So, I finished The Help and am now reading The Happiness Project. I'm barely three chapters in and I already love the author as she has admitted that she hates to shower long and that she postpones going to bed because getting ready with all the face washing and teeth brushing is so much bother. And I really couldn't agree more.

Another item that made me feel I may secretly be normal is that I wrote an e-mail to a friend noting a seemingly mundane thing I'm doing. I'm trying to be less negative (although if I was succeeding, I probably would have phrased that as trying to be more positive), so I didn't state any of the things that were bothering me about said thing. But darn if she didn't write back with her hackles raised over the very same things that ticked me off me but that I didn't put into writing lest I infect her day with my ire. I love my friends. They are really really really worth the wait it took me to find them.

I hope the gym doesn't again show Little Miss Sunshine during the time frame I am there. It's very difficult to work out at an optimum level and cry at the same time. Sure, sure I could have looked away and watched Fox News (although it's hard to work out at an optimum level while you're vomiting ) and/or just turned up the volume on "Head Like a Hole", but it was the pagaent scene. Where that poor little girl is being booed off the stage and her up-to-that-point crappy dad and her suicidal uncle and her brother all jump on stage with her and refuse to let them kick her out. Good golly, I'm crying just writing about it.

Goodness. Well, I'll chalk it up to getting old. Remember when you could do anything and never think about it because nothing hurt the next day?No, no, not just because you were whooping it up the night before, but rather because you were engaging in feats of physical strength like lifting weights. Or walking to the mailbox.

I'd finally stopped hurting after going to the gym for a couple of weeks. I think it was a couple of weeks. (It felt like longer, but I suspect it was shorter.) And then we went away for a bit. Now while visiting family out of town, I did go to the gym twice. And then I resumed my usual workout yesterday. And today I feel like a little old lady. Even my elbows hurt. But not as much as my triceps and my chest and my thighs and my calves. I even doubled my amount of time stretching before and after, knowing it was my first day back. I remember a time, long long ago, when I could just open the door and run for a while and never consider stretching. Not that that was smart, but it was something I could do. Youth! Youth is wasted on the young! I am so original this morning! Except not really!

I was stretching while a woman one mat over was working with a personal trainer. He was helping her keep good form and encouraging her while she did something on an exercise ball. Suddenly, she got up and returned the ball to its spot against the wall. "Hey," the trainer called, smiling and puzzled, "We're not done."

"Oh yes we are!" snapped the woman and she walked away. And then I think she went out to her car and ate a Twinkie that she had shoved under the front seat. But really, if you are paying someone to help you make your body strong and efficient, doesn't it seem logical that you would, I don't know, listen to what they're saying? Or at the very least, if you have to quit, can't you be polite and say Sorry, this isn't going to work for me. Thanks for your time. ? Also, I know starting an excercise program sucks. It really truly does. Sometimes I just close my eyes and pretend I'm not really attempting to lift weight over my head and concentrate on the melodic sounds of Will Smith gettin jiggy with it. But the hard part is actually getting started. Once you're there, it seems like you owe it to yourself to do something, anything, even if it isn't the workout you anticipated you would be able to do. And let's just say that this woman had not yet even broken a sweat.

Huh. Who knew twinkie was spelled with a capital T? Thanks Spellcheck.

So, as it turns out, Florida has an impressive amount of wildlife. I also saw but was unable to document: a bald eagle, various raccoons, and an armadillo. And no, I would still not want to live there. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Dear Rabbits,
Well, it's spring again, when a young rodent's thoughts turn to eating gardens and knocking boots(yes, that was me last night imploring you to turn down Barry White's Greatest Hits. It was 3 am for the love of Pete!). I know things were rocky between us last year, but I'd like to think we can begin anew and put all that behind us. Sure, you destroyed my garden, my fence and negated all my back-breaking hours of hard work. But to be fair, my dog killed off your entire family. So, I think we're even. Let's have a fresh start.

In that spirit of wiping the slate clean, I'm going to have to remind you that it is NOT a good idea to build your nest in the fenced-in part of the yard. That is the part of the yard in which Stella roams free. That is the part of the yard in which eight of your brethren met with their demise. If you insist on making your home near my home, please do it beyond the unmistakable DogLivesHere part. Like maybe in a neighbor's yard. Because Stella has got the blood lust. She's a terrier. She must follow her heart. And her heart wants to kill you with a sharp shake of her head and a quick snap of your neck.

