I've seen quite a few movies as of late, but I don't have time to review them all in depth. I can mention however, that I can't believe that there are two men who go check out a movie together in this day and age that STILL make certain to leave one empty seat in between them so that no one will suspect that they're gay. Really? Has anyone ever seen two people sitting together in a movie theater and even had a thought about those two people cross their mind at all? I mean, it's one thing if it's someone who has lugged a wee child to watch a movie that is inappropriate for children. Because then I am all about judging them.

But any other match-up of folks just doesn't interest me. Unless they do something ridiculous like leave an empty seat between them, thus making it obvious that they are terrified that someone will think they don't like girls. Because they do! See! That empty seat vouches for them! Now as a girl type person, I can assure them that any female worth her salt (is that an expression?) will absolutely see that empty seat and never ever give them the time of day. Because who the heck would want to interact with someone that grotesquely insecure with a faint whiff of homophobia?

So: Date Night is terrible. I know, I know, it seems like you can't lose with a Tina Fey/Steve Carrell match-up. Trust me. You lose big time bad.

An Education: Slow. Boring. Duke likened it to Vision Quest without the thematic music.

How to Train Your Dragon: really really good--until it's way too harsh and cruel for the age set they are looking to attract (and their moms who may have sobbed uncontrollably).

Where the Wild Things Are: I had to turn it off after approximately four minutes. I saw two scenes. Both were disturbing to the point that I couldn't do it. I don't like suffering in my entertainment! I don't like animals to suffer or children or animated dragons. And y'know what else: I know everyone makes a big ta do about this book but I never liked it! So there!

Afghan Star: Really, really good. With the added bonus of making me better appreciate how fortunate I am to have been born in this country.Sometimes with all the other stuff that makes me crazy, I forget that there are rights that I have that I take for granted. Like dancing. Or showing my hair. Or getting an education. Also, the song lyrics in the movie are outstanding. Such as: The curve of your eyebrow stings like a scorpion. As Duke pointed out, however, it's no: She's got dumps like a truck (The Thong Song).

Generally, I no longer read the big glossy magazines that have very little in the way of articles but quite a bit in the way of fashion. I used to read them because at one point, I felt that I really really really needed to know what was in and what was out. I wanted to remain abreast of these things for when I was grown-up and had a life that might necessitate me wearing a t-shirt that cost $1000 instead of buying the $11 Target knock-off. And then I turned 20.(And no , we didn't really have Target back then. Nor did we have the Internet, hence my dependence on actual periodicals for my connection to the world beyond my town.)

And then at some point I realized it was fine to like what I like when I like it, regardless of whether it was in style. Last year I was desperate for a jumpsuit. Desperate. I made several trips to Big Cities in search of one. I contemplated buying one that was a truly indecent sum of money just because I couldn't imagine living another minute without one. I finally found one at a brand-names-for-less store that cost but a song. And I've worn it once. Who knew that a jumpsuit would not be exactly what I needed to run errands and go to the gym and volunteer at kindergarten and work from home? It seemed so all-purpose at the time.

And fast-forward one year later, jumpsuits and their cousin the romper are in every store, including my favorite staple for all things: Target. And I live in a pair of yoga pants and sports bra/tank-top not-cute sneakers combo just like every other mom who drives her child to school. We are fashion forward, you see. My look is totally ironic. It's a social commentary on the state of the nation.Wait until Anna Wintour catches on to the tongue-in-cheek suburban mommy look! I'm just ahead of the curve. Although I could really use a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress for my gardening purposes.

I did have a point. An almost related one. So, I wanted to look at the pretty pictures of the pretty people and I checked out a slew of fat, non reading magazines from the library. And discovered that the latest way to wear a purse is apparently to be naked in bed, save for jewelry or perhaps a fur and to languidly brandish your pocketbook. I'm so behind the times! Kate Moss and Julianne Moore are all glamour in bed with their bags. But I am going to have to guess that their purses do not contain crayons and old lists and Purell and child-friendly snacks and weigh as much as a small dog. They probably don't toss their purse into a gross gym locker or set it down on the floor or grass or classroom desk. In other words, I am not the target market for these designer bags. Because I look at those ads and I don't even see the bags in question. I see instead how silly it looks to be naked in bed with your purse. And how potentially unsanitary.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't a related point exactly.

