Will you call Child Protective Services or shall I?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081121/ap_on_en_mu/baby_names_simpson_wentz;_ylt=ApFqZXtFGnY1YlRbX163VAxxFb8C

There's naming your kid something unique. There's naming your kids something unusual. There's even naming your kids something whacky. And then there's just being an asshole.

I know I've ranted about this before. But this just takes the cake. These two simpletons aren't even from the Bronx. And Bronx would be just barely acceptable if the kid's last name wasn't Wentz. Bronx Wentz. Bronx Wentz. It sounds like a goose with asthma. And Mowgli! What kind of douche bag names their kid Mowgli? Hey, I love the Jungle Book too. But I'm not naming a kid Baloo. Even freaking Britney Spears drunk off her ass didn't name her kid MOWGLI.

Wentz, your name is Pete. That sweet baby could have been Pete Jr. PJ. Who doesn't love a PJ? Or even Ashleigh Jr. (spelled the boy way) is boldly unique, but not bizarre. AJ. Or Ash. Nope, we leap frog over these logical, inoffensive alternatives and pick Bronx Mowgli Wentz.

Ugh. Bronx Mowgli Wentz (BMW, double ugh!) you have my deepest sympathies. It's going to be a long haul to 18. Poor baby.

Oh, yes. It's really . . . special.

You know when a friend raves about something, and you just don’t care for? And when it gets beyond raving and not caring for? And you try to be delicate. You try to be supportive. But inside you’re just going “blech”? But if they really truly are over the moon, you bite your tongue, and think of something nice to say. Oh, don't look at me like that. We've all done it.

That’s the way I’m feeling about my beloved Theatre 3 and their inexplicable adoration of Light in the Piazza. I went to see their production in November. And I was deathly silent on the topic. Because, everybody else I know who has seen the show adores it. Thinks it is beyond romance. The story. The music. And T3 itself seems to be really over the moon. They extended the run. They send out bubbly e-mails about it. They are gaga for the Piazza. I’m more eeee-gaga. That show just hits my gag reflex.

If you’re not familiar, it’s the story of an American mother and daughter on vacation in Italy in the '50s. Daughter meets cute an Italian boy and they fall in love. Molto romantico. The wrinkle? The daughter got kicked in the head by a horse as a child (yep, kicked in the head by a horse) and she’s a little slow. The boy and his family don’t notice because evidently all Americans sound a little slow to them. So the mother then has to decide whether to let her daughter follow her heart. Oh, and did I mention that the girl has a tiny bit of an anger management problem as a result of her little accident? Little bit. Ain’t that a kick in the head. So romantic.

Oh, and by the way, the mother never does get around to telling the boy’s parents that their sweet new daughter-in-law has the mentality of an 8-year old. I kept thinking, “Well intentioned family who basically tricks a man into marrying a potentially unstable woman. Isn’t that how Mr. Rochester ended up with a crazy woman locked in the attic of his house? Then she burned the house down?” I really, really tried to see it as romantic. But all I could see was a marriage beginning on a lie. A really, really BIG lie. That could go horribly, painfully, catastrophically wrong leaving nothing but agony for anyone involved. I can’t even think of this as morally ambiguous. It’s just wrong.

But Theatre 3 keeps sending me e-mails about this wonderful, charming, heart warming, funny play that no one in their right mind should miss.

Mm. Yeah.

You're never fully dressed without a hat

I've taken to wearing hats. Not that I'm not a believer in hats as a method of maintaining body temperature. If it's cold, there is a wool hat jammed on my head. Losing all that body heat out of the top of your head may be an old wive's tale. But why take a chance?

But it's not even really cold yet, and I'm kicking down the street with a topper. I saw several people wearing hats on my morning commute, and they just looked so urbane and stylish. I thought "Me too! I wanna be fancy too!" So, I've been digging in my closet, and I've picked up one or two. I've got a black and white driving cap, a gray cadet cap, and green felt flapper hat and a green tweed newsie. And I'm scoping for something like a fedora or a pork-pie.

There's something about the hat. It makes me stand up a little straighter, walk a little swingier. I'm doing a very subtle Miss-Jay-approved sashay. Who says you need to be a 6-foot, 102 pound model to strut it out. Tip that hat a little to the side and you're doing your little turn on the catwalk. Hats are magic.