And I must confess that if you disregard the whole dog territory thing and build your nest here anyway, then I have to question whether or not you really have the type of genes that are worth passing on. Because clearly they are a bit on the... how shall I say...less than smart side of things. (No offense.)

Best of luck to you in your endeavors this year. Please keep in mind that there are many other gardens in the area other than mine, should you get hungry. And to answer your question,no, of course those aren't rabbit skulls littering my garden! No, no. Those are...eggshells! Yes, eggshells. They're for the soil. Okay, then. Cheers!

While having lunch at school, another child in Mort's class (let's call him Dennis) left no doubt in my mind as to where Mort has been learning his new vocabulary. Dennis asked me if I knew what licking a beaver meant (before I could formulate a response to that through my stunned brain, he assured me it meant you were licking your butt.); told the table he would grow hair on his "pee pee"(really? you can't teach your child the proper name for penis?); and used the words "butt" "poop" "fart" "boobie" and "nipples" more times in a half-hour than I believe I have heard those words used in the last three years.

And this was before Dennis gulped the rest of his juice and announced he was "drunk."

What in the world is this kid being exposed to at home?

And please, please, please do not let him be in the same class as Mort next year.

Seeing as how it took me seven tries to stand-up this morning because my calves hurt so badly that I couldn't put any weight on them, I may as well come clean: I've joined a gym. I'm trying to become long-term healthy and fit.

On the plus-side, I have thus far been successful in protecting my back from even the slightest twinge.

On the negative side, I obviously have no idea what is a proper amount of weight to lift or how many times said weight should be lifted. Because my calves have hurt for three days and they feel like I have surgically inserted softballs into them.

Now of course I could do the obvious and meet with the personal trainer to get myself set-up on a program. After all, I know nothing other than now that I'm doing this, I want to be ripped and I don't want to wait. I have a friend who did just this and she is very happy with the results as seen by the program suggested by said personal trainer to the degree that she is looking into hiring her on for more sessions.

I think I must just like to make things hard on myself. And I'm too embarrassed to admit I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been switching between doing cardio and weight--one day upper body, another day lower body. And I've gained 4 pounds.

And no, I don't believe that it's because I'm building muscle. Because even though we've all heard that adage that a pound of muscle weighs more than a pound of fat, I don't buy it. Because a pound weighs a pound regardless of what is being weighed. It's like that feathers and bricks: if you drop a pound of bricks and a pound of feathers from the top of a building, which will hit the ground first? Theoretically, they should hit the ground at the same time because they both weigh a pound. (See how I used italics for emphasis?)

Yes, I do believe that a pound of muscle is more streamlined and compact and more effective for your body's functions than a pound of fat.

So we will have to chalk my weight gain up to me not watching what I'm eating. Because yesterday I made a smoothie: low-fat yogurt, blueberries and a banana. It was awesome. And then I wondered how many calories were in it. I checked out the amount of calories in a couple handful of blueberries and a banana. My seemingly healthy breakfast had more calories in it than I had just burned on the elliptical machine.

Yeah, maybe I need to meet with the personal trainer.

If I titled my posts, which I do not, this one would be called Reality Television.

Except for this part where I implore you to watch Breaking Bad. There are very few television shows that are watchable and dare I say, awesome. One is Breaking Bad. One is Weeds. One is Mad Men. And one is 30 Rock.

And now I must say that I have never seen Dancing With the Used-to-Be and/or Almost Were and/or want to become Stars. But I will be tuning in this year. Why? Because Brenda will be on it. That's right BRENDA from Beverly Hills 90210, possibly the only show I know better than the back of my hand, the show that enables me to win trivia games in which I have no business even participating. Because I LOVED that show. I didn't love that show in the same way I worshipped at the altar of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's not like the writing was decent or the actors were talented or the costume department knew their stuff. But I loved it just the same. And any other BH90210 devotee out there is totally hoping Luke Perry will guest star as Brenda's dance partner only to be swept away by Jennie Garth to the strains of Sophie B Hawkins' "Damn I Wish I was Your Lover."