Although yesterday a stranger behind me in line at the grocery store noticed I was buying a product for which she had a coupon and she insisted I use it. How nice is that?

You would think I'd have a lot to say. Obviously at least some part of my subconscious has a lot on its mind because my sleep is averaging out to one night of sleep per every three or four nights without, but I just don't. I wish I did, but I wish I was getting a good night's sleep every night even more. Soon I will be making soap and thinking I'm in cahoots with Tyler Durden.

I seem to be talking about television shows an awful lot lately. Having dvr has really changed my life. I can watch whatever I want whenever I want during those hours between 2 and 6 when I don't sleep. (Which is pretty great seeing as how Roseanne reruns no longer dominate during those hours.)I can find out who won Shear Genius (a totally travesty!), or who is going to be showing at Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. However, I'm afraid that Real Housewives of New York will no longer be making my insomnia cut. They are just too mean this year and it gives me too much anxiety.

So in closing, I'd like to do a little wrap-up of each woman. Seeing as how they are my close personal friends and all.

Ramona is bat-shit crazy. Clearly she has a mental disorder and should be on medication. My guess would be manic depressive? Or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays. Or just manic?. Also, she has no barrier between her thoughts and her words and under this guise of honesty, she says very cruel things. Plus, her husband is so freaking sleazy he's like a caricature. I know he's going to be arrested for something really bad at some point. However, I don't really mind her, because she is obviously a bit off her rocker and would probably be a very nice person with some of "mommy's little helpers." (the tranquilizer kinds)

Hate is still probably too strong a word for how I feel about the countess. But I do think she is a giant ass and truly horrible person. Who, as a side note and unrelated to my disgust at her behaviors, may have a penis. She is really stomach turning.

I am thankful that I've never actually met anyone who is as dumb as Kelly. I mean, have they checked her IQ to see if she should be allowed out in public without a helper?How in the world is she trusted to be a mother? I hope she has a really good nanny. She is seriously painful to watch as she tries to navigate the world of the thinking. Again, it makes my stomach hurt.

Who knew Alex would emerge as the reasonable one? Kudos to you, Alex. You act like a person who cares about others.

Oh, Jill and Bethenny. What a travesty. I can't believe they haven't made-up. Bethenny obviously knew she was wrong for not reaching out more when Bobby was sick and is defensive about her shortcomings in that area. Jill is nursing that wound too much. Especially as it becomes more apparent all the time that Bethenny is truly sorry and wants to make amends and Jill wants to accept her apology but can't swallow her pride. I can't watch this as entertainment. it's just sad.

Bring on The Jersey Housewives. There is no one to feel sorry for on that show. Cause they'll shank you. That's just pure voyeuristic enjoyment!

And in an unrelated note, my garden is really coming along! Peas, strawberries, arugula, lettuce, potatoes, edamame and oregano are all planted. Just waiting for it to warm-up before getting the rest in the ground. And two flowers on the magnolia tree defied all logic and bloomed. They've been waiting to do this for four years. Well-done Magnolia tree. Well-done.

Tonight is Survivor. I'm not sure how the rest of this season is going to go as everyone I liked has now been voted off the island. Are the kids still using that catch phrase or am I just showing that I am perpetually stuck in the 90s? I still really cannot believe that Boston Rob was double-crossed by his team. I hope everyone feels like big dummies when they see how they were manipulated by Russell! Do you hear that, Team Villain? You are dummies! And from now on you will be known not as the Heroes and Villains, but as the Heroes and Zeros. Goodness, I am clever.

I have decided that in addition to the pregnancy parking spaces and spaces reserved for patrons with small children, I would like stores to add "I feel lazy" parking spots. Because that would be funny. And that would make me want to shop there just so I could park in that spot.

I also would like to propose an idea for gym motivation: Someone needs to figure out a way that just when you think you're done with your workout, or feel like you can't do another rep or keep running on the treadmill at that incline, you could try on all the clothes in your closet. Because I'm pretty sure it would be great incentive to keep going. At least for me it would.

