This is making me crazy and quite frankly, I don't know where else to take it.

True Blood needs help, serious, serious help. And it has a whole host of books from which to pull, yet it opts not to do so. But Alan Ball, you are a talented and creative man, but dude, your writers suck. Your story lines suck. You are going to lose your audience and make True Blood go away.

It was bad enough when you devoted an entire season to Marianne, a character that is barely a blip in the books. But let's put that behind us and move on. Because that truly was unforgivable and I'm sure you must still feel shame when you think about that disaster.

Of course no one wants to watch the series as though it's a word-for-word play of the books. I get it. Lafayatte is a colorful character, it was smart to keep him instead of killing him off. I even can see why you have Tara on the show as Sookie needs a female friend in whom to confide. I think your decision to cast that particular actor as Tara was a crime against nature however and when she is on the screen must be watched with closed captioning and only one eye open. Perhaps we could have her killed off and reincarnated as a watchable actor without the grating voice and horrid faces?

And let's please leave Tara's mama dead where she belongs.

The whole Vampire League and King Bill and all--that's FINE. Wasn't in the books, but sure why not? It's interesting enough I suppose. But if I give you that plot line, you've got to sacrifice the Tommy/Sam plot. No one cares about Tommy. NO ONE. Put him and Joe Lee (Jolie?) and his mother in the ring and let them kill each other off. Cut your losses. Walk away. It's a waste of precious time. Alcide and Debbie are fine for now. The Jason story is grotesque and wrong. That is definitely one where you could have used a bit more book infusion.And let's dial down on the Jessica/Hoyt show. Jessica is cute, but let's put her more in the bit-player realm. And stop the nonsense with the fairies. There is a myriad of ways you could be going with that. Except for the one that you've chosen. It sucks. And Arlene--for the love of Pete-- she needs to be just the waitress at Merlotte's who says her goofy shite and that's that. A possessed baby? BORING. Because No One Cares.

Which brings me to the important part. You have a cult following with your casting of Eric. This season is supposed to be based on fan favorite Book Four. Yet the Eric/Sookie line has been downgraded to maybe 12 minutes per show. This entire season should be so heavily focused on that plot line that all other plots should be relegated to that lone 12 minutes. Every review is going nuts over Alexander whathisface's (let's just call him Eric) portrayal of a Ericless Eric. Let your actor fly, dude! Let he and Sookie play this out properly! And quit with the Marnie shit. She needs to stay hidden in the background where she belongs until the end.

Seriously dude, I can help you fix this mess. Call me.

"The opposite of take your child to work day is Thanksgiving."

So, I was in Boston a couple months ago(so, yes, that would be January. When there was 4+ feet of snow on the sidewalks.) and I noticed a trend we apparently don't have out here in the boonies. Which, quite frankly, I think makes us vastly superior because obviously WE know that leggings and tights and pantyhose are not pants. And no, these fashionistas weren't wearing thigh skimming shirts. They were wearing shirts that stopped at the waist. And then they pretended that tights or pantyhose or leggings were their pants. Yes, we saw many things we didn't need to see. And also...there was that whole snow issue. In addition to looking like you should be standing in a window with a red light on, were you not cold as all hell? I'm just saying.

And on the topic of fashion, I think Natalie Portman is beautiful, too. But let's stop pretending she looked good at the Oscars. Because she looked like a matronly old woman. Gwyenth Paltrow looked the best she's looked since she stopped being awesome and started being annoying. Also, Angelina Jolie in that sparkly green dress with the crazy shoulders looked like an alien. And not in a good way. That's all.

It would appear that the marketing world has sunk to a new low.

I saw a commercial for a diet plan for dogs. It looks like it's dog food, but it's in individual packages complete with an appropriate amount of treats for one day. So that you know how much to feed your dog. Because you can't look on the bag and scoop out the appropriate amount, or ask your vet how much you should be feeding your dog.

Overweight pets make me insane as it is, as do overweight children. Because we, as the ADULTS, are wholly responsible for what our children and pets are eating. Unless your dog/5 year old has a job, a bank account and some special car they can drive, you buy the groceries, you prepare the meals, you dish out the amount that goes on everyone's plate (and or dog bowl).

Although statistically, I have read that most parents of not only overweight, but clinically obese children do not feel their child is even remotely overweight. So maybe it's the same for dogs. "What? Their bellies are supposed to scrape the ground!"

