Sassafrass

I can't stop pushing play

I needed some music this morning. I needed to wake-up. I wanted to get going. I was hoping to clear out some of the clutter of to-do lists and things to remember and stuff I want to write about and when the hell am I going to get the laundry done -- all of that out of my head so I could just write. And even before the writing, just sit at my desk and let the sun creep across my keyboard and let the words come together before I put them up on my screen. For that, I needed a soundtrack.

And so I clicked on YouTube and there was an Emmy Rossum song on the homepage. She's adorable, yes, but she's not on my radar. I'm not one of those Phantom-obsessed twinkly music grrls, and so even if I did know she was putting out CDs, that recognition was lost behind something by Pink or Ani or even (shhh) Colbie. But there she was and this song was -- this song...oh, this song -- and I clicked it.

And now I can't stop pushing play. I don't even know how many times I've played this song today, I just know I need to hear these words, this melody, the message.

I love hoodoo-guru-y things enough to know that if I open myself to the messages the universe is sending me, I will see them, feel them, and in this case, hear them. Sometimes, the messages are whispers. Sometimes they are songs synthesized out of an overused, overheated, overwhelmed laptop.

The lyrics say something like, "Save me / Someone take my hand / Lead me." No one needs to do that for me, but I can take the words for myself. Every single time I replay the song, I feel like it sinks in deeper that it is OK for me to slow myself down. If someone else steps in to help me press pause for even longer, well then...that would be just fine too.

For now, a Friday, I will slow down by logging off a little bit early, packing up the boy and giving into the rush hour traffic we will sit in on our way to the lake. When I get there, I won't have any kind of internet connection and very little cell phone reception. So I may just press play for myself, to myself, and sing the words I now know over and over again.

(The video on the link is much better but this little one's embeddable and will do, thank you very much).

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Punchlines Edition

I couldn't decide whether to list this column about George Carlin first or last, just that I wanted other people to read it. It's by Jerry Seinfeld, a quick read that's the concise kind of lyricism I strive for as a blogger and writer and comic to an audience of one (sometimes one-plus-kid in a booster seat). You don't have to click any other link below, but do read this one.

Who knew? I'm listed here as a favorite motherhood blog. Well, to be honest, I'm not listed as a blog, Sassafrass is listed as a blog. Sometimes, though, it's hard to tell the difference, isn't it?

Lil E loves this show. It freaks me out. I just do not get why animals from Australia who talk, politic and watch TV are so compelling to a preschooler.  But then I also do not get Dragon Tales, Caillou or (shudder) Scooby Doo and the kid's crazy about those too.  Shouldn't animals on kiddie TV be reporting about fake Olympics or putting steaks on their black eyes,  not manipulating their way into being mayor of some Earth core jungle village? What is going on in the world?

Maybe I shouldn't go on too much. Rob & Big still makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis. No animals running for office, but plenty of goofery all it's own and just enough dorm-room entertainment to keep me preoccupied until (oh now I'm just shameful) The Hills returns.

This is not a shoe blog: Because in order to stop talking about knockers, I need to talk about shoes

The rain clouds have cleared and the sun is calling me away from my laptop. Or at least, away from my work on the laptop. It's Friday, so that means a happy hour of shoe perusal will light me up more than a pom mojito and hefeweizen chaser.

And why not? My work today has centered on posts about bedtime routines, Mischa Barton's cellulite, sunscreen and getting your roots done in a timely manner -- how much more demanding can my day get? Clearly, it's time to knock off the hard work (not to mention the knocker talk of previous posts) and end this week once and for all. So, on to shoes and to four foot-focused questions that have really been on my mind this week:

First, with the birth of Jamie Lynn's bundle of love and adorably inevitable dysfunction, I'm wondering what flip-flops y'allses are wearing this summer? You know, around the $3 million crazy compound or park or trailer park or whatever. I picked up five pairs that are cheap, cute and can be trashed recycled as easily as any Spears sister (oh snap).

 
Second, no matter how cute they might be, is there any way in hell you think you could feel good about wearing Playboy brand shoes? Is there any little possibility -- no matter how cute -- you could wear these wedges without feeling like you also need to apologize incessantly, get a Brazilian and then take a long walk on the beach while enjoy your favorite thing, the smell of fresh rain?

