Compulsive

I count.

I don't mean that in the sense of "I matter," but in the sense of actual mathematics: I count. One, two, three. Things. Items. Steps. Calories. Breaths. Cigarettes. Paper clips. M&M's.

I am a counter. A person who counts. Counts all the things.

I don't know when it started. My best guess is that the counting of things is an offshoot of my habit of counting to ten -- there it is again, the counting -- when I find myself getting overwhelmed, angry, frustrated. Previous therapists have suggested this as a coping strategy, a way to get my head straight, a method of stopping myself from doing or saying things that I know I should not.

Sometimes it works, the counting to ten, and sometimes it doesn't.

I guess when the counting to ten stopped working regularly, because my stress and anxiety levels got to be too much for little life-hacks to be able to handle, I started counting other things. I fixate on things that are insignificant but repeatable. Scientific method: How many steps to the bathroom? How many squirts of hand soap? How many ice cubes? How many packs of Post-It Notes? How many hours between meals?

I catch myself, sometimes, when I am in the middle of counting things. Why? I ask myself. Why are you doing this? What does it matter? What are you trying to do here? How is this helping? When I catch myself doing these things, doing these weird things, doing these crazy things, I stop myself, deliberately change the environment. Move papers around. Put the paper clips in a different slot of a different drawer. Use the ladies' room in another department. Make a cup of tea. Grab a handful of candy.

I do other things then, too. I only eat M&M's two at a time, one candy on each side of my mouth, and I won't eat two of the same color at the same time. I can't. I won't. I will arrange them all in front of me, in pairs, a red with a green and a blue with a yellow and a yellow with a brown and a red with a blue and a blue with a green. If there are extras, an uneven number, or too many of one color to split them all up without making a mismatched pair, I leave the stragglers, the troublemakers, in a paper cup at my desk and I save them for the next time.

I know that this behavior is abnormal, irregular, unhealthy. Most people don't observe and analyze everything around them before utilizing these same things. Most of the people I know don't observe or analyze hardly anything.

I have a new therapist now, because I need one. I am losing my mind, losing myself, losing track of all the things I have been counting, losing track of all the things that still need to be counted. I cannot count all the things. I'm not sure that I even want to. It's just something I do, now. Count all the things. Why? To control all the things, because there are other, bigger, much bigger things that I cannot control.

I am anal-retentive. A classic Type A personality. Detail-oriented and deadline-oriented to the nth degree. Relentlessly perfectionist, even as I know that there is no possible way that any one person could ever achieve what I unreasonably expect myself to achieve. There are not enough hours in the day, so I do what I can to take every single minute, every second, every nanomoment, and make it count.

I can't do it by myself, and nobody expects me to. But still I fixate. "If you want to get something done right, do it yourself." I know I can do it right, so I expect that I will always do it right, all the time. It's up to me to save and protect the world, or at least the little slice for which I am responsible. I am a control freak. I am obsessive-compulsive. And the rest of the world is anything but.

So I count. Count all the things.

HEY YOU GUYS

Shaezie here, pinch hitting for my mom, who is a total slacker. (Do you like how I said "pinch hitting" there, on account of it being baseball playoff time and all? Hahaha, I am SO FUNNY, you guys. Go Steelers!!!1!eleven!)

You'd probably never guess it because the weather's been so dis-GUST-ing outside (yes, that's exactly how I say that word, shut up you guys and stop picking on me!), but we've actually been kind of busy lately. These Flyin' Hawaiian shirts aren't going to wear themselves, you know.

I've been, like, running around all over the world and making my parents crazy and growing out of my pants all the time. Look at me! I'm all legs and arms and pointy elbows like a praying mantis with grasshopper legs. Boing boing boing! Good thing Christmas is coming, right?

Also I have a new hobby: growing my hair. Isn't it AWESOME? Except it really hurts when my mom has to comb my hair. She says I'm "tender-headed," but really I just like to complain about everything when she makes me get out of bed at 6:15 for school. It's still dark out, then, you guys!

My mom says this picture should be captioned: "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" I don't know what she's talking about, but that's a pretty great song. I like to listen to it when we're playing "Dance Your Pants Off" at home.

This is me, running around in Lauren's backyard with a bungee cord. Why? I am four years old, and I don't need a reason to be a goober. (Mommy says that picture is totally unaltered, by the way, and that you should "click to embiggen." I think it makes me look like I'm a super-fast runner ZOOOOOOOOOOOM!)

Anyway, that's all for now, you guys. My mom will be back tomorrow with some more of her boring stuff.

The Big Dig

The world is collapsing around our ears.

You think I'm being melodramatic as usual, but of course I am absolutely not making this up. Our roof is leaking into our bedroom and this is causing no end of emotional, psychological, and physical distress to me. You can probably guess why: emotional, because "oh noes, all our stuff!" (which is totally fine); psychological, because "oh noes, we are forcing our poor child to live in squalor and disrepair because we're terrible people!" (which is not entirely the truth, although I'll let you figure out where the line between fact and fiction is perforated); and physical, because "oh noes, we're beating ourselves up over this!" (which, all that self-flagellation really takes a toll, you know?).

(And oh by the way -- that is A LOT of punctuation, right there. My former English teachers and lit professors are either insanely proud, or insanely appalled, or just insane.)

Of course, most of these things are non-starters. The roofing guy came out to the house today to take pictures and assess the damage and the good news, so far, is that it seems like the damage is pretty minor, or at least it only affects a small area of the roof. It's rained on and off for the last two days and we haven't had any more drippage, but in the event that it does, we already have the big plastic trash can from the office in position. On Friday, when we discovered the leak, we found only a tatty old sweater had gotten wet. As far as damage goes, that's so insignificant as to barely register -- that sweater doesn't fit anyway, and it was about to go into the "giveaway" pile.

But now we're waiting on the estimate and then once that comes, and we figure out how many kidneys and liver chunks and potential first-born children we need to barter in order to come up with however much money is going to be needed to pay to fix a roof on an 83-year-old house with a lot of the original fixtures, and then after that there will be strange people tromping through my bedroom on their way to the busted-up spot, and that means that, at some point probably sooner than later, I will really need clean my room.

