I’ve been completely exhausted by the time I get the kids in bed and I honestly don’t think I could do 24-7 parenting by myself for more than a week or two. He really does do a lot around here (that I probably take for granted more than I should) and right now I REALLY appreciate it. I need to tell him that.

It has been a bumpy year for us. Some of you probably know what that vague statement means and others perhaps don’t. For what it’s worth, we’re doing good these days. Better.

Happy 14th to us :)

Jayne is talking breezily about how Sasha had her first set of false nails glued on at eight, and now enjoys the sort of rigorous beauty regime - hair extensions, fake tans, pedicures - that was once the preserve of porn stars and Dolly Parton, not school children… ‘All the kids are at it now,’ insists Jayne. ‘We spend about £300 a month on beauty treatments for her.”

‘People say she looks like Barbie’ - Jayne is so proud of her daughter’s success. Ask Sasha how she sees herself and she replies: ‘Blonde, pretty, dumb - I don’t need brains.’ Her mum laughs her head off at this, proud that the child is so like her. After our interview, Jayne will be taking Sasha to cheerleading classes, in a further bid to realise that all-American dream.

I’m pretty sure no commentary from me is needed as the photos pretty much speak for themselves, yes?

You can read the entire article here.

[via Piglet]

———————

Any Tampanians in the house? Planning on visiting Tampa any time in the next decade? Are you a really nice person who would go and read something just because you totally effing rule?

If you meet any of the above criteria, please go read my post, Tampa Bay: 50 Things to Do with Your Kids Before They Grow Up. It got posted the day before BlogHer so nobody probably even saw it and God knows I wouldn’t want Isabel (whom I just saw in BlogHer pix and holy crap — she’s BEAUTIFUL) to regret throwing me a bone over at AlphaMom.

(And hey — even if you have no interest in Tampa, they have the same kind of post for several other cities, one of which might be yours!)

click to enlarge

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But I’m back home now and have resumed my usual routine of buttwiping, cooking avoidance and work. Mingling with Hollywoodlians was fun but I was anxious to get back to my humble abode.

So anyway, on Thursday night, I was trying to to pick up the video feed from The People’s Party but it never came online.

However, I did spend at least an hour chatting with other non-BlogHerettes and it was a lot of fun so we came up with the idea of hosting a weekly (or possibly bi-weekly) blogger chat every Sunday at 9pm-ish EST.

Sunday night Blogger Chat details:

URL: http://www.chatzy.com/735818165306

Password: bloggerchat

Time: 9-11pm EST

Note: Anyone is welcome. You DO NOT need to register or log in to join the chat. Just input your user name and the password “bloggerchat” Then, on the next screen, choose “Join Chat”

Please to be gracing us with your presence!

And speaking of Thursday’s chat, we were quoted on the hilarious Blogtations.

*Props to Rose McGowan for loaning me her hot bod and platform cast boot.

Why I Love Women’s Bodies All women should read this.

China’s All-Seeing Eye China’s biggest factory city is now officially under Big Brother’s thousands of watchful eyes. Is this our future, too?

A Lost Art: Instilling Respect When did parents stop being parents and why are they afraid of their kids? This is something I frequently rant about. Also, reading this book, which is tangentially related. (via Suebob)

Phone Sex ~ The Book Who’s on the other end of the line?

Hey, you in the crib! Hand over that DNA right now! Last April, an obscure bill became a law that allows states to catalog and warehouse your baby’s DNA. Forever. If this doesn’t creep you out, you’re not paying attention.

Hey, look! I wrote this. Maybe it doesn’t suck here as much as I thought it did.

A Heavily-Photoshopped Ann Coulter Marked Down 67% *snicker*

Who would actually use this crap? Putting sour, puckery chemical stuff inside your lady parts so it will be tighter? Um…no thank you. But hey! What about him putting some toxic, chemical-laden, anti-puckery enlargotastic stuff on his man parts? Same difference, right? ( via Feministing)

Believe me, I have vacillated on my decision since I found out my foot was broken and even AFTER I sold my conference pass.