Third, in the words of the ever-articulate Jessica Simpson, "Oh. Mah. Gaw." It is official (this is me talking now, not that other Jess), Re-Run from What's Happening officially comes in a shoe. Or will in the next few days at a muffin-top-XXXLowRise promoting teen retailer near you.

Fourth and final and speaking of Our Lady of Romance and Inappropriate Fathers, how is it that she's so not good at singing and stuff and still makes such sweet, sweet shoes? You do think she  produces all her own preliminary shoe sketches, don't you? Don't you? (How long do these lovelies need to whisper my name before I finally allow them to come home with me and live on my closet floor?)

Now you stomp it out: What shoe snark are you pondering today?

How you know your friends know you too well

First, she's not only seen your boobs, she's seen the Before Boobs and After Boobs. And she has definite opinions on both (all four? what's the proper numeric assignment on that?).

Second, she needs up-to-the-minute (and preferably texted) information on all things boy-related. This isn't optional and it can be accompanied by snorts or shiraz (either is good). It is a full-on teched-up sixth grade giggle fest, minus the headgear and padded bras (well, on some of us).

Finally, she sends you links like this one. In the middle of the work day, following one conference call and before a deadline. No words, no messages, no witty repartee. Just a link because that's all it takes. She knows you will get why. She knows you will laugh and poke fun and let the sarcastic comments fly but then will surely begin to crave the lovely luciteness, even just for a bit of fun at BlogHer. Or to trade off when one of you finally installs a pole in the playroom, convincing the kids of your intense admiration for the dedicated men and women in the Chicago Fire Department and yourself of the fabulous ab workout pole-robics really is (no, really). Or just to throw on and wrap around and around your calves while posting on...I don't know, natural remedies and inappropriately-named cocktails and toxic baby whatevers. She also knows you won't actually order them (even though the idea of owning a pair of Promiscuous brand anything is overwhelmingly tempting) because you can so feed your newfound bra-lust with eighty bucks.

Yes, she knows you well. Too well, maybe. And that's why you not only heart her back, you're blowing off the rest of the day just to page through Zappos until you find the perfect link to ping back (like these, for when boots are just too...oooohhhh hot...and platforms are still the protocol, which can totally happen when you are a working mom in the big city).

Booooooobs

Nothing like a Monday morning to really get the grrrls perky. And when I say the grrrls, I mean THE GRRRLS and the grrls.

I'm off to the Boobologist, not only a nicety because I am a nearly-divorced lady who could always use a little extra oomph!, but also because I'm (ahem) hanging out with two of my favorite blogger women friends.

Feel free to use the comments to guess who and to weigh in on whether it is better to wear your best bra when you visit someone who refers to herself as the Boobologist, or your most pathetic, especially if the point (oh God) is to come out of their looking rackalicious. Any thoughts?


Ta-ta for now!

Linkety Dinkety Doo: The credit, the catchy and the completely irritating

This story has a bittersweet ending. The mom-spiration for Family Circus (come on...you know you read it, it can't be helped) passed away after suffering from Alzheimer's. The sweet part is her husband's recognition of her legacy. How rarely we hear a man credit his wife for all of her success. (P.S. I'm biased but I always thought FC mommy had totally cute hair).

Another thing that can't be helped: Singing along to these two songs. I've tried to resist but apparently, it's futile. I keep on singing, keep on singing, keep keep singing.

Welcome to Cord Blood Banking Scam 2.0. While I fully support stem cell research (FULLY support it), I get irate really easily when the subject of how vulnerable parents are preyed upon to invest thousands of dollars to bank their newborn's cord blood.  After doing lots and lots of comprehensive research, I opted to donate Lil E's cord blood (even though it ended up costing me to do it) and felt so much better about that. You may feel differently, but read this article about how some people feel compelled to extract stem cells from their kid's teeth (not cheap, mind you). Here's the bite: There's no science to back up the extraction. Pass this story on to your mama and papa friends. In fact, make ditto copies and hand it out at the park!

Grocery or Gabbana?: More shoes I found on Facebook

I can't help it. I'm apparently a social network advertiser's afternoon delight. I see the shoe ads over and over and over and get pissed because they're there all customized-like and taunting me. Then four minutes later, I'm clicking like I have a J-lo shoe budget and a Kimora closet to hold them all.

Now that you've weighed in on whether these gold numbers are Hoochy or Hawt, play along with another gold pair that desperately need your attention.  Or at least your judgment. Feel free to be harsh. These aren't people or ethical decisions, kittens. They're freaking shoes. Gold shoes. They need your stern eye and sense of style-entitlement.