Our room is a mess. Not quite a federal disaster area, not yet, definitely not at risk of qualifying as a Superfund site, but  ... we have A LOT of stuff. Right now our room is filled with laundry, clean clothes that need to be put somewhere, but our closet space is limited, and some of it is potentially in the leaky-roof danger zone, plus it's time to switch out the winter stuff for the summer stuff, and I don't really have anything that fits, so I don't know what to keep and what to give away and where to put everything in the meantime. There's just SO MUCH STUFF, and when we try to make some headway (a thorough cleaning would take at least a few hours, even if we were uninterrupted by a four-year-old whose idea of "helping" is basically to move stuff from one end of the room to the other and then jump on the bed), we get about half an hour in, tops, before it gets so overwhelming that we both end up fighting and yelling and crying and "accidentally" throwing away the other one's perfectly fine pair of slightly-used-but-still-good-condition Crocs with absolutely no tread left on the soles BUT THEY ARE MY PHILLIES CROCS, DAMMIT, AND I LOVE THEM.

Plus, one of us might possibly have a slight over-accumulation problem, but that's only because I keep losing one sock of each pair every time they go in the wash and it is my fault that I have to wear socks with most of my shoes so that my feet don't freeze and my toes don't fall off? It's sad, really, that two grown adults -- one of whom is an engineer, and one of whom purports to have a major Martha Stewart complex -- just cannot get themselves together, but there you are.

We've gotten exactly nowhere so far, but thanks for asking. We're planning to make a plan as soon as we get the estimate back and we are both in the same place at the same time when the sun is still up, or at least when it is on the sunset side of the deep dark night, and not the sunrise side.

One good thing has come out of this, though: aside from clean clothes, one other big thing that takes up valuable real estate in our bedroom is stacks and stacks of books (most of them mine, I admit), and our bookshelves are just about full to bursting, and I don't want to start moving the clutter from one room to another, hoarders-style, because let's face it, it's not just our bedroom that needs help, and moving the junk around would just make a bad situation worse because eventually we'd need to move it somewhere else, so I've decided to start culling the collection and start a paperback book swap at work. I took three bags full of books into work this morning, and I am taking more tomorrow, and G said he has some he'll contribute to the cause, and you know, I don't even care if nobody else brings any books in, as long as someone takes these off my hands. So far three books have been taken out of the box at work, and not everything is trash, either -- there are Pattersons and Evanoviches and Sookie Stackhouse novels in there.

And I managed to find a beautiful, untouched, unopened copy of Little Women, which I am sad to admit I have not yet read. That might be the most embarrassing thing about this whole plight -- I'm potentially a hoarder AND I am apparently the worst former Writing major EVER.

Anyway. Send us your thoughts and well-wishes and any spare sacks of money you might have lying around. And also, send shovels.

WSJM Public Access Presents Coffee Talk

I'm at home dying of plague and consumption -- okay, strep throat, which is totally treatable thanks to modern medicine, but you have no idea how bad it is unless you have it so whatever -- and I slept until 11:00 so by the time I woke up there were no good daytime TV shows on any more -- haha like there are any good daytime TV shows to begin with -- so I am making up my own entertainment from some Skype screen shots from over the weekend.

WSJM Public Access Television in Pottstown-Des Plaines-Bethlehem presents "Coffee Talk with Joey Burger."

Good morning everybody. Beautiful day outside, not snowing for a change. Nice and warm here inside the studio. Thanks for joining us. Remember, if you want to be a member of our studio audience, call the switchboard at 777-GO-2-WSJM. Only 10 seats available for every taping, and the first three people who arrive at the studio will get to work the cameras. Ha!

So let me tell you about what happened yesterday after the show. You won't believe it. I went home for lunch and instead of getting my usual chocolate milk, my mommy made me chocolate MALT milk. Can you BELIEVE it? Chocolate MALT milk! What is this, 1950? What is she giving me, Ovaltine? But let me tell you, that chocolate MALT milk was DELICIOUS. Absolutely delicious. So I'm a new convert. Pour me some Ovaltine!

We're going to have a great show today. I'll be drinking my chocolate malt milk with our guests. Up first, we're going to talk with one of the Wonder Pets. That's right, Tuck the Turtle is going to be here. Give it up for Tuck!

Then we're going to joined by our musical guests, here to talk about the diss of the century at the Grammys, ladies and gentlemen we have Justin Bieber! [hollering] And he'll be showing off his NEW HAIRCUT!

And finally at the end of the show we're going to have our very favorite segment: snack time! Today my mommy is serving graham crackers, applesauce, and yes, CHOCOLATE MALT MILK for everybody. It's going to be great! Stick around after the commercials!

Kindhearted Woman

I don't know how it happened -- maybe some kind of pheromone or special sound, or perhaps cats can read hobo code -- but it seems my house has become the Official Union Hall for Neighborhood Strays Local #36. Because every day, all the time, there are cats that are not ours hanging out on our front porch.

Image from Kindheartedwomen.com

I feel both thrilled and horrified by this. On the one hand, I like cats, and yet my own remaining cats don't seem to like me very much except at bedtime when I have the electric blanket on, so it is satisfying to know that it's probably just them. They are rather haughty and spoiled, after all, as domestic felines are wont to be.

But on the other hand, it's been really cold lately, and some of the cats that have been hanging around are actually NOT strays -- two of them, in fact, belong to our neighbors on either side -- and it makes me so sad and angry that people are so awful as to leave their PETS to fend for themselves outside when the weather is so bitter and nasty.

I feel particularly sensitive to this lately because my husband is working nights and I seem to have a lot of alone-time. I've gotten somewhat beyond being the hysterical codependent mess that I was a few weeks ago, but I still find myself thinking of the great late potentate, the O-Bert, because when I was home alone before he would always keep me company. The girls just lay on my bed, puddles of fur and cat-food-breath, waiting for me to settle so they can cozy up against me and warm their bellies.

But these neighborhood cats, they're all like Owen was when we found him -- almost aggressively friendly. When I go outside to get some fresh air or check the weather, at least one of them is out there waiting. Two in particular, one named Tabitha ("Tabby") and the other that we call "Grizz" because he looks like a cat would would be called "Grizz," they're always there, and they saunter right up to me, tails in the air, waiting for skritches and the occasional treat that I manage to smuggle out the front door. (Okay, maybe not so occasional.)

Where are they staying when they're not in their owners' homes, if they even have owners? I wonder about this. Whenever I go out they're already there waiting for me. I never see them when they are sleepy-eyed and yawning (eternal vigilance from the elements and the wildlife, no doubt). I think that at least one cat, Tabby, sleeps in my side flower bed sometimes, the one where the baby bunnies were. The bunnies are long gone now, out having bebeh bunnehs of their own no doubt, but there are still telltale signs of something hanging out there -- trampled leaves, suspicious depressions in what's left of the hydrangeas, spots of mulch that look like they have been dug and re-dug. All these spots are near the dryer vent, of course; these kitties are transients, not stupid. I wonder if they're sleeping on a secret stash of missing left socks that never came back out of the laundry.