Bits 'n' Pieces

Warning: do not click on the link if you are delicate about the discussion of a woman's lady-business. Seriously.
http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1859937,00.html

Okay. This article just walks the line between making me giggle nervously and being completely ooked out. Women really go out and get their cooches rebuilt. Wow. I don't even like the idea of a scalpel being in the same room with my lady parts. And that part about getting your G-spot "enhanced" with collagen. How exactly does the collagen get applied? A needle? Ah, hell no. Not happening.

I just don't get it. Don't women have enough things to get insecure about? They have to add in a part of their body that, statistically speaking, very few people will ever even see. Assuming you're not in certain professions. I can understand the part about getting things, um, rearranged, if it's actually causing discomfort. But just for looks? I mean, how often does someone stand in a line up, so that comparisons can be drawn? In my experience, not often. And people who actually take pictures of their bits and send them to a website asking for criticism? I can't even process a response to that. "Oh, no, girl. Yours are cute. Look at mine."

Some days, I think we've come a long way, baby. Some days I just think we're wandering around without a clue.

How do I get on this guy's route?

http://www.newsobserver.com/news/crime_safety/story/1301068.html

He avoided jail time for not delivering junk mail? Hell, I think they should be giving him a parade.

Confidential to my letter carrier: Throw it away. I'll never tell.

Mmmmmm. Full tummy.

So we have the office Thanksgiving potluck today. I did my newly re-dubbed Hippie Caviar (it's like Texas Caviar, just adding in a little quinoa for that hippie-freak flair. Oh, stop giving me that look. It's good.). It all looked nice. Some homemade. Some store bought. Nothing really suspect looking (and why do people bring that kind of stuff to a potluck? I don't care if sheep's nipples in aspic is your specialty. Nobody wants to see that next to the coleslaw.).

I ate well. Isn't it funny that even though you've had plenty, a big spread will just put you into Thanksgiving mode? I just leaned back on my chair and thought, "No, where's my zert?" Doesn't matter if you've eaten more than you normally would in a day. There's always room for punkin pie.

Review of Australia

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20081119/review_nm/us_film_australia;_ylt=Ak7CMR9Rtv0narRbumdp4.s9FRkF

And I quote: "a particularly blatant shot of bare-chested Jackman lathering up under the shower."

Did somebody just take all the oxygen out of the room. Can't think. Brain shutting . . . down. Must . . .

Okay, I'm back. Let me just state for the record that I think Hugh Jackman is a fine actor with a remarkable stage presence and I respect him greatly. Even standing bare-chested in a shower all lathered up with soap and dripping . . . oh, my.

And I'm a big Baz Luhrman fan. From as far back as Strictly Ballroom. In fact, I just like Aussie cinema. They really have their own thing going on down there. So, I'm looking forward to seeing this movie for a number of reasons. In spite of the every creepier Nicole Kidman (Step away from the Botox, honey. You're starting look like Madame Tussaud's best work.). Anyhoo, it sounds like a Must See on the Big Screen experience to me. Soap!

Drive me crazy

I'm hearing a lot of moaning about the idea of bailing out the car companies. And I do get it. The American auto industry has been doing stupid ass sh,um,stuff for longer than even the financial institutions. The whole SUV thing? Dumb. Really dumb. Honestly, they do deserve to go down in flames.

But it's irrelevant. For one reason, and one reason alone. And it's not to bolster the economy. It's not to fend off The Great Depression Part Deux. Quite simply, if Barack Obama is going to make good on his plan to reduce our dependence on non-renewable energy sources, he's going to need the auto industry on board. Granted, they should have been on board all along. But they're greedy corporate blood suckers. And greedy corporate blood suckers don't get on board out of the goodness of their hearts. They get on board because there's a gun to their heads. Well, gentlemen, let me introduce Mssrs. Smith and Wesson. Also known as Chapter 11. Start making energy efficient cars, or die.

Or at least that should be part of the deal. If the American tax-payer is going to pull those idiots' collective nuts out of the fire, I think we need to get something back. And if I'm ever going to achieve my dream of owning a car that runs on banana peels and moonbeams, this is the time to a firmly apply a boot to the ass of the auto industry.