Today's game is called (cue the band):

                    Are these shoes
                    good for the grocery store
                    or should they be saved for
                    a Saturday celeb brunch
                    with Debra Messing and Demi Moore?

                    (see these babies after the jump)

Hoochy or Hawt: What do you think of these shoes I crave?

Remember how this is not a shoe blog? Well, it's still not. Just humor me, kittens. Humor me and play along in the game.

You know...the game where I finally give in to effing Facebook and click the customized ad for Betsy Johnson and other adorable and completely compellingly clickable shoes and find twelve pairs of $350 heels I feel are imperative to my quality of life. Particularly, post-marriage quality of life.

While I am too committed to (gulp) financial freedom at this point (look at me, all Suze Orman and what-not) to buy all of the shoes I lust after (or rather, any $350 pairs), a grrrl can dream. And strategize. And call on all the fabulous women she knows to answer:

Are These Shoes Hoochy or Hawt?
(you can see them shine after the jump) 

I can't believe I'm saying this, but: Thank you, Jenna Bush

No, not because you chose to have an "intimate" and "casual" wedding that Papa Bush said was a "spectacular" event anyway. And not because you had a limestone cross custom-made and erected as your altar. And not because you chose fourteen attendants dressed in wildflower-inspired colors or that a parade was held in your honor while you sipped mimosas with the Barbaras and Mama Bush while Bobbi Brown or similar did your au naturale marital make-up and coif on good old Texas soil.

But thank you for all the people who've searched "Jenna Bush wedding" in the last week to find photos and details and inspiration to tuck into their own bridal binders (not that I am anywhere near to judging the bridal binder...hell, I am nearly divorced and still covet mine like...well, like a limestone cross altar) and have found lil ol' Sassafrass. All because of this post, thrown up in a moment of sheer, embarrassing obsession with all those dress designs.

Thank you, Jenna, for getting married and throwing so many searches my way. That was the best darn wedding favor I've ever left with, especially from a "spectacular" event I didn't even attend.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to thank Jillian Michaels, all of her fans who believe they are leaving comments directly to her on this post where I talk about not being Jillian Michaels but rather, her mere mortal interviewer.

Finally, I'd like to thank all the people who faithfully search "vulva shots" and land upon this little riff on our old pal Crazeh Commando Brit.

Let's also not forget the people in the balcony, God and motorcycle helmet law opposers who leap on every opportunity they can get to scream supposedly patriotic sentiments and defend everyone else's "right" to traumatic brain injuries (but it's cool...freedom of speech and all that).

To all of us here on this little comfy couch stashed in this little corner of the internets: This traffic trophy's for all of you!

(OK, it's for me. But I will totally share the Costco sheet cake at the after party).

Why I keep coming back

You know how in 12-step programs, everyone claps at the end of meetings and says, "Keep coming back, man!" Well, maybe you don't know but you've heard. From a friend. Or a roommate or whatever.

The point is that you may struggle but when in doubt, just keep coming back to meetings, one at a time. I've heard before (from a friend or roommate or whatever) that coming back in those iffy moments is what holds a recovery together.

Before I get any deeper into this metaphor which cannot be a sane or valid metaphor to make, let me get to my point (oh my God, if I was in a 12-step meeting, I've just realized I'd be the rambly grrrl who everyone claps for and says "Keep coming back, sister!" before she is actually done talking...sigh).

The reason I am coming back (to the old blog -- see? bad metaphor) is this here best bloggy thing ever.

Oh. Hell. Naw.

Or rather:  Oh. Hello Kittification. Naw.

Not only does this blog banner alone make me laugh, the whole post had me rolling. Oh, and considering how I might look with some sarcastic Hello Kitty arm-piece when I'm blogging at 92.

How can you not come back to post when you read something like, "...common decency is suspended and the sacrilege event of mixing Hello Kitty with other pop culture icons –which should not happen in the worst of nightmares — is common place" ?

Who would I tell? My preschooler (who thinks anything with the words poop and face in the same sentence are pure hilarity)? My parents (who also as retired folk think many things about poop are far too funny)? I get enough courtesy laughs in my offline life, my friends. I had to come back just to get a real, virtual chuckle along with me. It wasn't even a choice anymore. I had to post to share this with you, oh internets. To share my blogcovery with you.