I like these little four-legged creatures; I feel like they stop by to give me the news of the day, to let me know what's going on in our little plot on the map. I just wish I could do more for them than sit on the bench on the front porch, rubbing them behind the ears and listening to their purrs and meows, watching the cars go by, hearing the snow fall, before I go back into my own house where it's warm and cozy and ... where they cannot go, because they are my little friends, but they are not Mine.

And to think that I used to say I'd never be a "cat person," but now here I am, the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady. Personally, I don't think I'm crazy, not really, just a soft-headed, bleeding-heart, hippie-dippie, kind-hearted woman.

Worrywart

I don't know when it happened, specifically, or if this has been an ongoing thing for me more than usual, or what, but lately I've really been starting to worry. Again. Some more. A lot. Enough that it ... well, it makes me worry about my worrying.

There's an A&E reality show in there somewhere, right? They do shows about hoarders and parking wars and interventions -- shouldn't there also be a show called "Dr. Strangemom: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Fact That Absolutely the Whole Entire Universe is Conspiring Against Me"?

Or are we now stepping out of the worry zone and wandering directly into the minefield that is paranoia? Even more so than usual, I mean?

Some of the stuff I worry about is completely ridiculous and self-defeating: for example, I worry that I don't get enough sleep at night. Why? Because I work too much, or read too much, or watch too much TV. I actually lay in bed when I should be sleeping and worry about this stuff. See? Self-defeating. Ridiculous. I also worry about my husband driving home at 2:00 in the morning when the weather is bad. I worry that he doesn't get enough sleep. I worry that telling him about the things I worry about somehow suggests that I don't trust him to take care of himself, which is absolutely not the case. I just, you know, worry about stuff.

I worry that Shae isn't eating enough. I worry that she eats too much of certain things. I worry that she isn't getting enough exercise and intellectual stimulation. I worry that she is smart in all the wrong ways. I worry about what she thinks of my answers to some of her most common questions these days -- "Why didn't I grow in your belly?" and "Why don't you have a baby growing in your belly?" These are normal pre-school questions, right? But I worry that the actual answers to these questions will damage her, somehow. I worry that some of my psychological damage is communicable, somehow.

I worry about myself, too. Am I getting enough sleep? Am I getting enough exercise? Am I developing some kind of eating disorder, with all this dieting? I think what I'm doing is healthy and reasonable, but is it? Is it really? Do I look any better? Why don't I feel like I look better? Do I feel any better? Why don't I feel like I feel better? When will I feel better? Should I find a therapist? Do I just need a vacation? Should I go tanning? Start taking better care of myself, or at least different? Are these the kinds of questions that only highly insane, emotionally fragile, mentally unstable, psychologically damaged people ask?

Will I feel better if I just give in and eat a Tastykake? Tastykakes make everything better, don't they? Why do I keep doing this to myself? This can't be healthy, right?

And why do I worry that if I stop worrying about this stuff, even for a minute, that I might suddenly cease to exist?

Carol of the Bells

Confession time: I have 329 Christmas songs on my iPod, and that's only about 10% of the total Christmas music I have stored on my computer.

I love Christmas music, and I love listening to it throughout the whole Christmas season. Please don't ask why -- no one quite knows the reason. But I am willing to bet that most of it boils down to one of two things: I used to be a (semi-) classically trained singer, and Christmas music makes me feel very, very happy. (Probably because a big chunk of it is about presents, which I love.) (Also, a lot of it makes me think about going to Christmas Eve Mass with my family, where everyone would sing their faces off, and the music is probably the one thing I miss most about organized religion, now that I am basically a godless heathen.)

Depending on the kind of mood I am in when I turn ol' Poddalita on (yes I named my iPod shut up don't you judge me), I tend to listen to one of three different types of Christmas songs: classical, "classics," and neo-classical. Or, to not be so cute about it: really old stuff (hymns, ballets, opera music), kind of old stuff (basically anything recorded prior to 1970 or so), and stuff that makes me feel old because I think I can remember when it first came out.

My usual default is to go for the classical stuff, because honestly, it never gets old. I know that most people don't actually like classical music, but I am not most people. I sang alto in the concert choir, the treble choir, the Camerata, the chamber singers. I still remember the notes I had to sing in a lot of the pieces we performed, and when I am listening to Muzak in the mall, I can still pick out my voice part. I am an NPR listener, for God's sake -- of COURSE I like classical music.

(Stereotype myself, much? NERD.)

So, anyway, here are the Top Ten Classical Christmas tracks on my iPod right now (in no particular order), which I am sharing with you because I am a sharer, dammit:

1. Shubert's "Ave Maria" -- On my iPod, it is performed by Josh Groban, but any decent tenor or baritone will do. You hear this song sung by women a lot, but I really prefer to hear it by a tenor. What can I say? I love tenors. (Plus Josh Groban is a total stone-cold hottie and I will fight to the death anyone who argues otherwise.)
2. "Carol of the Bells" -- Straight No Chaser. A capella music kicks ass. (Also: Hi, Walt!)
3. "Für Elise" by Beethoven -- The version I have is from the soundtrack to "A Charlie Brown Christmas" performed by the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and it is THE VERY BEST Christmas record ever made. Go get it. This is not a Christmas song, per se, but because it's on this particular soundtrack, I count it. (My blog, my rules.)
4. "Gesú Bambino" by Pietro Yon -- Not technically "classical," since it was written in 1917, but it's often sung by operatic tenors. It's perfectly lovely. I listen to a version recorded by Luciano Pavarotti and if you don't get chills listening to it, then you're already dead.
5. "What Child Is This?" -- I am partial to the version by Vanessa Williams on A Very Special Christmas 2. (That whole record is fanfreakingtastic, bee tee dubs, even including the Sinéad O'Connor cover of a Bob Dylan song.)
6. "The Nutcracker Suite" by Tchaikovsky -- Self-explanatory. If you need a break from all the more "traditional" sounding stuff, listen to The Brian Setzer Orchestra's version, which you might have heard in 8,000 commercials already. You can find it on any number of BSO Christmas records, but I personally recommend the soundtrack to Elf because it has Louis Prima and Leon Redbone on it, too.
7. "Panis Angelicus" by César Franck -- I have a version of this that was recorded by Pavarotti and Sting and it will knock you naked, for serious. (Josh Groban's version is also excellent.)
8. Gounod's "Ave Maria" -- Second version of the "Ave Maria," so big ups to the BVM! And big ups to the one, the only, the Miss Barbra Streisand, whose Christmas Album is the third-best Christmas record ever made (after "Charlie Brown" and Elvis).
9. "O Holy Night" -- My very, very favorite traditional Christmas carol, written by Adolphe Adam. I love hearing this in the original French, but I've only ever sung it in English. I am still very, very sad that I was not good enough to earn the "Honor Solo" for this song when I was in Concert Choir my senior year in high school. My favorite sung version of this song is by Tevin Campbell from the compilation A Very Special Christmas 2, but my absolute favorite version is an instrumental version, played on a trumpet, that was a benefit single for Tipitina's Foundation. Trumpets make church music sound sexy and heartbreaking, yo.
10. "Silent Night (Stille Nacht)" -- Sung/spoken by John Denver and the Muppets. There are no other versions.