A simple plan becomes less simple

So, I’ve been doing the eating every 2 hours or so thing. And I’d say, overall, it’s been a fairly good experience. I don’t get the blood sugar crashes and my energy seems to be more consistent than on the 3-squares a day plan. It doesn’t seem to help with sugar cravings or weight management, but that’s a little much to ask, given that we are talking about me. I’d say for my body type, this seems to be a good plan.

Except.

Here’s the catch: Once you get used to eating small meals frequently, when you go past your limit, watch out. It’s like something else takes over. A Tasmanian Devil or a Langolier. Last night, I had errands to run and was at about 3 ½ hours past my last meal. And it hit me. This crazed need for food. An angry and crazed need for food. I pulled into the Taco Cabana and nearly grabbed the counter girl by the neck and growled “Give me food now or I will eat my own arm and make you watch!” I was able to maintain a civilized veneer. Counter Girl may not even have suspected what a close call she had.

But I ordered waaaaay too much food. When you’re that out of control hungry, there are no breaks on that little bobsled. You’re ordering anything that sounds good. And it all sounds good. And it probably all should be topped with queso. I would have mentally added up the calories as I drove away, but I was already trying to steer and break into the chip bag at the same time. There were only so many processes my brain could handle at the time. Probably just as well.

So obviously, I need to start carrying an emergency stash in my purse. Something shelf stable, that won’t get easily crushed or melt under variable purse conditions. Hmmm. That’s going to take a little thought. But it’s worth the effort. Going all Langolier at the Taco Cabana is not something I want to make a regular occurrence.

Been to the Hell Mouth and Back

I started out moderately intrigued by the Twilight books. Love the cover art. And mmmmm. Vampires? Yes, please.

But there were so many books to read, and it never seemed to show up at the Halfie, so I never quite got around to it. Then there was going to be a movie. Why bother reading when I can be spoon-fed the entire story in under 2 hours? [Don’t give me that look. It’s YA vamp lit. It’s not like I opted to watch the Great Gatsby instead of reading the book.] Film away. I’ll wait.

But then I started hearing from other people who read the book. And the commercials seem to be reinforcing the opinions I'm hearing. It appears that our brave heroine isn’t all that brave. In fact, she spends a lot of time being menaced and getting saved. And the commercial just reinforces it. Tall, dark and platelet-poor boy says “I feel the need to protect you” to thin, pale and damselish girl. Oh, really, O-neg breath? The fangs and the blood mustache indicate that you’re not really qualified for the “protector” role.

Seriously. Once we’ve been to Sunnyvale, can we really go back? The only man Buffy Summers needed to protect her was Mr. Pointy. Cause she knew that even though your dreamy dead-guy boyfriend may be able jump in and dust the menacing fang case for you, but he can also decide you look yummy. And not in the good way. Sometimes, you can scream and scream, but the only one around to drive that stake in is you. Girls who stand around wilting while they wait to be saved end up Happy Meals on Legs.

So thanks much, Stephanie Meyer. We learned that every girl’s a Slayer. Except evidently your little shrinking violet. Yawn. Not interested.

My Leaky Little Boat

Ugh. Just one of those weekends. Felt like I was bailing from start to finish. Wash this, scrub that, stop for Tai Chi class, tote that barge, lift that bale, run to this part of town, now run back to the other end, and did you forget to do this – oh, crap – run back to the beginning and start all over again.

Then I slept in until 10 on Sunday morning. Missss-take. I felt like I’d wasted a bunch of my weekend. MY weekend, and the Sand Man is just frittering it away.

And it wasn’t like I ever got that boat even close to bailed. No matter how much I accomplished, I was still up to my knees in the briney stuff. Bailing with a teacup.

And I did. I got a lot accomplished. My house is cleaner than it’s been in months. I fulfilled obligations – social and familial. Hell, I even baked a freaking apple crisp. Still. It’s just never enough.

Plus, I feel like I behaved like a nut job all weekend. My energy was all over the place. I was like a mad thing, bail, bail, bail, bail. Waaaaaaaaaa! Running around like a loon. What about this? What about this? And this, and this, and this, and this. I despise feeling crazed.

I just need to chill out. Get my focus back. Unblock my chi. Either stick a finger in the hole, or just accept that the damn boat is just going to leak. Be at peace with it. You know. Relax.

Oh, crap. That's another thing I forgot to do this weekend.