Let's look at Stella for an example. Lately we've noticed that Stella is looking a little porky. Hmm, how could this be? We feed her the same amount of food every day; she is exercised every day. Why is she suddenly boasting a spare tire? (Well, save for the course of allergy medicine she's on that is making her crazed with hunger to the point that she's horking down frozen green beans,. But that's another story) Ah-ha! The culprit would seem to be that we had changed her brand of food. And yet we had continued giving her the same amount, not thinking that this food may require a smaller or larger amount for her size. So we adjusted the amount of food appropriately and she's back to being healthy. See how easy that is? And I didn't even have to spring for undoubtedly expensive individually packaged diet dog food to correct the problem. I just had to be responsible for checking to make sure what our animal pal was eating was the proper amount for a dog of her size and age.

I've gotten out of practice of having insomnia. Last night, however, it all came rushing back in one big sleepless mess. I tossed and turned before giving up and watching television until 1 am, only to re-awake at 3 and return to the couch before sleep took pity on me at 5.

Another snow day.

Mort needs a haircut.

I need to get the heck out of this house.

I hope you can really see the careful placement of all the cigarette butts dotting the snow like tiny jewels in the first photo. What do you think all those stains are? Coffee?

Dogs with bladder infections?

107 years ago when I was in school, we used to sit in front of the black and white television set that sported the only three channels available, waiting for that lucky stike of the clock that would have the announcement of school delays and closings. Our school district was pretty much always open, even when all those around us were closed. Occasionally, we may have had a one hour delay, but those were few and far between.

So I don't really understand why schools now close before the first flake of snow has hit the ground. I've heard it's because parents are so litigious, but that seems a little excessive. And I would imagine with the amount of parents who both work full-time, more people would prefer their children have school so that they don't lose a day of pay.

This boring and insipid little post is my attempt to get back into the swing of writing on a semi regular basis. Mazel tov.

Children really do watch what you do. For instance, perhaps you are always a wee bit befuddled and try to accomplish several things simultaneously and therefore never actually finish anything, but instead have many things halfway done. So, you just don't have much room left in your brain because you are never really in your brain in the moment. And so you make lists to try and stay on track. Lots and lots and lots of lists on scraps of paper everywhere. To-do lists. Grocery shopping lists. Dinner idea lists. Books to read lists. Things to look-up lists.

And then it should come as no surprise when your son presents to you, as though you are a twosome scheduled in a business meeting, his notebook filled with his agenda for the next week: the errands we have to run per my declarations, the play dates we have scheduled, the visitors we have coming ...

Okay, well after posting my little temper tantrum yesterday, I power shopped and power wrapped and got everything done. And made cookies to boot.

Duke opened the door later that night to my beyond wonderful friends singing me Christmas carols and bearing gifts to thank-me for what they consider my kindness towards them. I was blown away. 100%. With everything they do for me, with all the unconditional love and support they send my way, to even fathom that they thought I was worthy of such a beautiful display when I could never thank them enough for all they do just blows my mind.

And then today I was at Mort's school and to see all those smiling, delighted little faces and hear a million high sweet voices singing Christmas carols...it's like my It's a Wonderful Life moment. Who am I to be so bah-humbug when I am so unbelievably blessed to be surround by such beauty and love?

I have never before been this behind on Christmas. I still have presents to think up in addition to actually purchasing them. I haven't wrapped anything. I have no meal plans. No cookies. I don't know what I'm doing.

Luckily someone gifted Mort that Christmas countdown ornament so every two minutes or so he informs me of how much further I've fallen behind.

Someday I'm going to be old enough to go to an island for Christmas and not deal with any of this.

Well, we'll see how this all turns out. The student teacher for Mort's classroom will soon be leaving. As such, his permanent teacher has arranged a surprise party for her. His teacher has stressed over and over that this is a secret and please remind your children to keep this a secret, etc etc.

Mort doesn't really do secrets. If you tell him something is a secret, it's a surefire way to make him blurt it out. So I've been dropping off supplies and gifts without his knowledge.

However, he did discover my volunteer time this week would be different due to the party. "But why?" he kept pressing. So I told him.

Immediately he worried, "But what if Ms.--- asks where you are?" In hindsight, I should have just instructed him to say he didn't know. It's believable and not a total lie. Instead I said, "Uh, just say I'm sick." Which is a lie and I instantly felt bad for instructing him to lie.