Consider me standing and clapping my friends. Standing and clapping.

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Oh, dang

Oh, Madge. False alarm. It's all good. You can still come to my finalizing fete.

Oh, Dooce. I knew you were listening in between doggie pics and antique pilfering. I just had a feeling you've been reading my little itty bitty baby blog. And I suspected we had similar tastes in crap TV.

Oh, honey. O, honey. It's just fine with me if you have a little air of superiority about your gold stars.  As long as the gold stars keep on coming (yes, those gold stars), who really cares how they (ahem) fall into your lap?

Oh, hell naw. See? I told you living with retired folk can be crazy. Thank the goddesses of small domesticated creatures my parents didn't read this article when poor little Corky kicked it last summer. Seriously, people. There's animal-loving and then there's that point when you may need to stop thinking about heirloom preservation fur crafts and start considering adding a few more hours to your Home Depot greeter schedule. (Thanks for building the dog hair awareness, Jenn.)

Madonna and I finally have something in common

I mean, other than these rockin' bodies and countless hit singles. Of course, Madonna, being the apparent planner and PR-machine that she is, is planning her divorce (get this) a year-and-a-half in advance.

A year-and-a-half!? Seriously? I hope she writes some a song explaining all this shit, like she did when all that went down with Sean Penn and the world was like, "WHAT THE --??!!" and then heard her song and was like, "Ohhhhh, now we get it.  Now we feel you, friend." You know people will be pointing the finger at their complicated adoption of baby David, which is exactly what I am completely uninterested in hearing. I mean, do we really need the agony of another marriage gone down the drains because a kid was brought into the picture story (not that I'm bitter)? Anyway, I vote for Madonna to give us some sort of poppy, rhymey perspective on the end of her marriage instead.

Let's hope for that. And then let's hope the explanation doesn't come in the form of a children's book or with a half-assed British accent. If she has 18 months to finalize the paperwork, she clearly has plenty of opportunity to sit down at the keyboard with a yellow steno pad and hammer out a few verses, right?

I know she does all kinds of charitable work and has to choreograph the next big tour no one will talk about but, a year-and-a-half?! I cannot get over that.

Suddenly, standing nakey on a street corner to pose for a coffee table book and ending it with Warren Beatty isn't looking so crazy. Unless she's got this all worked out as a way to tighten the screws on her Guy. If that's the case, I happen to have memorized the number of another (ahem) person's certain almost-ex that she is welcome to strategize slow-dripping dissolution techniques on when she gets bored of torturing her own hubs.

Maybe this is a sign for me that I need to take up Pilates and Kaballah. Or record the dance remix of a flagging mid-90s hit that will appeal to all the adorable Project Runway-committed boys just now coming up in the clubs. Or maybe it is just the universe telling me that I should go a little blonder the next time I spend four days and a gajillion dollars getting my hair did by Silvia at the salon.

Whatever it is, I hear you, Madge. For the first time since Justify My Love, I am really, really hearing you.

Ohhhhh, you're supposed to update these things?

It has been a long and winding week. I am happy to have a lot of work that makes me happy. And I had a settlement meeting that means my divorce is actually moving forward. Then there is the exhausting daily blessing of bedtime and stories and Candyland and wiping a runny nose and doing half-ballet/half-stumble moves to navigate over plastic cars and tools and bracelets I thought had disappeared completely as I step out of the shower. Don't forget the phone calls that never get returned and the emails I keep reading and marking as unread so I remember to respond to them and then keep not responding to anyway. Add the thousands of Post-It to-do lists and the packed-full and scratched out and doodled on calendar. Oh, and the facial. Remember how I promised myself a facial months ago?

I know, I know. Get over myself. We're all here on this crowded, mildewy-smelling, over-scheduled boat. All I'm saying is, here are a few things that made me stop worrying about all the rocking back and forth and just enjoy the loveliness on the horizon and all around me, if only for a moment (or post) or two.

This made me teary. And it made me so grateful I know so many women who are so gifted and brilliant and amazing and inspiring.

This made me laugh out loud. And wonder what ever happened to my Miss Piggy lunchbox.