Any classical stuff you like that I left out? Let me know in the comments. Otherwise, join me again tomorrow, when I give you my list of my Top Ten Christmas Classics, and you can tell me why I'm an idiot.

Spent

I've been quiet the last few days, and I'm sorry, but it's been a big roller coaster and I just can't process everything. It's too much, too overwhelming. I really try not to be a whiner, and I really try not to use this blog as free therapy, but sometimes you need a brain dump, you know? And this is one of those times.

The Good News:
My husband finally found a job. After 17 months and a huge deal of wondering and worrying and kind of aimless wandering in the wilderness, and I don't even know how many interviews at I don't even know how many places, he finally found a job. He starts on the 27th. I am happy for him, and excited, but more than anything, I am relieved. We've made do on his unemployment and my paycheck, and we've been as smart and as frugal as we could so we haven't been hurting as much as so many other people have been, so the money was never really the issue. But already I can sense a change in my husband, a subtle and slight regaining of his confidence, and I glad he's getting his groove back, so to speak. I think the job is a restart for him, a basically entry-level job in his field, especially considering his experience, but I also think it's going to be a great opportunity for him, and he's going to be getting out of the house again, which is more fantastic than I can possibly tell you.

The Bad News:
Somebody stole the bistro table and chairs off our front porch overnight. I have absolutely zero idea why anybody would want it -- it's just some cheap little metal set from Wal-Mart that we got ten years ago -- but sometime between my last cigarette yesterday and my first cigarette this morning, someone took our stuff. All things considered, it's no big deal; nobody was hurt, nothing major was taken, nobody broke into our house or keyed our cars or anything like that. It's more of an annoyance than anything else, and I felt like a major tool having to call the police first thing in the morning. The cops were here before it was even fully light out. It's just -- somebody stole our stuff, you know? I would have sold it for next to nothing.

The Worse News:
We were at my parents' for a yard sale today (made $50 selling my kid's outgrown clothes, whoo!) and while we were there my uncle wandered off. My great-uncle, actually, my grandfather's sister's husband. He's 81 and has Alzheimer's, and he's staying at my parents' with his daughter while his wife, my great-aunt, is in the hospital under psychiatric evaluation. Her diagnosis is Lewy body dementia, which I've never head of before now, and I am not sure about the prognosis but I am not sure it's good. Anyway, sometime around lunchtime, my uncle went out for a walk and ... never came back. He was gone for more than hour, and we had four people out looking for him at one point. We called the police and they found him one township and about 5 miles away. Thankfully some nice lady saw him wandering around, lost and confused, and she brought him inside and gave him water and called the police herself. Apparently he decided that he was going to walk to the hospital to visit his wife. God bless his heart. I can't imagine how upsetting all of this must be for both of them. My husband's grandfather was right: getting old ain't for sissies.

The Worst News Of All:
The closed my grandparents' pool today, and we were not expecting it. We thought we had until next weekend. We packed our suits and everything, and were planning to go swimming this afternoon after the yard sale was over. I didn't even get to stick my feet in the water one last time. All day I was feeling this weird, vague sadness about the whole thing, and I just now realized why it bothers me so much: we might not get to go in that pool again. Ever again. I've been swimming in that pool for like 25 years, and last weekend might have been the last time I got a chance to do that. My grandparents are getting older every day, and their health is getting worse, and every time I see them, it might be for the last time. Probably I shouldn't say that, but the facts are what they are. They are old, and they are ill, and there is no way to know how much time they have left. I am not prepared for this, for what this means. I don't have many pictures of Shae with my grandparents, and we forgot the camera today. What if next weekend ... I don't want to think about it, and I know I have to, and I just can't. Right now I have pictures in my photostream that are ready to be posted, and I don't want to put them up, because I can't bear the thought that those could be the last pictures of my daughter in that pool. It's not just the pool, of course, but that is the only concrete thing I can wrap my head around. The pool might not be opened next summer, because. Because. Because of things that are entirely possible but just too horrible to think about. And now, after only a couple of nights of really relaxed sleep in 17 months (see: "The Good News"), I am going to go back to not sleeping at all again, and I am just so tired. I am an hour away, I only see my family for one day on the weekends, it already makes me crazy because I feel like there is more that needs to be done and I just can't do it, and I feel so guilty all the time, and ... I just can't. I'm exhausted. I'm spent. And tomorrow it will start all over again.

I Swear To God, I Used To Have A Life

It's getting to be that time again where I show you my fall TV schedule and My Anonymous Mother looks at it and basically goes, "Ugh, for this I paid all that money for college?" because apparently in my head M.A.M. is Yiddish. Would you like to see this year's pretty little chart? (If not, too bad, because here it comes anyway.)

(Incidentally, guess who just got a new color computer at work? THIS GAL, that's who.) (Well, it's the department's color printer, but STILL.)

The changes in shows and/or timeslots are highlighted. It looks kind of similar to last year's version, doesn't it? That's because THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN, people. I am basically watching the same shows as last year. There are only a couple of differences which I will discuss below:

• You will notice a marked lack of purple on this bad boy; that is because I never know when Top Chef, Project Runway, Burn Notice, White Collar, Psych, In Plain Sight -- basically, all my shows on cable -- actually stop and start. I will keep watching them as long as they are on (especially Burn Notice and White Collar because Jeffrey Donovan, Bruce Campbell, and Matthew Bomer are yummy) but I have no idea what time any of these shows actually air because I have a TiVo.
• Yes, I just said the Bruce Campbell is "yummy." I can't help myself. He is funny and charming and devilish and I have absolutely no defense against that demographic. I don't care if he is old enough to be my (sugar) daddy. Don't you judge me.
• Outside the cable shows, which were intentionally omitted, four shows are completely gone from the list -- Ugly Betty (finished), FlashForward (cancelled), NUMB3RS (finished), and Gossip Girl (too stupid to keep watching). Lost never appeared last year because it didn't have its season premiere until February, and it is the only show that I will actively miss. Thank God for the complete series on Blu-Ray, which of course we will be getting.
• Every year I say I am "done" with Survivor, and every time a new season starts I still get sucked back in. This time I am watching for two reasons: one, to see how long before Jimmy Johnson (yes, THAT Jimmy Johnson) sticks around -- hopefully not very -- and two, to see how badly the changes they keep making are wrecking my show.
• For the record, not that you asked, but I still stand by my assertion that Ethan Zohn is the best Survivor winner in history. He has a foundation. Go check it out. This is a public service announcement. Also, he is very, very funny and charming and have I mentioned that I have no defense against that demographic?
• Yes, I'm going to at least check out the "reboot" of Hawaii Five-O, because I am an asshole, and also because Daniel Dae Kim is lovely and charming and I am glad he has work so soon after Lost. Not entirely sure how I feel about Scott Caan, and I don't understand why CBS is so completely in love with Alex O'Laughlin, but come on -- Hawaii! Cops! "Book 'im, Danno!" You know you're going to watch, too, at least once.
• I would personally like to thank the television executives who made the decisions to move Survivor to Wednesdays and move Glee to Survivor's old timeslot on Thursdays Tuesdays (Ed.: fixed), because that resolved one of my most major scheduling conflicts. Now I only have one left, on Mondays at 8:00, and I am going to have a hard time deciding whether House or How I Met Your Mother gets bumped to repeats. Chuck stays put, always and forever, amen (because of the cute and charming and no defense and hello have you even been listening?).
• No, I don't know why The Defenders looks interesting, but it does.
• Big jeers to both ABC and NBC, who only have two shows each on this chart. Why can't you guys make good television, ABC and NBC? Modern Family and Community are fantastic. Chuck and Castle are great. MOAR PLZ.
• Dear CBS: When can I expect the next mortgage payment on my soul? Get that check in the mail STAT or I will stop watching CSI: NY, which kind of sucks any more anyway.
• I'm giving The Big Bang Theory another chance, even though I kind of didn't like it early in the show's run. If you must blame someone, blame Linda Holmes at NPR's Monkey See blog, who has been making quite a case for it. You can also give an assist to Wil Wheaton, who also loves the show and has been a guest more than once. I trust that Ensign Wesley Crusher will not steer me wrong.
• Gaaah, I still can't believe that I am going to voluntarily watch Jimmy Johnson on television. WTF is WRONG with me? Damn you, Mark Burnett! Damn you straight to hell!
• Oh hell yes I'll be watching Conan's new show when it airs. I will NOT be making that mistake again. Team Coco Forever!

Any other recommendations? Last year someone (my sister?) said something about Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice, but I can't get into them -- not a big soap fan, really (which is a large part of why I gave up on Gossip Girl -- that, and the unrelenting stupidity). I find Mad Men to be intolerably slow, and the entire concept of Breaking Bad scares me, but I am giving Rubicon (also on AMC) a shot. I missed out on BSG and I think I am a little late to the party for Eureka but if someone thinks they're worth trying to find on-demand I will see what I can do.

And for the love of all that is Good and Holy, let's hope that Jimmy Johnson does not win Survivor or my head will explode.

Somewhere, A Key Lime Pie Is Dying Of Loneliness

I am not 100% sure about this, but I think that the calorie restrictions from my diet are causing starvation-related brain damage, because for the last few days I have been seriously entertaining the notion of joining a gym.

And that, Gentle Readers, is CRAZY TALK.

I'll be the first person to tell you that a good 50% of the reason why I look like I do is because I am pretty much violently opposed to exercise of any sort. I hate sweating. It's gross, stinky, and there's really no way to look dignified while you're doing it -- at least, there isn't for me.

Which is funny, because literally half a lifetime ago, I was an athlete. Not exactly a world-class one, hardly even decent, but passable most days. My sport of choice? Swimming. Specifically, distance swimming. I used to swim the 500-yard race for my high school team, and I trained for the mile (1500m) event for the Y.

And let me tell you something: even you are not a particularly good distance swimmer, you train just the same as everyone else. You swim many, many miles a week, up and down the pool, over and over again, flip turn after flip turn, there and back again, lather rinse repeat, every day, sometimes twice, for two or more hours at a time. When I was in the most "intense" part of my training, I was swimming anywhere between 3-4 miles a day, and about 12-15 miles a week.

I know people who are in pretty darned good shape who don't RUN that much every week.

But that was the rub, of course. Swimming is a pretty solitary sport, and practices get boring and lonely fast. I would say that's doubly true when you train for long races. You get your program for the day and you do it, and while you're in a lane with other swimmers, you don't really interact with them much. There isn't time. You do your sets and you take your 45 seconds between 100's and during that 45 seconds you're trying to catch your breath. Everybody is competition, trying to beat you, to take your place on the leaderboard. You don't socialize, even if you wanted to. Your hips and knees and shoulders are jello and your brain turns to mush and all you want to do is be done so you can get out of the pool and throw up and then die on the floor in the locker room. Only to start all over again the next day.

I was not a good enough swimmer to earn a swimming scholarship, so when I got to college and found myself not on a team for a change, I allowed myself to enjoy the lack of routine. I didn't have to arrange my classes around a practice schedule. I kept saying that I would get in the pool to get some exercise, once I got settled in. Once I got a handle on all my classwork. Once I made a few more friends. Once I knew what my major was going to be. Once I memorized the calendar of free movies and plays and parties. Once I felt like I needed some exercise.

That day never came. I spent four years at Syracuse, and I never once saw the inside of the natatorium. I am not entirely sure that Syracuse actually has one.

Fast-forward 18 years in the future, to now -- and here we are. In the last half of my life, I have joined a gym three different times. Each time, I went a handful of times, and then got bored with the routine and frustrated with the changes I needed to make to my schedule. I don't like to be put out. I don't like to sacrifice. My time is mine, and I want to spend it doing something fun. Like watching "Phineas & Ferb." Or putting off doing laundry. Or bathing the cats.

Now I'm working really hard at losing weight. It's true what they say: it doesn't get any easier when you get older. But try telling that to any 18-year-old, and they'll laugh in your face. That's what I did when people tried to warn me. My "freshman 15" was more like a "freshman 50," what with stopping swimming and eating nothing but carbs in the dining hall and living for several semesters on ramen noodles, Pringles, microwave popcorn, and Mountain Dew. Since my freshman year, I've added another 50 pounds, and then some. Eighteen years of excess weight. And I want to lose that weight by next Labor Day.