No worries though because Mort wanted to expand on that lie like nobodies' business. "I'll tell her you've been having headaches off and on and your stomach hurts!" he exclaimed.

"I doubt she'll even ask, sweetie, but if she does you can just say I'm sick."

"I'll tell her you just really wanted to sleep in today!"

"Honey, you can just say I'm sick, but really, I don't think you'll have to say anything."

I have a feeling that when I show-up, there will be surprises all around. His teacher will be surprised when I come in at all because he will have told her that I was sick and/or sleeping it off and his student teacher will know all about her surprise party because Mort will have told her he can't wait for her surprise party the minute he walked into the classroom.

So, I work with children on a regular basis. And the reoccurring theme is, "My mom and dad don't live together." Hey, mine don't either, so no biggie. Except that they did when I was in first grade and I think Mort is one of the very few kids in his class that lives in a two parent family.

Anyway, the bigger fish to fry on this topic was that I was helping the kids write their autobiographies and they would draw pictures of the two, sometimes three houses that they split their times amongst: Mommy's, Daddy's, and Grandma's. Mommy and Grandma usually were depicted as having fairly small houses, while Daddy had a very large house. Whether this is because it was true or merely a child's perception, I don't know.

The other thematic common was that, "I like my dad better. Mommy is mean." Daddy in these books was depicted as playing frisbee and video games and visiting the playground with the kids. Mommy wasn't usually depicted at all.

Considering that Mommy is the custodial parent in these situations, I couldn't help but wonder at the child's perception of "mean." Because my guess is that Daddy sees the kids on weekend, maybe even more, but isn't responsible for the day-to-day raising of the child and so therefore has the luxury of playing with them to their child's hearts' content. Which is wonderful for the child and I applaud the dads who are doing this and making an effort to be a dad even though they may not live with their child full-time. I think it's rare in today's world , so rock on.

And I know that someday the kids will realize that their mom wasn't mean, but that she was probably working full-time and then juggling the day-to-day parenting responsibilities on her own. She's the one who has to enforce bedtime rules, help with homework, make sure you are eating well, and watching age-appropriate, limited amounts of TV. She has to make sure you have clean clothes, have brushed your teeth, played outside, cleaned your room, are using your manners, and while she is doing this and working outside the home, she has to do all the work inside the home as well, the cooking, the cleaning, the grocery shopping, the bill-paying, the keeping up with obligations to extended family members...

And she probably has to do all of this while being told that she's mean and daddy is fun.

I know that just by the nature of our personalities and my being the primary caregiver for Mort, Duke is much more fun then I and devotes a lot more time to playing with Mort than coaxing him to eat his vegetables. And that's okay, because we're a team. But for a single mom, I hope the time of their children thinking that they're mean, rather than a superwoman comes sooner rather than later.

Well, I hate to be a quitter(actually, that's not true. I have no problem quitting things at the drop of a hat), but I may have to give up one of my volunteer positions at Mort's school. I love being in his classroom and helping the kids. That feels purposeful and good and I hope to do it for as long as his teachers welcome parent helpers.

I do not love the second volunteer position as book-putter-awayer. It was one thing in kindergarten to do that job: go to the teachers' classes, collect their books, re card and reshelve them alone int he book room for maybe an hour. But in first grade I'm spending anywhere from two to four hours doing this. At that point, I feel like I'm an aide and it should be paid work. Which it isn't. And in kindergarten, I have to say the teachers were so sweet and thanked me so profusely that it made me feel like I was truly doing something to help the kindergarten as a whole. And while there a re some first grade teachers who are just about as nice and grateful as anyone could be that warm my heart, there are an almost equal amount who scowl and frown and act as though I'm putting them out when I show up to collect their bins. It's just too much, I think. Ugh. How do you quit a volunteer position?

Funny Mort-isms I don't want to forget:

Duke was doing his P90X ab-ripper exercises when Mort walked in. Duke happened to be in the middle of a break before starting the next set.

"What are you doing?" asked Mort.

"Ab exercises," replied Duke.

"What do you call that one?" Mort asked. "Sit?"

Duke returned from a business trip last night looking very professional and businessy. After launching himself at him, Mort stepped back to study Duke's outfit. "You look all ...like a 'sir', " Mort remarked.

"That's because I am. When I'm in the office, everyone there calls me 'sir'," Duke told him.

"Why?" Mort asked "Because they don't know your name?"

I think the part we like best is that he isn't a kid making language faux pas anymore. He is funny. He makes actual snarky well-timed remarks. Love it.

