stands for, well ...), or Star Trek, both original and TNG (again with the "if you have to ask..."). But I knew that if I wanted to occasionally get laid, I had to keep certain things in the closet. And in the drawer in the bedside table, but that's beside the point.

The thing is, guys in New York tend to be self-hating Dorks. Sure, he might have been a level-20 Wizard back in Dayton, but, as they say, what happens in Dayton stays in Dayton.

Let's just say that New York guys are a little too suspicious of women who know what a dilithium chamber is. Or if she knows what's the trouble with a Tribble. But that's nothing compared to a chick who knows the difference between an Orc and a Uruk-hai.

"Urich-who? You mean, the new Austrian handbag designer in NoHo?" This is the only acceptable answer to this question for a single woman in New York. Otherwise, guys will look at you as if you might instantly sprout underam hair and start wearing practical shoes.

Now that I'm married, I'm free to admit it - I've always wanted to live in a Hobbit-themed subdivision. If you ask me, there aren't enough movie-themed housing developments.

Now, clever readers will point out that LoTR (starts with, Lord of ...) was a series of books long before it was a series of movies. But, the aesthetics of "The Shire" houses (and Ye Olde Patio Homes) seem to be heavily inspired by the sets of Peter Jackson's LoTR movies. To be technical, a.k.a., a megadork, the houses - which are not actually holes in the ground - are more like the houses of Bree, the human village nearest to the Shire of Tolkein's Hobbits.

Although no explicit references are made to Tolkein or Peter Jackson's titles, the connection is heavily implied. For instance, in the "neighborhood" section of The Shire subdivision website, one vacant house reads "this is the House of Boramir," (who was a human, not a Hobbit) next to the house of his brother Faramir (also human, albeit less rugged and masculine). Click on a house, and up pops an uncredited movie still of the actors who played Boramir, Faramir and others from the Peter Jackson movies, all of whom "live" in The Shire, perhaps on Copyright Infringement Lane.

It's interesting (taking liberties with the word "interesting") to note that Faramir lives next door to Melilot Brandybuck, who, some of you will remember, is -- a Hobbit. In the real Middle Earth, Hobbits and Humans didn't live next door to each other, because Hobbits liked to keep to themeselves, mostly in the comfortable underground holes where the lived. (Much in the way that many obsessive LoTR fans live in their parents' basement, and only hang around with their high school friends who also still live with their folks at age 34.)

It's important to be as accurate as possible when referencing a history that never existed, for the sake of "consistancy." You know, to keep the illusion afloat. It's something that people like George Lucas, or White House Press Secretary Tony Snow, must grapple with every day.

All I have to say is that I hope they'll have National Guardsmen posted at the entrance of The Shire, to keep any high school kids who live there from getting beaten to a bloody pulp. It's bad enough they live in a town called "Bend." Of course, if teenagers in cutesy subdivisions in Florida are any indication, the kids who grow up in The Shire will make Marilyn Manson look like a friggin' Care Bear.

That withstanding, I think we've reached the point in our cultural evolution when this idea of movie-themed housing developments could really take off.

A few ideas:

Transformer Glen. For those of you who may be tuning in from another Planet (shout out to my boys in the Gamma quadrant!), the Transformers are a children's cartoon inspired by the popular toys (or is it the other way around?) of the same name. The Transformers were/are a loose confederation crime-fighting automobiles who could, uh, transform into crime-fighting robots. The noble Autobots were locked in an unending battle with the evil Decepticons, although the motives on either side were never especially clear.

In the cartoon, the Autobots were led by Optimus Prime, an flatbed truck/fighting machine whose motto is "freedom is the right of all sentient beings." According to the official Hasbro site, "it has often been noted that his wisdom is so great he seems to have a deeper understanding of the universe than he lets on."

Again, we have to wonder if Tony Snow isn't confusing U.S. foreign policy with a particularly riveting episode of The Transformers, but that's another matter.

Anyway, the first kids to become obsessed with Transformers are now in their mid-30s. They might be too old to play with action figures, but they sure aren't too old to want to live in one.

Transformer Glen should probably be an apartment complex in New York City. Come to think of it, I think I've already lived there. The living room transforms into a bedroom (Murphy bed) which is also a crime-fighting kitchen! And the kitchen transforms into a bathroom (flimsy door separating the oven from the toilet)!

Similarly, an L.A. developper might pick up on Blade Runner Estates, an industrial wasteland-themed complex with no trees or nature, but I'm not sure how they'd tell the difference between that and any other apartment building in the Valley.

Personally, I'm holding out for Enterprise Acres. If my address could be on NCC-1701 D Place, at the corner of Tribble Lane, my life would pretty much be complete.

The bomb in the baby carriage is wired through the FroYo

Last week, I learned that watermelon-scented lip gloss may be used to hijack an airplane. Or else the TSA is a secret subsidiary of the Estee Lauder Corporation, which, personally, I'm starting to suspect.

Our flight to Maui left at 6 in the morning, so of course Paul and I were at JFK by 3:54 a.m. Paul insists on getting to the airport several hours before a flight, which is an entirely new experience for me. Before Paul (B.P.), I was accustomed to running through airports as if being chased by a tiger, usually still wearing my clothes from the night before, no matter how inappropriate for international travel that sequined skirt may have been. Most of the time, I got to the gate only seconds before (or after) the door was sealed.

Paul likes to leave early for the airport, in case there's a line at security, or if we run into traffic, or if the taxi gets a flat tire, or if we get caught in a sudden blizzard (in July) or if aliens choose that particular morning to make their presence known on earth. This time, we got there so early, the security people hadn't even arrived. Unfortunately, neither had any of the people who open up the shops that I never knew existed at the airport, because I used to run past them so fast.