I kept weighing my doctor’s orders to stay off my foot against the amount of fun I imagine I would have and of course, when many a good friend tries to cajole you into changing your mind and lovely, kindhearted folk offer everything from piggyback rides to wheelchair chauffeuring and even others so generously offer to share their rooms… Well, it’s a siren song that is most difficult to resist and even as early as yesterday I was still waffling a bit and trying to convince myself that my foot is SO much better than it was two weeks ago; that a little hilly walking in the fair city of San Francisco and a dash of drunken debauchery and raucous fannypacking (see my Flickr for a few PG-13 examples) would be completely harmless.

Well, after all that, it would seem that maybe this trip was doomed from the start because when I called American Express Travel last night to cancel my flight, I found out that I had no return ticket.

That’s right. I had NO TICKET booked to return home from SF.

This means one of two things — I’m either meant to go to the west coast and never return home (tempting given my scorn for and loathing of Florida) or I wasn’t supposed to go in the first place.

I’m still not completely sure how this happened but I distinctly recall, albeit at about 3:30am, selecting my round trip flights there and back, that the total was about $500, and that that I was using my points to pay for part of the ticket and my credit card to pay the difference. Easy peasy, simple dimple, right?

Apparently not, as my kindly Amex travel rep informed me… It seems that when you go to pay for your ticket, there is some obscure button that you must select to indicate that you are paying for a one way, round-trip or multi-destination trip.

I guess I didn’t select the right button — BUT the tip off to this error should have been my itinerary.

Yes, I looked at it. No, the lack of a return flight didn’t register with my sleep-deprived brain. Durrr.

Ultimately, however, my mistake ended up being in my favor because when you cancel a one-way flight, you get a credit with the airlines (minus a HUGE fee) that you can use at any time for any flight in the next year.

If I had canceled a round-trip ticket, I could only use the ticket for the exact same flight — same departure and arrival times, airports and stop overs. The chances of me using that ticket would have been pretty slim and it’s non-transferable so I couldn’t even sell it. My mistake actually kind of saved me a lot of money.

The silver-lining? The money for the ticket came from my Amex points so it didn’t cost me any actual Benjamins and I have a $64 credit with the airline.

I suppose I could have a different attitude and cry over my 25,000 lost points but something tells me that with so many obstacles being put in my way, I simply wasn’t meant to go.

And when the universe talks? I listen.

But the rest of you lucky betches with your two good feet tucked neatly inside covetworthy new shoes — have an awesometastical time, take many pictures of yourselves making many toasts in my honor at the party that I’m supposed to be *sniff* co-hosting, drink lots of water before bed with Sudafed* and for the love of all things good and decent, NO DRAMA, okay?

Promise?

xoxo

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*Sudafed is a guaranteed hangover cure but it has to be the kind you get from behind the counter at the pharmacy, not the weak, useless kind sold straight off the shelf.

AHHHHHHHH YEAH!

So the other night, while scratching my foot and ankle with a letter opener, my holy-shit-stop-the-itching-madness tool of choice, it occurred to me that scratching an itch of this variety is quite possibly the best feeling IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

I started making a mental list of things that are physically pleasurable — sex (duh), going pee after you’ve been holding it for a long time, stretching, doing anything while taking ecstasy (Oh hai — teh drugs are bad! Turns you dumbz! JUST SAY NOES!) and quite frankly, the under-the-cast scratch is definitely in the top five, possibly number one. This was confirmed by the huz, who walked by while I was on the bed scratching with the letter opener, and noted that I looked very uh…happy. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate — unless you’re under twelve, in which case, you shouldn’t be reading this blog anyway as it’s at least PG-13.

All odes to pleasurable foot-scratching aside, this very morning I happened to see a woman squatting down behind a bus stop bench peeing. Well, I don’t have actual evidence that she was peeing but her pants were down and really, short of peeing or pooping (Sorry, I just really gross out on pooping euphemisms like ‘taking a dump’, ‘pinching a loaf’ etc. We keep it real around here when it comes to bowel movements. TYVM for understanding) what the hell else would she be doing squatting with her pants down? And why right there? There are no shortage of bushes, dumpsters and backs of buildings around as perfectly acceptable (well, LESS unacceptable) places to go relieve yourself if you’re the outdoorsy type. I did consider that maybe she was afraid of missing her bus. BUT STILL.