My aching shoulder and back (in the future I will not have a weight lifting day at the gym, cart around big crates of books at Mort's school, and pull weeds and cut back plants for the fall all on the same day and all without having remembered to do even one set of my 120 repetitions of physical therapy prescribed back exercises that keep my back from waking me up in the middle of the night)woke me at midnight. I watched Fashion Police and then the season finale of Project Runway. Except I had the television set to "sleep" and it turned off right before they announced who won. I'm thinking Mondo. He was the only one with real talent and vision this season.

I went back to bed around 3. Mort came in our room at 5, completely disorientated and not quite awake but insisting it was time to get up(too much trick or treating?). So I laid in bed with him until he fell back asleep. 5:30 a.m. And then of course, i got up. Because I couldn't go back to sleep.

At least it's a lay around kind of day today: grocery shopping, finding an easy costume for Mort's party at school today because Mort informed me last night that he broke mine last year's, hence why I couldn't find it. Helping 22 first graders get into their costumes. And helping to keep 22 first graders under control when they're overflowing with excitement and too much sugar. Perhaps my lack of sleep will give everything an air of surrealism....

Knowing I have complained and dreaded soccer season in years past, I would to take this opportunity to say what a pleasure this season has been. Mort tried really hard (no using his "magic powers" to move the ball, no cartwheels on the field, no climbing on the soccer net--- just good old fashioned running and kicking), no rabid parents screeching at their children and mine, (okay, maybe I yelled alot but it was all POSITIVE yelling), no coaches trying their best to reduce children to tears ("Sweep the leg, Johnny!") and we were fortunate enough to have coaches who actually coached and patiently explained positions and plays to the team. In addition to having such positive, kind coaches, we were also part of a team filled with really nice hard-working kids who had positive attitudes and supported each other whole-heartily.

I'll miss watching the team play soccer and I am thankful for such a heartening experience. Mort has already announced he wants to play again in the spring.

I gots to rant. You don't gotta read.

I was dropping off Mort at school and walking back to my car when one of the women who works at the school gave me a big smile and said to another school employee with a sigh, "Wouldn't you love to have the day off? I'd love to have the day off from work and throw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats," all the while smiling at me in my hoodie and sweats.

And to her I have several points I'd like to make:

1) I was wearing gym clothes because I was going to the gym, not because I have "off from work." I do not wear gym clothes in real life as I do not deem them acceptable. Gym clothes are for the gym. Period. That is not to say that I won't throw on a hoodie, but it will not be in conjunction with any other clothes that could be worn to the gym.

2) I did not have "off work" because I am a lazy-ass, bon-bon popping, soap opera watching stay-at-home mom that you see driving her kid to and fro school every day. I have a paying job from which I telecommute and by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for that either.

3) Even if I didn't have a paying job, my job as a stay-at-home mom is a JOB. It is work. It is every bit as valid and infinitely more important than sitting in an office all day and collecting doctor's excuses or whatever it is that you do. I am raising my child to be the best, happiest version of himself he can be. And if you think for a second that isn't work, than you must not have children or else you aren't staying at home to raise them. And by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for my job as a mother, either.

P.S. Yes, I recognize that I'm bringing a bit of my own insecurities and defensiveness to a seemingly innocent remark...or WAS IT?

Next up on the rant list is also directed at a woman who works at Mort's school. Mort used to come home from school with his entire lunch box full. He was going 8 hours having eaten NOTHING. That, to me, is pretty horrifying. This year, however, we have had a break through. And Mort now comes home with an empty lunch box, save for the crusts of his sandwich, which we as a family, have decided is perfectly acceptable. He eats all his packed veggies, all his packed fruit and all the parts of his sandwich that aren't touched by crusts. And yet this woman has taken it upon herself to start chiding Mort for not "doing a good job" eating his sandwich.

To which I would like to say, "Step off, yo." If you have a serious concern with what my child is eating, please schedule a meeting with his father and I and do not berate him for eating what we have decided will best work for him to provide him with a balanced lunch while he is at school. He is 6 and he just hears your criticism, not realizing you clearly have your own food demons. His crusts will not help the starving children in Africa or whatever your rationale may be.

Perhaps you could spend your lunch duty policing the kids who are buying their "lunches" and scooping up three desserts and nothing else. Or perhaps you could worry about the parents who are bringing large Cokes and a bag of fast food into school for lunch for their 6 year olds?