This made me grab my credit card.  At a bridal shower where we made our own custom 1154 Lill bags (shut up if you think you had to be a Trixie in 2001 to have one of these...they are still as killer as ever, baby), I was so entranced by the fabrics I almost couldn't (gasp) design my own bag. Alas, it was these three sumptuous don't-even-think-of-putting-your-preschooler-soy-butter-hands -on-this-masterpiece fabrics that won my heart on a sweet little reversible bag that I swear I will love always. Or at least until my next purse party. The pics don't do the swatches justice...just gorg.

This keeps me up at night. I kid you not. Sure, this show is on MTV and is like watching the goofy guys in the back of your Human Sexuality class in college doodle on the pictures in the textbook. But just like back then, I cannot help myself. I dare you to watch and a) not laugh out loud, b) not wish for a large black man sidekick who calls you "son" and 3) wonder if it would be weird for you to wear one of the Big Black over-sized tees and caps to playgroup. Watch. You'll see.

Miiiiiisssyyyyyyy!

I was too entranced by Missy Higgins' voice, adorable banter, sweet little gingham shirt dress and delightfully tousled hair to be one of those jackasses who takes a zillion camera phone pics during the show. But I was close, very close to her oohey loveliness -- closer than I used to have to run from my room to Lil E's crib in the middle of the night in our old apartment when he breathed heavy or turned over or did something completely alarming like that in the early days of motherhood -- and she captured me with every song.

Love love love her even more now. Not enough to outspend the ticket price on a t-shirt but certainly enough that I've been singing her songs, laughing to myself about her little stories and trying to figure out a way to get on that big yellow tour bus just to say "EeeeeIthinkyouareACE,MissyHiggins,pleasebemyfriend!" Since I'm sort of preoccupied by other things like...I don't know, raising a child and working and thriving in my new life...these plans may not actually work.

However, I can still convince myself that, despite the lights and what I've heard in almost every single VH1 behind-the-something special, she could, in fact see me when she was looking out at the audience soulfully over the piano.

Right? Probably. Yeah. For sure. Totally for sure.

Mama needs her time and tunes, y'all

I first met Andrew from Australia when I was a 20-year old fetus camp counselor who cursed the belly I would slay for now and was in love with...well everyone. But back to Andrew. Andrew and I realized very soon that we were rocking a lot of the same cassette tapes in our walkpeople. A kindred music spirit thing grew and soon we were making each other mix tapes of music from our sides of the globe that we didn't just think but knew the other would love. Tapes became CDs just like the long letters and phone calls became quick notes and emails. And still, just when I'm missing music or my friend, something arrives in the mail from Australia and it's always good.

Andrew introduced me to Things of Stone and Wood, John Butler Trio and many, many other amazing bands from Oz. He laughed when I said I was digging that Na-na-nahhh-I'm Tornatalie Imbruglia  song and sent me  a Bernard Fanning album. 

We're not as close anymore. It's hard when you live across so many oceans and your lives take turns from being 20 and singing crazy Christian camp songs (together)to traveling (him) and college (me and then him as well) and jobs (both of us) abroad (him) and across the country (me) and marriage (me) and divorce (also me) and babies (me and soon, him) and surfing the sea (totally him) and saddling the internets (all me).   And yet,  after hearing about all that has been happening in my life  these last months, Andrew did what he knows how to do best in our friendship. He sent me a package of new CDs. And really, it is his own brand of support that makes me smile, helps me center and gets me singing so loud in the car that I can't concentrate on any of my worries at all.

Two years ago, he sent me The Sound of White, a CD by Missy Higgins that I had on repeat for months on the kitchen boombox as I patiently eased Lil E into solid foods and tried desperately to actually cook dinner at night. A few days ago, he sent me a package with four more CDs, and among them, a new one by Missy Higgins. It's been in my laptop on repeat ever since, a different way to listen this time around but sweet all the same.

It was once again good timing because I already had tickets sitting on my dresser to see Missy Higgins tonight. She's on her first American tour and I am going to be there to see this Aussie hammering on a piano and belting out amazing lyrics on one of our stages.

I haven't been to a show in a long time. And I haven't even been out of the house much in the last few months without a child, a bag of Lightning McQueen toys, a sippy cup and the heaviest laptop of all time in tow (no, really, I'm fine. No...really). Tonight, when I have a beer in my hand and am baring my breasts in admiration to Missy's artistry (no no no, I reserve that solely for the Erasure dudes who have no earthly clue what naked ta-tas even are), you know I will be the annoying lady singing along like she's alone in the car. Like she's a mama who doesn't get out nearly enough. Like once this divorce is final, like she's gonna make Missy her rebel bride.