And then I felt bad for judging her behavior as totally f*cked up. Maybe she had a REALLY GOOD reason for peeing right there in front of oncoming traffic. Then I recanted my feeling badness and just decided that it was gross and unsavory and definitely needed to be blogged because really, other than the time my BFF and her boyfriend saw something really bizarre in a similar locale involving a pantsless woman, a gas station water hose and a crying man — holy mother o’ jeebus, I can’t even begin to explain it — how often does one encounter random people relieving themselves roadside? And the turnpike doesn’t count. I’ve seen dozens of people peeing off the turnpike. The difference is that they thought they were being discreet in the woods with their butts turned to the highway. THEY MADE THE EFFORT. The bus stop woman? Not so much.

I also saw a little boy of about 3 or 4 peeing at the park the other day. Just standing there with his dad, peeing. No tree. No building wall. Just a-peeing right there in the mulch. It was still nasty but somehow more excusable a) because he was really little and we all know little kid pee is less gross Oh, stop with the faces already. It’s TRUE. and b) he wasn’t on the side of major city thoroughfare.

The takeaway from today’s post? Under-cast scratching is almost better than sex, peeing on the side of the road is NASTY and f*cking holy hell!!!!! I just caught my 187 yr old totally-litter-trained-forever cat peeing under my husband’s desk

WHY DID THE PEE THEME HAVE TO BECOME PERSONAL?

WHYYYY??????

Dammit.

My foot is still broken and it actually hurts more than it did last week. I don’t know, something just tells me that when you take your first step of the morning, feeling like someone is stabbing you in the top of the foot with a red-hot nail isn’t a good sign. But alas, I continue to hobble around (actually it’s more like lumbering but hobbling sounds slightly less unattractive, don’t you think?) and I’ve even gotten up the nerve to drive but it’s just with my toes and thus, I must drive like an old lady and break waaaaaaay before I need to stop.

So how was your 4th of July? Mine was the same as it’s been for the last few years. We go to the top of a hospital parking garage and watch fireworks over the bay. When my son was about 5 weeks old, we wanted to be near the bay to watch fireworks but all these dipshits kept shooting off firecrackers and I’m all HELLO? Mom with newborn is going RIP YOUR FACE OFF if you light another firecracker within 300 feet of us. My husband could see my own hormonally-charged fuse getting dangerously short so he hustled us away from there and spotted the hospital parking garage right down the street (where my son was born AWWWW!) Now we go there every year, along with a gazillion other people. But see, because it’s right there at the hospital? NO FIRECRACKERS.

Have I mentioned that I’m like a cranky old person when it comes to fireworks at the consumer level? I HATE THEM and I despise all the easily amused idiots (This is Florida. Need I say more?) in my neighborhood that insist on shooting off the really loud mortar-type fireworks until 2 in the morning. I seethe for hours and my kids don’t sleep and seriously…every year I hope against hope that someone will injure themselves playing with that stuff so that there will be one less asswipe to fantasize about running over with the momvan. Tomorrow I’m going to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn while shaking my cane at them (or in my case, a crutch) and then go for the early bird special at the Piccadilly Cafeteria, braking excessively with my big toe all the way there…

Saturday morning: It is, however, the bitter new occupant of this rather ugly, awkward and dreadfully ginormous cast.

Saturday evening:

Note the progression from merely chubby foot to slightly bruised and casted foot to totally purple and hideous casted foot.

Diagnosis: partial fracture and two heinously torn ligaments, compliments of a seemingly harmless little accident.

Forgive my naked and unfashionably hyper-cropped toenails. Once the cast was on and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a pedicure next week in honor of BlogHer 08, I cut them super short.

Which reminds me… I’ll be wearing this stupid thing for the next 4-6 weeks and I’m not supposed to walk on it for more than a few minutes at a time unless using crutches (which I officially hate), need to keep it elevated, blah blah blah — so I can’t go to BlogHer this year.

I suppose I could guilt some of you into waiting for me as I hobbled ten feet behind you everywhere we went. Maybe one of you would even be so kind as to carry all my shit so I could use the hated crutches.

But I really don’t want to be that person so I’m going to stay home and live vicariously through Twitter.