So I thought we were prepared. We knew that all liquids were forbidden in carry-on bags, in reaction to the attempted hijacking in London a few weeks ago. So I'd checked and double checked my bags to make sure I didn't have any shampoo, hair gel, or liquid nitrogen, which, like most women, I usually carry arond in my purse (but you can never find these things when you need 'em, right girls?). It's bad enough to have to go for 12 hours without my can of flammable acetone (it's a kind of security blanket; never mind).

Anyway, I thought I was in the clear. Then, going through security, my bag set off an alarm. I assumed it was my firearm, or the samuri sword I like to carry around for good luck. But no. After 15 minutes of searching, the TSA agent uncovered the contraband. It was a Juicy Tube.

"Yeah, this has to go," said a TSA agent, looking at me as if I were a sick criminal mastermind.

"But - but! It's neon pink!" I was on the verge of tears. It was my favorite. "And scented!"

The Juicy Tube glosses all smell like some non-specific, wholly imaginary fruit. That is, it smells how we imagine fruit would taste in a cartoon version of the Universe, in the way that "grape" bubble gum has nothing to do with the taste of an actual grape.

Trying to reason with the TSA agent, I was careful not to use the word "bomb," because I've heard that they can detain you for even using the word in a sentence, such as, "Do you seriously think anyone would make a fruit-flavored, hot pink bomb? I've heard of a sex bomb, but this is ridiculous. Who would do such a thing? The Mary Kay Liberation Front?"

Then, things got even worse.

"Sorry. This, too." That's when I saw it. The TSA agent was holding my tube of Lip Plumper. As if in slow motion, I watched as he put it in a little basket for things that must be Taken Away.

"Noooooooooo!" I said, sounding a bit like Darth Vader at the end of the latest Star Wars movie.

"But - but! It cost $42! Plus tax!"

This seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. As if anyone who would spend $42 (plus tax!) on lip gloss is clearly capable of doing very bad things.

Of course, Lip Plumper is a substance that seems to arouse suspicion in most men, even men who don't work for the TSA.

Those of you (yes, both of you) who read this blog might remember how excited I was to get my tube of 24/7 Lip Plumper, which, according to Paul, makes me look like I've been eating goat meat, which may or may not be a bad thing. I have to confess that of all the things in my bag, this one might actaully include ingredients that might be used to make a primative (yet stylish!) bomb.

At least the female TSA agent was a bit nicer about it. She gave me the look that parents sometimes give their kids when the family's incontinent, temperamental Rotweiler is about to go "live on a farm."

"Don't worry," she said, "we have lots of them in the back." I think she meant that I wasn't the only one who lost lip gloss that morning, but it was little consolation.

As we were leaving security, it occured to me that I had just lost over $60 worth of lip gloss (plus tax!). For a brief second, I wondered if it was karmic punishment for spending my money on such frivolous things. This might have been an opportunity to re-evaluate my fundamental values and priorities. Instead, I went to the first shop I saw and bought a new pair of sunglasses, even though I had two other pair with me. It felt pretty darn good.

We changed planes at Chicagao O'Hare, where things got even weireder. It was an 8 and a half hour flight, so I asked the lady at the gate if we could bring food on the plane.

"Food, yes. But no yogurt."

Ah, that'll show the terrorits! The crafty folks at the Department of Vaterland, I mean, Homeland Security saw through the plot to make an explosive devise out of a FroYo.

Before the boarding call, the same airline employee, a bewildered-sounding middle aged woman with her security badge attached to a Chicago Bears neck string, made the announcement to all the passengers.

"Yeah, ahhh ... no beverages allowed on the plane. You can bring food, but no beverages. And no yogurt. And no, uh ... uh ...."

In the dead air, you could hear her mentally searching for an adjective meaning "yougurt-like." She and I simultaneously concluded that this word probably doesn't exist.

"... No yogurt-like substances," she continued, authoritatively. "You know. Pudding? Uh ... Jello?"

It occured to me that I had never heard, or expected to hear, the words "yogurt-like substances" over a P.A., in the context of a domestic security warning.

And, at this point, all passengers had passed through security, where they had theoretically been stripped of all hazardous items (e.g., Juicy Tubes). So, the yogurt bomb would have to be an inside job. I guess they're on to "Juan" bin Laden over at the "I Can't Believe it's Yogurt!" stand.

Of course, the real question is: does this make us any safer? Or does it just provide a false sense of security? I mean, really - what percentage of the lip gloss/hair gel/"SweeTarts Squeez Candy Tubes" collected at the airport contain any substances more dangerous than High Fructose Corn Syrup (which is plenty dangerous, but for entirely separate reasons)? I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "nero."

The fact is, they only scan about half the bags that are checked in, because the airports don't have enough x-ray machines. I would prefer that they divert some of the time and money devoted to the Yogurt Patrol to checking a few of those bags. But then, it wouldn't be a public spectacle, designed to convey a clear message: be afraid. Be VERY afraid. Even harmless things, such as yogurt, are now potentially sinister. Coincidentally, it's almost election time. But I think we've all learned a very valueable lesson: if you don't vote Republican, those bad people with the uranium in their Jell-o Pudding Cups are going to come and kill you and your kids and your grandma and your little dog, too.

Making us get rid of our lip gloss isn't making us safer. It's just making us uglier.

All I have to say is, if the women of America can't even go around with their lips glistening as if they've been eating goat meat - well, that means the terrorists have already won.