Of course, I'll be raising my glass to Andrew from Australia as well. Without him, and that long-distance music and lyric connection, I wouldn't have this evening to hold on to like I am.

Want to get in on a little of this kindred music spirit? Here's one of my favorite new songs by Missy Higgins (check me out, rocking the YouTube embeds like a madwoman this week...owww). Any song that begins with lyrics about clothes falling off and things rolling off the tongue is worth a listen, mais non?

Actively disproving that this is not a shoe blog

Ahhhh, nothing like shoes to make the heart really flutter on the Day Of Love. Suuuuure, a man can bring you flowers and offer you a little bit of late-night romance (oh, for those sweet sweet interludes during Letterman commercials) but a great pair of boots or heels or totally impractical ankle-strap wedges that you are meant to be worn only slightly longer than said interludes last give a grrrl good lovin' like nothing (or no one) else.

Leaping in a little late to the rainboot game, I finally purchased a pair of wellies I've been lusting after for months. Following 418 passes with the shovel, I put my desire for sassy rainboots into the "deserve" category, right there next to the one where I justified a $40 wide silver belt as a "need." After I consulted the appropriate people  to find out if they were worth the money and being told emphatically, "BUY. THEM. NOW," I did. And I am ecstatic that I did. Love them. Love. Them. Love them.

Of course, clomping around my house and Starbucks and random bars in the middle of the day (I kid) in these new faves just inspires to make more wise and near-fetishistic purchases.  Up next? Playing on the metallic thang and my late-70s-rooted obsession with Dr. Scholls one-strap clogs -- remember these beauties that required a great deal of clomping themselves, came in many colors that also registered as "needs," and caused my mother a lot of irritation that I wasn't fully picking up my foot when I walked in order to make maximum clomping impact and was thus ruining the hardwoods in the house? -- are these masterfully updated foiled clogs in not-too-rocker-glam silver.

I agree with Cookie magazine that they are perfect everyday urban mommy wear, paired up with dark, good ass jeans (Cookie only mentions that the denim costs a bedillion dollars, but I like to think that the good ass part is implied as it is so critical to co-op pick-up and drop-off and the fifteenth grocery store trip and inevitable tantrum this week). Who will notice that soy butter stain when your shoes are shining like that?

Clogs give you the chance to really flex those dorky/adorable sock skills you have (also perfected in the late 70s) with just a bit of subtlety perfected this side of your 30s and the millennium, make steps toward that ideal of comfy and styley (read: looking fabu while easily hoisting and hauling the tantruming child), and allow you to clomp up your own hardwoods hassle-free. Perfect, mais non?

I'll be happy to toss the last few years' worth of urban sneakers for some Sassafrass-worthy clogs, at least once the slush disappears and I'm ready to pry the rain boots from my feet.

What's the object of your shoe lust for the spring? I'm all about copy catting, so do share the details, kittens!

Linkety Dinkety Doo: My grrrls

Every week in my soul/sanity/muscle/motherhood-saving yoga class, my teacher begins by asking us to breathe out all we want to release from our week, to give back to the universe. And then she instructs us to breathe in all the goodness we want to fill up that space. This week, the goodness I want to breathe into the corners of my body and spirit comes from the women I know.

Many of you know the women I know. Many of you read them and have playdates with them and work with them. No matter how well or how long these women have been my grrrls, they continue to impress me with their ambition and writing and insights and sassafrassness and kick-assedness, whether they are moving through their own days and worlds or stirring up the tide throughout the universe.

Check these mamas out:

The fierceness and fire that are the MOMocrats.

The confessions and caffeine headaches kicked by Crazed Parent.

Ohhhh, the home reno and the hilarity that is House in Progress.

There is so so so much more of this to come. Well, as soon as I'm all stretched and Zenned.

File this under: Why do I care about this crap?

Superbowl, schmuperbowl. Who played? Who even sang at half-time? Do they even do that in a post-JJ/NI* world anymore? Really, who cares? We have some critical issues that need our attention (or at least mine), kittens.