Thus far, I've been doing fine with the calorie restrictions that my Lose It plan are setting for me, but I'm starting to feel like I should do more. I'm down more than a pant size, but not quite two, which is pretty awesome -- people are starting to notice. But instead of feeling better about myself by degrees, I am starting to get more critical. Around my middle, where my chunk used to be smooth and solid, I am looking lumpy and jiggly. Smaller, but jigglier. I am starting to feel self-conscious about my flappy old-lady chicken arms. If I want to attempt to put on a bikini next summer (and in the back of my mind, this is one of my goals), then I am going to have to do more than starve.

So a gym it is, then, right? But how can I justify the expense when my husband is still out of work? The local Y costs more than $80 a month for a family plan, and more than $50 if it's just me. That's a really lot of money, especially because I'd only be using the pool and the weight room. They have eleventy million different classes, all kinds of stuff I'd love to do, but everything is at 9:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, and I can't leave work for a bellydance fitness class. I was thinking about a gym chain with locations right near home and on my way to and from work, with a pool and a gym and conveniently-scheduled yoga and Pilates classes, and that's only $9 a week. But I've seen the people coming in and out of that gym, and they're already young and fit and out of my league, and I don't want to be judged by strangers in bicycle shorts.

Plus, I really, really hate exercise. Really hate it. I don't want to do it. I know I should, because it's only a matter of time before I am down to only 1,200 calories a day, and nobody wants to live like that, plus I don't want to be thin but unfit. I want to look good. I want to have nice toned arms and strong legs and a cute booty. I'll never have six-pack abs and I'll probably always have a little pooch in the tummy, but I want to be flexible. And confident. Which I've really never been in my entire adult life.

But mostly, I want to be able to eat key lime pie without eating nothing but carrots for three days.

Desperation Samba

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the week before the week before vacation is the worst week of the entire year. I can't put my clothes in the suitcase, because I haven't changed my mind about what I want to pack enough times yet. I can't really switch to autopilot at work, because there are still projects and deadlines that need to be met before I go. And I can't really go grocery shopping, because if I do, and we don't eat every. single. thing. in the house before we leave, then you just know that while we're away we'll have a major electrical storm and my house will be without power for 4 days and the basement will flood and the toilet will overflow and everything in the fridge and the freezer will spoil and we'll get rats and bugs and squatters and looting and our home will be condemned and we'll have to live in our cars or even worse -- WE'LL NEED TO MOVE IN WITH MY MOTHER.

So this week we're doing what I like to call the "desperation samba," a very carefully choreographed dance that involves cleaning out the current provisions and making meals out what basically amounts to random crap in my freezer and cupboards. Mysterious baggies of ground meat. Baked beans of unverifiable provenance. Canned soup out the wazoo. Cereal and PB&J for supper, with sides of creamed corn and freezer-burned lima beans. I mean, yes, we'll go to the store for absolute essentials, like milk and bread and the occasional fruit or vegetable, but my husband is under very strict orders should that unfortunate eventuality occur: quarts of milk only, smallest loaves of bread you can find, only three ears of corn. Our biggest splurge in the last two weeks was buying two pounds on strawberries last Sunday, and we did that only because, hey, we really like strawberries in our house, and I knew they'd get eaten.

I will say this much: doing this? Living like complete savages? It takes a lot of cojones, and confidence in your own cooking abilities. I like to think of myself as a better-than-average home cook, and I pride myself on my ability to make a meal out of basically anything, provided that I have access to basic herbs, spices, and bouillon cubes. But making meals out of scavenged foodstuffs is part skill, part alchemy, part divination, part illusion, and part faith, with a big heaping swig of ballsiness thrown in: "Oh, yes, you WILL eat what I am feeding you."

This is the kind of wackaloony stuff I've served to my actual family this week for dinner:

• Browned loose sweet Italian sausage with chopped onions and canned diced tomatoes, served over elbow macaroni that was tossed with butter and Parmesan cheese
• Thawed package of pre-cooked chicken with a sell-by date of November 2009, with some kind of noodly stuff
• Zucchini gratin -- sliced zucchini sauteed with olive oil and Italian seasoning, with toasted breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese added
• Frosted mini-wheats cereal

I mean, yeah, this is totally a first-world problem -- "oh, poor poor pitiful me, I am serving my family food that we bought maybe two weeks ago but that we had to properly store in the refrigerator or freezer until we got around to using it" -- and it's more than partly my own fault since I'm such a cheapskate, but still. When was the last time you served chicken to your kid that had been in the freezer for 8 months? I just don't want to waste money on stuff that will just sit around while I am laughing it up at the beach, and I don't want to take two chicken breasts if I don't have enough to share with everyone.

Now do you see why I worry about drinking?

Does This Mai-Tai Make My Butt Look Big?

I was having a bit of a freak-out this morning because it occurred to me, later than perhaps it should have, that I won't be able to spend my entire vacation sitting around drinking blue stuff in giant vats with paper umbrellas while I'm on vacation because (1) we'll be there with small impressionable children, and (2) I understand the service at public beaches is terrible, and also (3) I kind of don't want my diet to go completely off the rails at this point.

Don't worry, this isn't going to become a full-time "listen to rockle whine about her diet" blog. Because I am not unhappy with it, or anything. No sir: I just had blueberry waffles and sausage and actual real-live syrup for breakfast, BECAUSE I CAN. But what I can't do is pretend to be a total sloppy lush while I'm away for a week, unless I plan on eating nothing but grapes and pistachios the rest of the time, because of all the calories in my delicious beloved rum drinks.

I mean, I could do that, I suppose, but why would I want to? There is a Ben & Jerry's in Beach Haven, and I can already hear it calling my name.

So I'm trying to set things up for myself so I can enjoy myself, and enjoy enjoying myself, without feeling the least bit guilty about it. And after I scoured the Intarwebtubes for recipes (there are more than I thought there would be, but many involve weird ingredients that I have never heard of before) it occurred to me that I had the answer right in front of me the whole time.

SPOILER ALERT: I'll be drinking diet Cuba Libres -- rum and Diet Coke with Lime. (And fresh lime wedges, of course, because I think I'm all fawncey.) It's kind of absolutely hysterical, because why is Diet Coke with Lime my favorite kind of Diet Coke in the whole wide world and all of the Heavens above, amen? Because it already tastes like a Cuba Libre.

But I might also try this thing called a "Bikini Blueberry," which sounds like a nice little fruity concoction, and only about 115 calories or so per drink, plus a piece of fruit!

Bikini Blueberry
1¼ oz. pineapple vodka
3 oz. diet blueberry juice
1½ oz. club soda (or flavored diet seltzer)
pineapple chunk for garnish

Who's going to try it with me? Cocktails on the back deck in 9 days.