And? I’m selling I’ve sold my 2 day full conference pass for the bargain price of $200. They’re currently going for $298 so it’s not a bad deal.

I considered giving it away but dude…we have a ridiculously high deductible on our shitass HSA (health savings account) and thus none of my treatment was covered. I owe BIG! bucks for this fun-filled suckstravaganza.

So help a sistah out and buy my 2 day conference pass. Hell, make me an offer!

Or if you don’t need a pass, perhaps you’d consider mentioning my little fire sale on your blog? Surely someone out there still needs one. Think of all the good karma you’ll be racking up :)

(And just so you know…I’m really sad about not being able to go. I’ll miss ya’ll)

After jumping through eleventeen hundred hoops that included one trip to the pediatrician, twenty days of antibiotics (for a sinus infection that was causing his eardrum to retract), a formal audiology evaluation that indicated my son is not, in fact, partially deaf, mountains of paperwork and numerous requests for things like birth and medical records, we finally went for the BIG speech eval today.

I don’t need anyone to tell me the child needs some intervention in the way of speech therapy. I also don’t need anyone to tell me that in spite of his sometimes unintelligible speaking, my son is whip smart and has excellent receptive language skills — meaning he understands everything we say — and apparently his vocabulary level is extremely high. He gets that from me ;)

Unfortunately, articulation was the last part of the 3+ hour evaluation and we ran out of time. Without including the articulation score being factored in, he ranks one percentage point above the number in which therapy would be recommended.

This means that even though the speech pathologist can clearly see that he needs help, she is required to go by the numbers. If she decides, based on some criteria I’m not aware of, that taking the articulation part of the eval on another day isn’t necessary and thus doesn’t have a number to factor into the overall score, he will be refused interventional speech therapy BY ONE PERCENTAGE POINT.

After all the BS we had to go through to get there, it hardly seems right to score the kid without completing what I would consider the most critical part of the whole thing.

Quite frankly, the vibe I got is that they systematically refuse anyone who doesn’t have a severe disability. And if that’s the case, then WHY refer him for the eval in the first place? It’s obvious his issues are not severe.

I don’t want to jump the gun and get all pissed off just yet because maybe she WILL call us and ask us back to finish the test, but if she doesn’t? I WILL BE LIVID.

The woman kept asking me what my concerns were and I tried to tell her that my concern is that he will not be able to communicate with his peers or teacher in preschool and that at three years of age, he should be able to have a basic conversation, which he cannot. Is this not a valid concern?

I told her that there is no way he could have attended in the preschool program my daughter was in at 3 yrs. because the ability to communicate was an absolute necessity.

She gave me a bunch of “Yeah, but…”

Yeah but nothing. I know my child and I know, as he is right now, that he isn’t ready for preschool.

But keeping him home? How is that going to help him?

Putting him in a class of two year olds? How is THAT going to help him?

Of course, if we had better insurance or were independently wealthy, I could just take him to a speech pathologist myself and skip all this shite. But we don’t and we’re not.

Mood: IRRITATED

——

In other news, I got a bread machine (AKA the best invention ever for people who detest cooking)! I know I’m about a decade late to the party but dude, I’m SO excited! It’s a Cuisinart Convection model and I can’t WAIT to get baking because, IMHO, one can never have too much bread in their diet. MOARRRR CARBS!!!!!!!!

Hello, homemade raisin bread and cheese bread and pizza dough and cinnamon rolls. I can’t wait to eat you up. NOM NOM NOM NOM!!!!!!!

It’s surrounded with a chainlink fence but the ground isn’t level so the ducks can squeeze under it and wander around in the little grassy area where people like me go to feed them. I go there, as opposed to other ponds, because there are always a bazillion ducks there while the other ones are hit or miss and nothing spells disappointment like kids all hopped up to feed ducks that aren’t there.

So I brought a bunch of stale bread and we proceeded to feed these gorgeous ducks and their ducklings, a few pigeons, these tall white birds with pink beaks and one odd small black duck-like creature with a bright red beak.

While we were there, an elderly couple came up and were watching us feed the ducks and talking to us. The woman went to the grocery store next door to get them some bread of their own while the man and I made small talk under a shady tree and P gave the last of his bread to the baby ducks.