Like the Chupacabra, the Holy Grail, Stone Henge and how in the world itty bitty capers can pack such a culinary punch, my fascination with these things is oft-pondered (what else are you supposed to do while you're painting your nails and IMing during conference calls?), over-analyzed (no really, my therapist thinks it is fine for me to fork over $125 an hour to discuss the Curse of the Celebrity Spears) and over-shared (mostly during painfully long road trips that require several hours, multiple Big Gulps and more turns through an old Us Weekly and the one unscratched kiddie song CD than any adult needs ever).

Join me, won't you in enabling the concentration on complete and useless crap:

I admit, I didn't just look at Jenna Bush's bridal gown options, I studied them. Sad sad sad. Totally #9, right?

I confess, I'm curious how many crazy folk sent Brit Us Weekly subscription extensions while she's a-wasting time in the get-happy house for the next two weeks.

Honestly, if I can pull myself out of the creepy hypnotic chasm that is Tori Spelling's cleavage, I am slightly mesmerized by her ever-changing belly.

Come clean, you want to know how this wondrous disaster deflated too.

*Janet Jackson/Nip Incident, if you're nasty.

Heath Ledger: Into the sunset

Why is it so sad when a celebrity dies? Especially a celebrity with talent, a celebrity we might admire for his or her work, a celebrity who seems like someone we'd crush on across the Chem 102 lab?

Is it because we feel like we know them because we've connected with them on-screen in some dark stadium seat theater?

Is it because we've identified with them, toting their Baby Ugg-booted kids and carrying venti coffees?

Is it because we can envision them accepting Oscars, producing great films, standing up as spokespeople for the causes we too believe in?

Is it because we want their talent to rise above addictions and obsessions and the mania that is Hollywood?

Or is it just because we recognize them, we read about them in trashy magazines, we are extending a bit of humanity in an ever-mobile, oft-isolating world?

Whatever it is, it is sad sad sad that actor and dad Heath Ledger has died. Even sadder that it happened at the age of 28. Sadder still that he leaves behind a young daughter and surely many other loved ones and many, many more stunned onlookers and fans. 

Much will be written about Heath Ledger's death, of course. And much more will be discussed. Whatever clues emerge, whatever is speculated about the pills in his apartment, the death of this man -- an actor yes, but also Matilda's daddy -- is so unfortunate.

Don't kids know Fridays are for sleeping in? Gawwww.

Why is it that Lil E always wakes up early dark in the a.m. after a night of cranking through deadlines and getting to bed after 3? It's like kids have some kind of sleep deprivation Lo-Jack that hones in on the worst possible morning to wake up with a soaked Pull-Up (are those officially called Full-Ups?) or in the mood for the 812th viewing of Cars, this time pre-dawn.

He's going to ride out the day in soulful, relaxed contemplation on the couch with my mom, who has become skilled at flipping from cable channel to cable channel to hit as many Sesame Streets and Fireman Sams as possible in one sitting. He may just rouse himself enough to stick his hands in non-toxic paint for a little lazy art or dig through the snack mix to pull out all the "ooh, spiceeeee!" pretzels. Maybe stretch out on the living room floor to reenact his favorite Lightning McQueen moments I refused to allow him to watch at 6:30 this morning (it's like the Depression around here with all these restrictions, isn't it?).

Really, Fridays should be like that and I'm grateful his grandma is happy to spend the day soothing his overtired whining jags and coming up with calm activities to hold his attention and redirect his need to (you got it)to watch Cars after lunch.

I'm spending Friday running errands that seem to be way too many blocks apart (but not really, I'm just spoiled by keeping most of my business in a ten block Starbucks-bank-Jewel-playgroup-back to Starbucks radius) and finishing up the deadlines that somehow didn't get met at 3:15 this morning.

I did take some time with a full four-gallon coffee cup to read the paper and catch up on a little news from the world outside the futon where I camp out to write. What I found made me forget (just for a bit) how exfreakinghausted I am, how much work I have left to do and how close to hitting play on Cars I really was.

While you're winding down your week, take a moment with me:

This made me throw up a little in my mouth.

But this sidebar made me laugh. Crazy ass foodies.

This made me sad, angry and hopeful. I want to hold on to hopeful as I remember how trying recovery from a traumatic brain injury can be. Then it made me say a prayer and take note to look into whether the presidential candidates have responded to Bob Woodruff and veteran health issues.

This brought me back to what's real news: Celeb eff-ups and their lame ass "punishments." I am pretty sure checking out dead people will return LiLo to the sessy, talented role-model to grrrls everywhere. Ahem.