Pack Rat

In 10 days we leave for vacation. This time on that fateful morning, I will be running around the house like the proverbial headless chicken, shrieking and panicking as we start to load up the car, constantly doing an inventory of what we have and what we need and what we forgot. Where is the umbrella? Did we pack the toothbrushes? What about underpants? Deodorant? Beach towels? That one weird kitchen tool that nobody knows what it's for or even how to use it but you know the second we arrive at the rental house we're going to suddenly realize that it is a Vitally Important Utensil? Do we have enough lighters? I only have five in my purse, will that be enough?

Yes: I am aware that I am off-the-charts bananapants crazy and possibly certifiable.

I've been sort of stealthily packing my own stuff for a few weeks already -- stuff I know I want to put in the suitcase that I can manage to do without until then. Some new shirts that I would like to be seen in by my mother at least once before there is a food stain in the bosomal area. A pair of shorts that don't quite fit yet but that should be okay by the time we go. The new outfit I got for when my sister and I go to a concert in Atlantic City. I am not packing a whole lot, because there will be a washing machine, but of course in the next ten days I will reconsider and revise and revamp and reimagine my entire "resort collection."

Which is ridiculous, because I'll just end up packing the same stuff I already have set aside anyway. But then, I am not always the sharpest tool in the crayon box.

We have also already started packing up the non-perishables in the ice chest:

See if you can identify the one thing in there that will definitely NOT be coming out.

Something Strange Is Happening

I don't know what's going on this summer, but something strange is happening. I mean, something very, very odd and funny. And not "ha-ha" funny, either, but funny as in "oh, God, no!" But nevertheless, there it is: I am having a good time having a boring life.

Look, I am absolutely the Queen of Manufactured Drama. My special talents are jumping to conclusions and making mountains out of molehills. It's part of why I wanted to study television in college -- perhaps, if I knew something about how to write a script, I could kind of force things to happen the way I wanted them too.

Or at least have a good comeback when the Universe dropped a steaming turd in my oatmeal.

But I'll be damned if taking a three-year-old to an amusement park on the hottest day of the year and watching her have a hell of a time on every single ride isn't the quickest way to kick your blues in the ass that I have ever seen.

Who'd've thunk?

Leader of the Pack

My Anonymous Mother the yard-sale ninja got Shae a Big Wheel for $1 -- A DOLLAR! -- and we spent Sunday pushing it around the pool. Because what else do you do with a Big Wheel but push it around the pool? Hello? Have you met my kid?

I think she makes hilarious faces.

Here is picture her getting stuck in her first traffic jam.

And here she is telling the driver who just cut her off to go somewhere else and do unspeakable things to himself and/or his dog. Honestly, I don't know where kids pick these things up.

All told, even though we can't quite reach the pedals yet (she's just a little too short, maybe just two or three inches) and we're not really sure how exactly to work the pedals anyway, we do really like the Big Wheel.

I am just counting the minutes until that sucker ends up in the pool.

... And Now A Word From The Voices In My Head

There has not been a whole lot going on in my life these days, and the weather just finally turned nice starting today, so while I was trying to invent some blog content for today, I decided to send some questions to myself via the pretty little Formspring box over yonder, and then answer them, and post the answers here. I submitted the questions yesterday, and then the Internet broke or something, I don't know, it was all technical and involved wires I think, so I wasn't able to answer myself until today. Overnight some of the answers changed, except for one. So that question goes first, and then the rest are in pretty much random order.

Can we see pictures of the infamous backpack?
     No.

So how come nobody is asking you any questions?
     I don't know. I blame the previous administration, the unusually high pollen counts, and the fact that I am butternuts crazy. Also, probably nobody even knows what Formspring even is. I'm not sure I do, and I'm the one with the stinkin' widget on my blog.

Would you rather be a famous musician or a famous actor?
     Who says I can't be both? Oh, but wait -- do we consider "kazoo players" to be musicians? And do we consider "comediennes" to be actors? Because that's what I want to be -- a world-famous kazoo-playing comedienne with her own musical variety show. And while I'm dreaming, my first and most favoritest guest will be Kristin Chenoweth, and she will be on my show at least once a quarter, and she will sing and I will play the kazoo and we will dance, dance, dance and it will be AWESOME.
     C'mon -- you KNOW you want to watch that show. The cast of "Glee" will be our house band, and we'll have a dunk tank.

{Ed. Note: The above question was a random, Formspring-generated question that popped up while I was waiting for my anonymously-self-submitted questions to appear in my inbox. It's completely coincidental that the question which immediately follows is tangentially related.}

If you could be on any TV show, past or present, what show would it be?
     Since this is my own fake question, I am going to amend it thusly: "... TV show, past or present OR FUTURE, what show ..."
     Because the show I would be on does not yet exist, because I just invented it in my head last night while I was watching "Glee" to relax from my nerdrage over something stupid that happened in World of Warcraft.
     (Yes, I still play that game. Because virtually blowing stuff up and melting off faces from time to time is FUN, yo. Don't you judge me.)
     Anyway, if I could be on any TV show, it would my own rockle-branded musical variety reality show. (See above question, also.)
     Plus there would be monkeys. Monkeys in the dunk tank.

What is the funniest thing you've seen on the internet this week?
     Oh, man, it was the thing with Twitter, Temerity Jane, and the "baby rabies." Probably because just the term "baby rabies" is hysterical. Admit it. {Ed. Note: That linked TJ blog post does not actually contain the words "baby rabies" -- that shows up in the comments -- but anyway. It's a long post, and maybe not all that interesting to most, but I thought it was a great piece. And the comments are classic.}
     I know what the phrase is actually referring to, but in my head I picture an army of tiny little mammals -- baby humans, bats, puppies, raccoons, etc. -- in their diapers, toddling around, foaming at the mouth, trying to snuggle you to death.
     And it's just a whole lot of fun to say it over and over again: "Baby rabies, baby rabies, baby rabies, baby rabies."

Really? You're not going to let us see pictures of the backpack?
     Okay, FINE. Here.

This is a comparison of the new backpack (on the right) with the old backpack. As you can see, the new one is taller and a bit thinner, but it's "deeper" and it also has all kinds of straps and stuff so that it will stay up if Shae ever takes it hiking or something. The penguin bag is more of a bookbag.

And here is the backpack in action. Well, in "action," since we put it on over our pajamas. You can see that it's a perfect size for her -- maybe a leetle on the big side, but she'll grow into it. It's got a lot of zippers and gewgaws and whatnots and a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time. Oh, and a whistle. She already loves it and keeps all her "cool stuff" in it, like her map that I printed at work.

And her paper-towel-tube spyglass. (She uses the toilet paper tubes as megaphones, but she calls them "saxophones." Haha.)