Also in the world of Reality TeeVee: Survivor is still on. Who knew? I saw the first season. I knew there was another season because that's how the chick with hate in her heart who doesn't believe children should be breastfed on demand got her job on the View. But wasn't that like 10 years ago? Anyway, it's on. And I'm hooked. I'm totally rooting for Tom because he's from Boston and seems like a such a good guy and he reminds me so much of our friend Tom from Boston that I jumped up and down last night when he was safe from elimination. (Yeah, no real excuses there--I was sober. I'm just apparently a big drip.)

Which brings me to The Real Housewives franchise. Goodness. I watched the Jersey season with a passion because it coincided with my mommy beach week and my friends and I would hustle those kids into bed, make chocolate chip cookies, pour some wine and watch the RH of NJ marathons, culminating in the table flipping episode. Outstanding. I started watching the New York season last year because we were visiting my in-laws and my mother-in-law was watching. The friendship between Jill and Bethenny seemed genuine and kind and so if the reruns were on, I watched it whilst folding laundry and doing dishes. (Don't be jealous of my glamorous life. It's just like Sheila E was singing about. )

HOWEVER. Today I saw the season 3(?) opener, and all heck has broken lose. It looks like it' s up to me to put things in order.

We won't concentrate on LuAnne or Ramona because they are delusional. We won't concentrate on Kelly because she is not only delusional , but God help her, I truly hope she's on drugs, because if she isn't, she is too stupid to be allowed to tie her own shoes.

But Bethenny and Jill...they've had a falling out. And geez louise ladies, hello! We can all see why. Last year, Bethenny was a single person who was extremely close to Jill and her family. This year, Bethenny has a boyfriend. And not just any old boyfriend: an he's-the-one-I'm-dropping-everyone-who-isn't-him-please-let me-work-his-name-into-every-conversation-I-live-or-breathe-all-things-boyfriend. Annoying under any circumstances. She should have gotten this out of her system in 7th grade, but maybe she's a late bloomer. And Jill feels left out. And Bethenny feels like Jill isn't her boyfriend, so she doesn't really exist anymore. So, I would just like to put this out there: give this a year, maybe a bit more and when Bethenny comes up for air and stops being selfish and all the sudden wants to hang with someone who isn't her boyfriend, if Jill is willing to overlook this and remember what it was like to be 17 and have your first love; I think these two crazy gals can work it out. Because I really do like them both(seeing as how I know them from TV and all). But right now Bethenny is being a little wonk wonk and Jill is being a little what the what. Hang in there, my women! Friends are life's battery rechargers!

And yes, I am available for hire should the network need me to get them back on track.

Herbs are growing, flowers are making their way through the earth and we had a great blue heron hunting in our yard. I shall take these all as signs of spring. Even though the herbs are inside and I see herons hunting all winter long. Two out of three ain't bad. Just ask Meatloaf.

While Mort was eating his breakfast, he asked me to read him a book about whales. So I did. And then I remembered I had pictures of real, live whales from 73 years ago when the economy was a bit different and Duke worked for a company that out of the blue said, "Hey! You're doing a great job! Here's an all-expenses paid trip to the Cape for a weekend."

And so we went on a whale watch and got to see two mother and calf whale combos. It was very exciting. And Mort thought it was pretty cool that we had pictures of whales in our photo album.

And that led to Mort looking through our photo album and marvelling at these strange creatures who are now his family. "Who is that?" he asked pointing to almost every picture of Duke, of my Mom, and of various dear friends he calls Uncles. A picture of my sister with very short platinum(well, we thought so at the time) blonde hair produced the gasp of, "She looks like a super pop star!" And no, Mort is not 109. I'm not really certain where the phrase super pop star originated.

And in an almost tie-in, have you ever seen the website myparentswereawesome? Because it's pretty awesome. People have uploaded pictures of their parents back in the day before they were parents, back in the day before they were stressed and weighed down by worry and responsibility and age and became bewildered by the crappy bands being played on the radio. (I mean, have you heard that ridonkulous Owl City song Fireflies? It makes me want to punch something every time it comes on.)

But that's what looking through the photo album with Mort reminded me of this morning. Because those pictures are only 12 or 13 years ago, but life was so different for us then, and we seem so young and bright-eyed and fresh and unencumbered that Mort could barely identify us as those nice, albeit slightly greying and crinkly-eyed folks who feed him and clothe him and read to him over breakfast. Goodness. So much nostalgia for a Monday morning.