And now I feel better. Thank-you for your time.

We got a new front door. Not because we wanted to, but because we're grown-ups. And sometimes after living for five years with a door that is peeling (okay, more like vomiting)paint and literally rotting around the edges and sagging in its frame, it's time to take a tremendous amount of money that could have been used on something fun like a vacation or groceries or puppies or new socks for Mort who seems to make holes in socks just by looking at them and agree that the door has to be replaced.

And see kids, those are the things that you think you can't wait for when you're all yelling about how you can't wait to be a grown-up and eat ice cream for breakfast every day. It comes down to buying new doors, learning to reset your car's computer every season because you drive such a specialized car that it needs to know that the weather has changed and therefore the tire pressure will be a little different and when you call the people at the dealership and ask them to do it, they insist it's easy and you can put on your big girl panties and do it yourself. Which is absolutely true, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't want to do those things.

Nor do I want to have to hunt around for the fancy pants impossible to find oil that my high performance car eats like I'm driving on the Autobahn and have to learn to check a dipstick and put in more oil, when in reality I'm just a mom driving her kid to school in a teeny station wagon and going to the gym. Can't relate? Oh, it will happen to you, too.

Just like 107 years ago when I went to the Homecoming Dance my senior year, I wore an extremely daring off the shoulder dress that reached the middle of my calves. And flat shoes. But it was off the shoulder, people. Scandalous. And then this weekend I saw oodles of kids going to their Homecoming Dance, and even though I could swear some of them are in Mort's 1st grade class, the girls were wearing dresses that made me oh so glad I have a boy.

Except someone's mom bought those dresses for them, so I guess their moms were okay with their daughters looking like that. And by that, I mean whores. Do I have to spell out everything? I have a rule of thumb(terrible expression if you know its origins, but you probably don't and I don't feel like going into it right now) and it's pretty simple: if your underwear shows when you bend over, it's not a dress. It's a shirt. And you need to wear pants with it. Apparently high school girls do not share this rule. Also, if you have to wear double stick tape so that your still undeveloped cleavage isn't on display but you aren't on MTV, you shouldn't be wearing it. Again, I am obviously an old fogie in this department as well.

Also, I like freedom of speech very very much, but if you're going to hold up horrible signs while people bury their children, shouldn't you as a grieving parent have a right to freely shoot those people with rubber bullets at the very least? Or taser them? How about BB guns and attack dogs? Vats of boiling oil?

I have to go clean the woodwork and help Mort make a boat for Columbus Day now.

Well, in the obscene amount of time that has passed since I last wrote, quite a bit has happened. I found my new favorite nail polish. I did all the weeding and cutting back of our outdoor area. I installed a new door knob in the mud room. I reached my weight loss goal of the ten pounds needed to fit into my clothes, only to discover that going to the gym means that my clothes I've been longing to wear again are now all too big because despite being back at the same weight I've been since 1998, I guess I am now more compact. So I look like I'm an Olsen twin. Not because I look child-like, homeless and simian, just because I look like my clothes are too big in an unflattering way.

And best of all, I watched my sister bring her son into the world. And I'm not going to get all double rainbow on you and weep about how magical it was. Except of course I AM going to do that because it was beyond amazing. And she was amazing and her son is amazing. And I could stare at his little face with its ever-changing expressions all day and smell his little baby scent and feel his little heartbeat. He is better than any double rainbow. No matter how many drugs you've taken.

August 16

Our day started yesterday with a lovely way to round up supplies. We went into town, where one store sold produce, another sold charcoal and lighter fluid, and still another was the friendly neighborhood butcher. I am going to suspect I am bearing witness as to why the food smells and tastes so much better in Italy. Well, the whole grow local/shop local thing and the lack of genetically modified food.

Ever since Duke and I have been traveling to Sabaudia(doesn't that make us sound worldly, like we're there all the time instead of having gone three times over seven years? Well, except for Duke who has been there five times. I think.), we have been wanting to walk the beach to what we always refer to as the castle, but it turns out was really just a watchtower commissioned by the pope in the 1600s. We generally get so far before we get tired and quit.

Today, however, Nick informed us it the walk was a mere 5k. We can do that! Duke runs more than that on a daily basis! And I...uh... go the gym and lift weights! Okay! So, we set off on our walk.