Despite the fact that I've been going to the gym pretty religiously, I have yet to lose any weight.(The Easter candy is obviously not being negated by an extra 10 minutes tacked onto my workout) I have gotten stronger, but it doesn't make my clothes fit any better. Today it took me 23 minutes to find a pair of shorts I would wear out of the house. And so I went to a local chain store in the hopes of finding a pair of shorts that transformed me into being ten pounds thinner and four inches taller. Now I think every woman in the world is well-aware that the mirrors and lighting in the dressing rooms outside your home are rigged. Hence the phenomenon of loving something in the store and hating it when you put it on at home. So having lovely lighting and tricksy mirrors is smart business for a store. But today, today their trickery failed them!

I had a slew of shorts in hand, closed the door to the dressing room and caught a glimpse of myself from behind in one of the mirrored walls. And I was shocked to see that I did not look as horrible in my current shorts as I had thought. Or at least I did not look as squat and wide in the kind lighting and elongating mirror as I did in my more honest mirror at home. This is not to say I look good, but rather that I did not look as bad as I had originally feared. I think I may have even caught the briefest glimpse of a possible muscle on the back of my leg. And so I didn't even try on any shorts because I don't need another pair of transition shorts until that wonderful day arrives when I am able to fit into my "real" clothes. My current transition shorts will do just fine. Thank-you fun-house mirrors!

I think I am a gym addict. Because I have not been to the gym since this whole spring break thing began and I had to resume life as a stay at home mom and I have yet to sleep through the night. From 2:30 to 5 or 6, you can find me clicking through the free movies on On Demand. Where the heck has my beloved Roseanne gone? Last night Duke joined me and we watched Chelsea Lately and laughed and laughed. Because she is damn funny.

Now it's not like I haven't been working out. In fact, I can barely type because my forearms feel as useless as if I was a Tyrannosaurus. Because it's gardening time, y'all. And I am in it to win it this year. I tend to always talk a big game, but this year I have the backing of a friend who actually follows through. And she is lending that talent to me.

Me: "Yeah, I need to order some good soil this year."

My friend, "I just ordered my soil and it's being delivered tomorrow. You should call now before they close." And I did! And then to top it all off, I was forced to weed and de-rock my garden so that said soil could be placed on it. Which took about 36 trips with the wheelbarrow by Duke and 3 trips with a bucket whilst wearing bunny ears by Mort. Granted we still have another two tons on our driveway, but that is not the point.

Me: "I think I need to rent a rototiller."

My friend: " Let's both go in on it and get both our gardens done. How about Thursday?"

And then she was so charming to the rototiller rental men that they got big goofy grins on their faces and they gave us a discount. And free gas. And free ramps to get it in and out of the car because it weighed 742 pounds. Between two moms and three children, two proper shovels, two snow shovels, one child's shovel and a rake, my garden is ready to plant!

And I know you will all be excited to hear that my back doesn't even hurt. So I think I'm on the right track at the gym with building this back of steel to keep all the discs where God put 'em. Because I have never before gardened without back pain. This is my year. Do you hear me rabbits and tomato hornworms and grossy bugs being milked by ants? This is my year! I will not have you ruining this for me.

Today I'm planting spinach and sunflowers. And potato. It's not a word that starts with "s" so it doesn't really flow as smoothly. But that's what's going down.

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.

I know that I was just ranting about this, but since every media outlet is fixated on it, I can't take it for one more second. It is absolutely bizarre that a press conference had to be called so that Tiger Woods could apologize to the nation for being unfaithful to his wife. I certainly didn't exchange marriage vows with this man, and unless his wife is a secret reader of my blog, neither did any of you. How has society reached a place where we need an apology from him? Is this not completely insane? I apologize to you all for cheating on my wife. Seriously, do we as a society have nothing else going on in our lives? There are so many things we should care deeply about and so many things that should raise our hackles. This isn't one of them. WE DON'T KNOW HIM. It doesn't affect us. Truly, it doesn't. I promise. Your life is going to continue on in the same way whether you accept Tiger's apology or not. Let's instead emotionally invest ourselves in the simple fact that I couldn't buy hot dog buns this morning because I couldn't find one single brand that was made without high fructose corn syrup.

Well fantastic. Tiger Woods is going to re-emerge and speak on Friday. Thank goodness. What do you think he'll talk about? Do you think it will be about...golf?