I don’t know how we got on the subject but somehow we started talking about the environment and in his thick accent (Austrian or perhaps Swedish?) the man, who had to have been at least 70, noted that because of decades of rampant and unchecked use of poisons and chemicals, we rarely see frogs or butterflies anymore; that we’ve ruined the earth in the quest for financial gain.

Of course, this isn’t news to me and I was totally nodding my head in agreement when he said he fears for his grandchildren and he doesn’t want to imagine what life on earth will be like in thirty years. The sadness in his voice was palpable

We continued to talk and it seemed so odd that I would make this man’s acquaintance and that we would have this common ground. No offense, but I generally find older people, especially ones like my MIL, who has lived a life of privilege, to be completely clueless and apathetic about the things he and I were talking about so it made the experience a tad surreal.

When his wife came back, our focus turned back to the ducks and we eventually parted ways but his sad words are still echoing in my ears.

Or feed read me.

Or allow me into your inbox.

Have I told you lately that I love you?

For reals.

I love you people who take time out of your lives to read my drivelings. I love you in that abstract “I love you, man” beer commercial kind of way — but that doesn’t render the sentiment any less sincere.

Lately, however, I’m just…

I don’t know.

How do I say this?

I’m not feelin’ it.

How is it that one can feel so stifled by a creative endeavor of their own making?

Where’s the fun?

I really don’t want to sit here and whine about blogging because nobody MAKES me do it. And honestly, the blogging gods have been very, very good to me.

It’s just that I don’t sit down and write anymore.

Now I just wait around for inspiration to strike, which would account for my only posting 1-2x per week these days. And let me tell you — it’s not easy being slave to inspiration. She’s an extremely cruel mistress at times.

So why is this, I ask myself? Is my life any less blogworthy than it’s ever been?

Hell no. And if I told you what happened yesterday in the thrift store, you’d totally concur — my days are rife with bloggable material.

Part of me feels like there is just nothing new under the sun when it comes to blogging. I remember when everything was so new and every day was like unwrapping a present. Such excitement!

These days, I feel like no matter what I’m thinking of saying, I’ve either already said it or someone else has or it’s something too personal to share with the entire world, particularly now that my kids are getting older and my eldest can read.

Again, I feel stifled — like I can’t just post five lines of whateverness. Or those “random” thoughts we bloggers are so fond of. No. There has to be a point. Or a moral to the story. Or it has to at least be amusing. There has to be some meat on that bone…

So why these ridiculous standards? I have no idea.

I mean I do have some standards that actually make sense to me… For example, on this blog I will not shill for free stuff (excluding trips because those are an experience). This is MY blog. A memoir, of sorts, of MY life. I don’t want to look back on my life via my blog and find my thoughts on some free cleaning products or cereal or whatever. I’m not knocking it. It’s just not for me.

I think that’s a reasonable standard, no?

However, this other self-imposed thing? I hate it. And thus, I kind of don’t enjoy writing as much as I once did.

Oh, how I wish… How I wish I was one of those people who doesn’t care one whit what other people think…

No…I’m not going to threaten to close my blog. There will be no contrived drama here. If ever do decide to, it will be quick and clean. I despise long goodbyes.

But I am going to try something new.

From this point forward, I’m just going to write what I want regardless of whether it meets some silly criteria based on what I think I *should* be doing. More me. Less pressure. I know for a fact that some of you can relate to this.

It’s a hard habit to break but I have to do it. And if it ruins my blog in the process, at least I’ll know I was true to myself. I can hang it up with no regrets and put my energy into other pursuits.

Another time, we were reading the instructions for something and they said “Do not allow children to mucky-muck, owing to small parts.” Just another wacky example of inaccurate translating…

Judging by the photos below, the same could be said about translating the text and concepts on products and signs from Chinese(?) to English. Something has definitely gotten lost in the translation.

(I don’t know who to credit for amassing these pics but they appear to have come from Engrish.com, so thanks to them for the chuckle.)

Here Crippie, you can have my seat.

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The dork is delicious, not too sure about the barboo…

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Time Limit for Teenage Boys: 15 seconds

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Where the emo kids shop…

Weird, because horsebeans sound delicious.