I noticed that 1) I easily have the most covered ass on the beach. And I thought I had brought a very daring swimsuit for me. Let's just say it showed a lot more of my behind than granny panties. But All the other women of every single age were showcasing either their entire heiney or the vast majority or it from the 80 somethings to the 7 year olds. wow. And that's not even taking into account all the tops that are M.I.A. Or the fact that all the men are wearing speedos. Except Duke. And Nick.

Oh and 2) Everyone is so tan that THEY ARE PURPLE. It's pretty impressive. I didn't even know people could be that tan. I certainly never achieved that color when I was slathered in baby oil and lying on a roof. The tanners get very defensive when they are questioned and will quickly spout off facts as to how vitamin D is a necessity and rickets is making a comeback. Just for the record, not one of these purple folk need worry about vitamin D deficiency.

Also worth noting is the amount of compliments I have received for my desperate-to-not-achieve tan that I developed this summer despite wearing a hat, SPF 100 (my SPF 100 got huge laughs from the Italian crowd by the way) applied every 1/2 hour, and sitting in the shade. The Italians and Australians react with big smiles and admiring, "OH! You're so tan!" Americans react with exaggerated frowns of faux concern, horror and reproaching tones of "Ohhhh. Geez. You're so tan."

So, we made it to the watchtower ruins and they are pretty cool. Certainly not something we have littering any beaches in Maryland or Jersey. And speaking of Jersey: If the Italian-Americans who were up in arms about the Jersey Shore and their portrayal of Italians, they can put their fears to rest. Proper Italians are so far removed from Italian-Americans and certainly any member of the Jersey Shore cast(or The Real Housewives of New Jersey for that matter) that they may as well be an entirely different species. They just are. Sorry.

So, along the way to the ruins, Duke and Nick stopped to get an almond flavored Italian ice from the vendor who PUSHES A GIANT CART OF ICE BLOCKS up and down the sand all day long, scraping off the ice for the syrupy treat with a machete.

And then let's just say that only two of us made the return walk back to the beach towels. We walked from 1:30 until 4:30.One of us took the bus. (It was Nick). Post beach time but pre-barbeque time, we walked back to the beach and had mojitos and watched the sun set. In the eternal words of Ice-Cube, "Today was a good day."

Aug 15 Part II

I slept until noon. I could have slept longer, but Duke woke me up because the sun is poring over everything and the day is gorgeous and we have to buy supplies for tonight's barbecue before we lay ourselves down on the beach.

Last night we went to San Felice Circeo with DJ Nicky Nick and had appertivos and met-up with his sister Natalia and two of her Australian pals. And quite selfishly, I was glad that they were Australian because Nick and Natalia both speak perfect English in the way that many Europeans do, and I speak nothing but English in the way that many self-centered, ill-educated Americans do. So English speaking Australians were a lovely addition. And I do so admire and love how fluidly everyone is able to switch from language to language (I once got to witness a conversation between Nick and a French friend in which they used Italian, German, French, and English all effortlessly jumbled up in the same several sentences. Wouldn't that be an amazing thing to be able to do? )

There was shoe shopping amongst the females and easily the most stunning girl I have ever seen in real life at dinner. She made the Victoria Secret models look like The Real Housewives of NJ. It was like staring at living art--I couldn't look away. Natalia and Barbara were speaking in Italian and then explained that they had been questioning the same thing I wondered: Why was a girl that looked like that having dinner with a guy who was so drippy? Was he a cousin? A gay friend? But then they started holding hands and we all just had to shake our heads and surmise that he was either in possession of the most amazing personality in the world and/or she had no idea what she looked like.

I also noticed a new bra with which to wear strapless dresses and backless shirts: that would be any old bra. No need to use backless, strapless, taped-up contraptions. You just wear your bra and whatever shirt you want can go on top of it. My female peeps didn't seems to bat an eye at this, so I just had to be bitchy and puritanical to myself. And try to take pictures because I knew my fellow Americans would be as dismayed as I. Because they make racerback and strapless and backless bras. Yes, they do.

I was unfortunately still a zombie from the jet-lag, but we did get to see a Ricky Martin/Enrique Iglesias type singer do the single worst renditions of American songs in the square. Even his bandmates seemed disgusted. The crowd seemed to be laughing heartily, and yet, the show must go on as he wiggled and gyrated his way through Sting's "Fragile", Joan Osbourn's "What if God was One of Us?" and Pink Floyd's "The Wall." I have pictures, so I know that I wasn't just having jet-lagged hallucinations.