I still watch NBC’s “Meet the Press” almost every week. It is one of few remaining venues for hard hitting, nonpartisan breakdowns of the day’s issues. That said, I am less than enthused about replacement host David Gregory, though he has occupied the seat once held by the inimitable Tim Russert for nearly a year. Gregory is competent sure, but his somewhat whiny and nagging interview style just doesn’t hold up against the alternately benevolent/attack dog beauty of the departed Mr. Russert.

I was satisfied when Tom Brokaw became the interim host of the program after the untimely death of Mr. Russert in 2008. Who doesn’t esteem Brokaw, especially during an election cycle? However, Brokaw inevitably shuffled back into semi-retirement. So things have changed and the new “Meet the Press” may never get me as jazzed as it once did. And yet, the show continues to carry the clout required to book high profile names each and every week.

Yesterday’s episode was a dessert buffet for Boop. Our current Secretary of State, Hillary Rodham Clinton, appeared on the program, of course, to discuss the number of pressing foreign policy issues facing our nation: Iran, North Korea, Afghanistan, and for those who forgot this quagmire is still going on, Iraq. Of course, Gregory grilled Clinton on Obama’s current health care war, though it is a domestic issue, becuase of the Secretary’s own belly flop in the fight for change in that area in the mid 90s.

True, I do not hide my love for Madame Clinton under a bushel. I think she’s fabulous. So well spoken, never stutters, never goes off message, never gets tricked by pundits into saying things she doesn’t want to. The lady is a true pro, a veteran of the political game for decades in a variety of remarkable positions. Ok, I know the election is over. At one point, I took Obama’s nomination over Hills very hard. Though I believe you can tell I have since come around.

But there’s one decision made in the course of the 2008 campaign from which I have not recovered. I, like so many Democratic party supporting women, wanted Hillary for VP. As I watched her professional grace and je ne sais quoi at work on “Meet the Press,” I thought of the week in media for our current Vice Prez, Joe Biden. You know, the guy who is aware that Obama is trying to push the “reset” button in our relationship with Russia, yet ran off at the mouth (again), declaring the former Soviet nation to be out of touch and “unsustainable?” Yeah – that genius. Believe me, I have tried very hard to get over Obama’s political tactic of choosing Biden as his running mate during the campaign. At the time, I understood that Obama needed to answer the recurring charges of inexperience with a gray haired sidekick.

But as the last 6-7 months have played out, I ask you America, what else has our VP done other than create sound bite problems for our new president? Seriously, what? Because maybe I am not aware of Biden’s early greatness, too distracted by his foolhardy claims that the young administration “misread” the economy and other such malarkey.

I have been down, and rather avoiding life, since I came back from my Pilates class on Friday and curled up into a fetal position on the couch. The sudden chill in the summer air reflected the emptiness I felt in my own heart, and the two environments definitely fed off each other.

I am willing myself back to life today. I have a very busy workweek ahead, and this afternoon, I am welcoming a dear friend to my home. That would be Theresa, my former college co-hort. What a pair we made at old U. of I. from 1996 to 2000.

T lived in the same dorm as I in the Fall of 1996, FAR, also known as the Florida Avenue Residence Hall. The housing project-like building meant we didn’t have much chance to get acquainted at home, seeing as we lived on different floors. No, we formed our bond instead working at the Wendy’s in Campustown. Sadly, this landmark is no longer present, but I remember it fondly. Not only do I love Wendy’s food, it was also my first real job (not counting babysitting and volunteer work). It felt sort of neat to earn my own way. I was, at the time, paid $4.75 an hour for my work, minimum wage in ’96.

As all freshman years tend to be, mine was a volatile and painful experience. I fell hard for the first time with another guy who worked at Wendy’s, James, a 24 year-old brooding, recovering drug addict. When he broke my heart, as all but me rightly expected, it was Theresa, with her Wiccan practices and black lipstick, who took me under her wing. I am forever grateful.

As the years passed, Theresa and I got an apartment together, got drunk and threw a Chambana legend of a Halloween party. I was there when she fell for her now husband Jake, the birth of her two sons (fine, I wasn’t literally there for that – Boop doesn’t do blood), and she was there when I announced that I’d be flying to India to marry my own soulmate. 13 years of friendship.

I have no idea where the day/evening will take us, but consider yourself on notice Chicago. It is not often that Theresa can step away from her hectic life minus hubby and kids. With Eddie gone as well, we might have a mild version of 30-something Girls Gone Wild, before we wake up with hangovers and remember why people over 20 do not drink Natty Ice.