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I wouldn’t tickle this one!

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Starbucks should be very afraid…

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Mother gets her anus hair done here!

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TWO DOLLARS? In America, we abuse our plastic for free!

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Look up and down the aisle twice before proceeding…

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Much tastier that the grown-up variety…

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Not nice. Some of my best friends are liquor heads.

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Go over there to die, please. Thank you.

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You ain’t gonna find it there, I assure you…

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Sounds better than canned water, doesn’t it?

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All sauces are now suspect….

I should note that the poor little tyke had been screwed out a proper birthday celebration for the previous two years thanks to the all-important family reunion beach thing, put on by the huz’s clan, that we’ve attended for the past 15 years or so.

I like to think of it as “THAT WHICH CANNOT EVER BE HELD AT ANY TIME OTHER THAN THE 25th WEEK OF THE YEAR OR LIFE AS WE KNOW IT SHALL COME TO A SCREECHING HALT!”

See, it just so happens that mah precious babay’s birthday falls during THE SACRED WEEK and thus, we cannot have a birthday party at home because nobody on the huz’s side would drive their tired asses 25 minutes in from the beach to attend AND IT WOULD BE SELFISH OF US TO ASK THAT…even if it was his first birthday, which is, to most people (like his parents), somewhat of a BIG EFFING DEAL.

So we celebrated his first birthday at the beach and it sucked. It couldn’t have been more of an afterthought but who cares because, you know, HE’LL HAVE ANOTHER BIRTHDAY NEXT YEAR.

Last year was the same kind of nonsense, more or less, and P’s birthday was something of a non-event. We opted not to do the family reunion thing, which was being held 3 hours south, and had a small party with a few close friends. Woo hoo.

This year, I was determined to give P his very own full-fledged kid party and that’s what we did. And it was cool. Everyone had fun. And considering that it was held outside at a park, it wasn’t even that hot. No extended family members were in attendance, as expected, and we didn’t care. It was a great party.

I tried to make the party as green as possible but dude..not as easy as it sounds. We did, however, bring an empty box and collected all the recyclable stuff. Also, I totally broke from standard kid party operating procedure and didn’t give out a treat bag full of useless crap because seriously, does anyone need anymore plastic whistles or mini yo-yo’s or ball-bearing puzzles or tiny bottles of bubbles or themed pencils and erasers or mini-packs of crayons or plastic slinkies floating around in the back seat of their car or in the junk drawer or under their kids’ beds?

I also didn’t have the kids do one of those pre-fab foam crafts, which, no offense, has got to be the stupidest waste of time and resources ever invented. I hate those foam door hangers and visors and crowns etc. that you make them sit down and decorate. I can’t tell you much of that junk has entered my home over the years. Seriously. Cannot stand.

All I sent the kids home with was their booty from the piñata (Smarties and Sweet Tarts) and a punch balloon. Remember those? it’s a big latex balloon with a rubber band handle and you bop it back and forth against your knuckles? Now those? Are a fun parting gift. And they’re latex which is biodegradable. I know…am genius :)

Now, as promised, here’s the short list of what I learned this weekend:

1) Just blow up about a hundred balloons because they were the most coveted thing at the whole damn party. Kids kept accidentally popping them and then asking for more and when there weren’t enough (because they were supposed to be decorations!) there was some balloon-stealing and subsequent fussing going on (this includes the 4, 5 and 7 year olds, too). Next time, I’m just going to pass out a bajillion balloons to the kids and everyone will be happy as shit.

2) Don’t buy anything your kid actually likes for a piñata. Case in point — my son loves trucks and construction equipment so we got him a piñata shaped like a dump truck. Um hello? When your son sees everyone beating the crap out of the piñata shaped like one his favorite things in the world? It’s not going to be pretty. Next time I’m getting one shaped like a snake because when I showed him one outside the other day? He no likey.

3) From now on, I will always make food for the grown-ups. Because the party was at 10am, I made two quiches (one vegetarian, one with sausage and cheese) and they were totally gobbled up. Doesn’t it suck when you go to a party and there’s nothing but kiddie-crap set out to eat?