Anyway, if you ever have a totally random question that you want me to answer, you can always leave it in the comments, or you can type it in that there Formspring box over there and I'll answer it for you. Or, I'll try to. Or maybe I'll make something up.

Litany of Worries

I worry about everything all the time. I worry that my spring bulbs aren't going to bloom this year. I worry that my summer flowers will not survive the choking weeds in my back flower beds. I worry that we're going to have grubs in the front yard.

I worry about how much I worry. I worry what people think of me when I wear my Crocs in public. I worry that I will never again be able to wear a pair of stretch pants without looking like a homeless former circus clown.

I worry that I am not getting enough sleep. I worry that I am not getting enough calcium. I worry that I am not getting enough fiber. I worry that I am eating too much red meat. I worry that I am not getting enough fruits and vegetables. I worry that a grown-ass woman with a full-time job shouldn't eat Lucky Charms for dinner two nights a week.

I worry that I am ever-so-slowly but ever-so-surely losing my mind. I worry that I spend too much time playing World of Warcraft. I worry that I will never get my Loremaster achievement. I worry that I will never again be fully happy at work. I worry that my husband will never find a job. I worry that when he does I will have to do laundry again. I worry whether it is possible to die under a pile of unmatched socks.

I worry that maybe I need a vacation. I worry that maybe my only vacation this year will feature tents, worms, and my cousin Jason's stinky shoes. I worry that I will never again stay in a hotel with a swim-up bar. I worry that I will never see Paris. I worry that I will never see Dublin. I worry that I will never see Rio de Janeiro. I worry that I will never see Cairo. I worry that this perpetual hum of barely-controlled panic is probably not healthy.

I worry that I might have toenail fungus. I worry that I will lose my toenail before sandal season. I worry that I will lose my toe. I worry about a couple of freckles that look funny. I worry that I can't remember when I last had a Pap smear. I worry that this sinus thing is actually brainworms. I worry that maybe I watch too much "Fringe." I worry that maybe I should be on anti-psychotics or at least anti-depressants.

I worry that my frown lines and crow's feet are turning into worry furrows. I worry that we'll never get around to making the repairs we need to make to the house. I worry that we'll be stuck there forever. I worry that my daughter won't be able to get into a good college because we live in a crappy school district. I worry that we are not giving her the life she deserves. I worry that we are not giving ourselves the life we deserve.

I worry about not being able to take care of our parents as they get older. I worry about my grandparents. I worry about my sisters. I worry about the cats. I worry about that stupid mouse and whether we're ever going to catch him before he gives us all hantavirus. I worry about gingivitis and when it's time to get my oil changed. I worry about global warming and world peace and gay rights and birthers and wingnuts and moonbats and loonballs.

I worry about what the hell the world is coming to. I worry that maybe I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. I worry that it's all worse than I thought. I worry that it actually isn't.

Stay (Wasting Time)

We had to take our cat Owen to the vet yesterday, and we didn't want to take Shae because we weren't sure how the combination of "sick animals" and "adorable puppies and kittens" was going to go, so like any responsible parent, I ran interference and took her to McDonald's for supper.

She and I don't get to spend much time alone together any more. Since G got laid off, he's been responsible for getting her dressed and fed in the mornings, getting her to and from school, making dinner and entertaining her until I get home from work. Having some "Mommy-and-Me" time was a nice change.

I was hoping we'd get a chance to go outside and run around at the park after dinner, but "Kung Fu Panda" ran longer than I thought, so we didn't even leave the house until almost dark. We sat at a table near the drive-thru line so she could watch the cars pull up and make faces at herself in the window.

Her favorite car was a shiny red Mustang. "Mommy, for my birthday I'm gonna buy that car and I'm gonna drive YOU to 'Donnel's' for dinner and we can have ICE CREAM!" she said. "Donnel's" is what she calls McDonald's. She can say "herbivore" but not McDonald's. Kids are hysterical. And I love how she thinks she can reach the pedals.

Owen was admitted to the vet hospital, and they kept him overnight. Poor little guy was dehydrated, with a low fever and an infection. I feel like the worst pet-parent ever. He is doing better this morning, but I worry. Shae can't want for him to come home, so she can give him treats and snuggles and loving. Me either, for the same reasons. We're hoping to hear back soon.

Dancing with the Dorks

I admit to watching almost every competitive reality program on television -- my on-again-off-again love affair with "Survivor" goes back to Season 2 in Australia, and I keep lobbying friends, relatives, neighbors, co-workers, random strangers on the Internet, etc., to be on "The Amazing Race" with me, and the number of text-message votes I have cast for "American Idol" borders on the irrational, just to give you a few examples -- but I have never really gotten into "Dancing with the Stars."

I'm not sure why, because I'm pretty sure that I am exactly the target audience for that show. I mean, why wouldn't I be? I enjoy dancing, corny jokes, people acting like fools on national TV, dinging gaydar, handsome Russians, perky Mormons, that wacky Bruno guy (especially when he appears on "The Soup"), swirly skirts, tuxedo unitards, and of course glitter, plus I find Tom Bergeron to be basically inoffensive as it appears the Constitution requires, so this show should be right up my alley. Except ...

Making A List, Checking It Twice (Or Maybe For The 30th Time In Case Something Got Done For You By The Christmas Fairies While You Weren't Looking)

(Insert "Waaaaaaaambulance" sound effects here.)

So at this point there are 11 days left until Christmas, only 10 more shopping days, and I am starting to think that maybe I am screwed, because my "To-Do" list is getting longer and longer every day, and at this point I think I've come back around again to leftover holiday tasks from 2008 that didn't get completed. I just can't tell any more -- it's all so hectic and stressful and at 8:00 in the morning I kind of already need a good stiff drink, and maybe an Ativan.

I manage to freak myself out every year, to the point where now it's kind of a running gag in my house. When I get home from work I half expect G to ask me, "So what did you forget to do today?" I complained about this last year, and I'll probably complain about it next year, too (but I am not made of magic so I can't link to a future post that hasn't been written yet). "Bitching about Christmas chores" is one of the Universal Constancies, right up there with "The Princess Bride will always be funny" and "Perkin'ses are always the same everywhere."

It's just -- I look at this list and I kind of want to run away and join the circus. The bulk of my shopping is done, in the sense of "the most expensive presents," but I still have about eleventy thousand little piddling gifts to get, and larger stuff I put off until my next paycheck tomorrow. Things for cousins and friends' kids and co-workers, and also G's "big" gift, and most of the gifts for my mother-in-law. Stocking stuffers for one of my sisters and her husband. The cards need to be finished. And I haven't even had time to think about whether I'm going to bake and make candy or not.

Yeah, it's going about this well.