Because I don't really give a hoot about any other thing he has to say. (Don't get me wrong, I couldn't give a hoot about golf either, but at least he's qualified to speak on that subject.)

Aren't we all tired of this yet? We all need to get on the same page here or else we will continue to be inundated with people's personal failings. Guess how much I don't care that he's a crappy husband and lousy father. And guess why I don't care: because I don't know him. I'm not married to him. I'm not friends with him. I'm not related to him.

Oh, but he's a role model. For whom? Who cares? Who is looking at someone who plays a mean game of golf and tries to model their life after theirs? I think that's weird. And the whole will-he-or-won't-he lose his endorsement deals---really? Who really buys a product based on whether or not some guy you don't know is standing beside said product and smiling? Now, to be fair, I am the first one in line to buy any mascara that promises it will make my eyelashes look so lush they must be false. But I'm not going to buy my cell phone based on which one is being touted by Luke Wilson or Catherine Zeta Jones. And event though I am still mournign the demise of the marriage between my dear friends Brad and Jen, I don't drink water or wear jewelry endorsed by either of them. Just because someone collects a paycheck from a company doesn't mean the product is worth anything. People do know that, right?

I took the real age test on realage.com. I'm 4 months older than my biological age. Not too shabby, you may be thinking. At least in my head, that's what you may be thinking. In reality you may be thinking, Damn! Someone isn't taking care of themselves! And that would be correct. Because the things I have going for me are the things that can't be changed: I have good genes. But the things that stop me from being a decade or so younger than my actual age are entirely under my control and I am pretty disappointed in myself that I've been given the gift of good health from a genetic standpoint and I don't do anything to hold up my end of the bargain. I just coast along.

I don't exercise on a regular basis, especially in the winter. I may go for fits and spurts of trying to get in 30 minutes of cardio every day, but it eventually tapers off at some point. I have a healthy BMI and so it's easy to forgo a little thing like making sure the vehicle that carts you around is in good working order.

I don't eat as well as I should. Shocker, huh? But wait aren't you always yammering on about food safety and organic this and grow your own food that? Well...yes. But yesterday, for instance, I had two yogurts and a veggie burger. Not as bad as say a bag of jellybeans and three trips to McDonald's, but notice the suspicious lack of fruits and vegetables. Not good.

I get points for having a happy marriage, a good support system of family and friends,"owning" a dog, not smoking, and being a healthy weight. But I lose points for not belonging to any organizations and not attending church on a regular basis.(By which I mean I go at Christmas.)

I have to say, I'm feeling pretty ashamed of myself. (Hence the public outing in a public forum.) I do all the maintenance to keep my faulty disc in place, and I do the maintenance to be able to breathe with my 9237 allergies. It's incorporated as part of my day because those things have a minute by minute effect on how I am able to live my life. I can't even walk around for too long in the mornign without doing my back exercises because I will experience pain. But if I would do the maintenance in all the other areas, I will be much less likely to ever even have to know how they could negatively impact my life. I don't really want to get to the point where I have to be in pain to make changes, or where all the changes in the world won't help me regain my lost health.

As I was driving Mort to school this morning, I marvelled at the wealth of deer and other animal tracks crisscrossing the otherwise untouched snow. All of the freshly tossed beer cans and bottles that littered the landscape? Not so much marvelling, more of the shuddering. It's pretty frightening to realize just how many people are obviously drinking and driving. Or driving whilst drinking. During a snowstorm. Before the plows have even been out. Because if those yahoos are out and about during those conditions, how many of them are steering with one hand and knocking back a beer with the other when the driving conditions are good? Scary stuff. I have to say, it does make me wonder why there is no law in effect requiring car companies to proactively install those contraptions mandated for repeat drunk drivers where you have to blow into the tube and if you're over the legal limit, your car won't start. I mean, who wouldn't be willing to pay an extra $100 for a car if it meant keeping drunk drivers off the road?Granted, people started crying about personal freedom when wearing a seat belt was required, but I think considering drunk driving is already illegal, proactively enforcing that overrides the personal freedom argument. And besides, your freedom to drive while drunk takes away everyone else's freedom to be safe from you on the roads.

Do you see how I can fix everything if given a chance?