4) No matter that your son has never seen Cars or Spiderman or Batman, simply because he is a boy, some part of every gift, whether it’s the wrapping paper, gift bag, card or the present itself, will feature the aforementioned marketing juggernauts. It’s, like, a rule.

5) You DON’T have to have a specific theme for a party. I know all the party stores and party supply catalogs would have you believe otherwise but really — you can break that silly rule and nothing terrible will happen. I used party stuff from previous years’ themes (Thomas the Tank Engine and Fire Trucks and some generic red plates and napkins) and picked up a few other things emblazoned with construction equipment and cute frogs and Curious George and we just rolled with the totally unmatchy-matchy anti-theme theme.

6) People do not care how obnoxious certain toys are or how much they make you want to rip your ears off. They will buy them for your child anyway. And then LAUGH about it.

Amazingly, the whole party went off with absolutely no stressing out on my part — a miracle I can probably attribute to a minute dose of physician-prescribed Xanax :)

No way! Did I really just see that?

Indeed you did.

I laid on my horn, rolled down my window and suddenly a sailor took possession of my body, forcing very unladylike things to come flying out of my mouth.

I saw the occupants looking in the side and rear view mirrors.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking to YOU, douchebag! Who the f-ck do you think you are?!

The diatribe continued until the light turned.

I mean, really… Littering. Right there in full view of any number of cars. WHO DOES THAT ANYMORE???

Assholes!

The best part of the movie, for me, was feeling like you were watching the show again which I know is really REALLY dorky but I get attached to TV shows. Some characters are just so well-written that they seem real and when they go away, it’s sad.

I wanted to watch Angela Chase and Jordan Catalano and Brian Krakow and Rayanne Graff (and Graham Chase who was sort of cute/hot for a TV dad) on My So-Called Life forever.

I wanted to watch Hope and Michael and their friends grow old alongside me on Thirtysomething.

I wanted to watch Felicity and Ben and Noel keep messing things up until they faced reality and became a threesome.

I know. Am pathetic.

But the good news is I hardly watch TV at all anymore, save the stray episode of teh awesomest Mystery Diagnosis, a little CNN and of course mah stories on Showtime (Weeds, Dexter & Californication), all of which are on hiatus for what feels like a freaking year at a time. HATINGIT.

I’m sure I’m missing out on some most excellent reality TV and lawd knows I’m practically a pariah for not watching Lost but I’ll make up for whatever network TV fare I missed this year by watching Lipstick Jungle again in the fall. It’s a cheap TV-14 surrogate for SATC but it’s not bad, really.

Hell, I may even become disturbingly attached to the characters and cry when it inevitably gets canceled. Because everything I like gets canceled within four years, you know. I’m like…TV show kryptonite.

Hey! Guess what? We got a scooter! It’s the coolest thing Seriously, SO. MUCH. FUN.

At some point, like riding a bike or driving a car, the novelty will surely wear off but until then, I’m in love. BIG BIG LOVE. (I know someone will probably say real motorcycles are even more fun but I’m new to all this small combustion engine machinery — 50cc’s is all I can handle right now)

We got it to save on gas because I have a Nissan minivan that’s a not-so-mini gas guzzler. We don’t want to sell it (who’d buy it anyway?) because we live in a hurricane state and if we ever need to evacuate, there’s no way 4 people and three cats in carriers are going to fit in my husband’s car.

The plan is he will ride the scooter to work (he comes home for lunch so that’s six trips a day) and I will drive his car, which is much better on gas, and we’ll only use the momvan when necessary. Since school is now out, we’re not carpooling so I don’t need all the extra seating and it will probably be parked most of the summer.

But all the practical stuff and the 123 mpg aside, I love the scooter. I can’t believe I went my whole life without ever riding one. The only thing more fun? Riding a horse as fast as you possibly can.

Yes, I was one of those horsey girls. I still am.

One of my dreams is to live on a farm (organic, natch) with lots of horses. And hired help to clean up after them — because manual labor that involves horse crap? So NOT a part of my dream.

Maybe I should just have friends with horses instead..

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Question for le masses: Has anyone noticed that Claritin makes them kind of um…bitchy? Just wondering.

(Post title courtesy of Christopher Cross, crooner of songs you love to hate)