I know. It's been a long time, at least by blogger standards.

And I've missed the opportunity many of you have given me by inviting me and my sometimes lucid but often maniacal thoughts into your lives. And while I've never been an every day - or even every other day poster - I did get into a bit of a rhythm there for a while. Thank you to everyone who inquired as to my state of mind and wanted to check that I was okay. So very lovely of you!

Suffice it to say, I've had laptop issues and am now familiar with the phrase "root kit" and the havoc it can create for a hard drive. (Thank you Gene!)

Despite my best efforts to slow it down, life continues to move along and take with it some of my favorite people and things: vacation with family come and gone, my boys home and then gone away to school again, summer days fading. Then again, I can feel the promise of gorgeous fall weather in the offing and even further down the road, some of my favorite times of the year getting ever closer.

But I can't help take this time and remember another beautiful September day, some nine years ago now, and the moments surrounding it that will stay with me always. In that spirit, and in honor of everyone who carries a loss from that day - real or communal - in their hearts, I offer one woman's simple take on the madness that surrounds us.

I look forward to talking with you again as (my hand to God) the laptop comes back to life. As always, your feedback and willingness to share the post much appreciated.

Does EPL mean anything to you? If you answered no, I envy you.

Have you cleared your calendar yet?

With credit card in hand, women across the country are anxiously counting down to August 6, when they can begin a three-day journey around the world courtesy of Home Shopping Network and the little book that could, Eat Pray Love.

The book left me cold; the movie – which I will not see – sounds monumentally annoying. And now – God help us – Home Shopping Network has concocted three days of EPL shopping, offering the best of Italy, India and Indonesia to viewers and fans worldwide

Here’s a question: if the book was – and I’m guessing now, I have no actual sense of what this book was supposed to teach me – about finding yourself and getting authentic and real about what matters in your life, how does it make sense to build a commercial event in its honor? How does one woman’s journey of enlightenment, no matter how misguided and specious I believe that journey to be, turn into millions of women declaring her own self-hood by purchasing Sajen Silver and Richard Jacobs Multigemstone “Praying Goddess” pendants (only $379.90 or 4 easy payments of $94.98)?

No matter. Let’s pretend this all makes logical sense and the exact thing you want to do to prepare your body, mind and spirit for the EPL movie experience with Julia and Javier is shop all weekend on Home Shopping Network. I realize this makes little sense but just go with me on this, okay? You want centeredness? You want peace? You want a solid sense of self? Step right up, hop online or pick up the phone and get ready to add these items to your life. Let’s shop Italy!!

Begin your day with a cup of delicious cappuccino or espresso, brewed perfectly in your own kitchen with your De’Longi Combo Coffee Station ($169.90). Meet up with your friends for a morning walk after you pull on your “Fear, Who Cares” t-shirt. No doubt your friends will be wearing their “Search For Everything” and “I Deserve Something Beautiful” T-shirts, available for only $39.95 each. And in case you have to carry a couple things with you, toss your Sumatra Crossbody bag ($225) over your shoulder.

Later, you can indulge in the beauty of India. Invite the neighbors in for tea ($29.95), served while you wear your Ranjana Khan Prayer Bead Necklace ($349.95), while perched peacefully on your Taj pillows ($59.95).

By the time we reach Bali, you’ll need some “me” time. So make sure you have the EPL Perlier White Lotus Body Cream ($24.50) and the EPL Perlier Shower Gel ($22). Slip into your V by Eva Tie-Dye Print Dress ($99) and pick up one of your three EPL journals ($24.95) to record the best of your day for posterity.

One of the journals featured online showed this entry: “Endless days of sandals, slouchy bags and lip gloss. There’s a reason they call this paradise.” Or this one: “Everything tastes as good as it sounds. Or sounds as good as it tastes.” Wait a minute. Lip gloss = paradise? Something sounds as good as it tastes? What?

So there it is, courtesy of EPL and HSN. Just about $1,000 later, you, too, can be part of the “one-of-a-kind shopping experience featuring new discoveries in the spirit of EPL.”

Once again, as I have felt at different points of my life, I believe I’m missing some kind of girl gene. I remain mystified by the phenomenon that is EPL. Even if I don’t tune in to shop, and even if I don’t buy a ticket to the movie, I’ll feel surrounded by this societal zeitgeist that leaves me wishing that I, too, could escape for a while.

I know! I’ll just pack my Clever Carriage Company Hand-Embroidered Zardosi Leather Satchel (hand made in Indian cottage industries, $659.50) and escape. Maybe I’ll take a quick trip the ashram and just chill. With some outstanding wine and great pasta, after I consult my spiritual advisor.

Or I could just poke hot needles in my eyes. Which may be less painful than a weekend of this nonsense.

Neologism of the day: Incrankulous. That cranky feeling that inevitably sets in following something incredible that is - let's face it - annoying.

Not to go all 27 Dresses on you but true confession: I love the Sunday Styles Section.

Almost every week, I spend a few minutes skimming the Times wedding announcements trying to figure out which couple:

Spent the most money [although not likely their own] on college educations

Which couple had earned the most impressive degrees

Whose parents had the most notable backgrounds

Whose parents seemed to have the most humble resumes

What couple appeared to be truly soulmates / truly adorable

Who had the most charming “how we met” story

And finally –

Who was the most annoying bride, groom or couple? You knew I had to fit that last one in, right?

My rules are simple. All decisions by the judges (me) are final. And no pressure to fill every category every week. But I’m troubled when the facts appear too close to call from one couple to the next, which – if you read the Styles section – is often the case. I mean, how do you measure a Harvard, Harvard Law + Stanford, London School of Economics against a Harvard, Harvard Law + Yale, MIT PhD? I know, right? Impossible.

This past week, my most adorable couple had rather bohemian leanings. Their interests included photography and poetry, farming and learning to make cheese. I loved them. They registered for goats and farm equipment instead of china. Granted, their family backgrounds led me to believe that someone very close to them could easily deliver an entire herd of goats to their charming little farm but whatever. That’s typical for every couple mentioned, although I’ve never read about another couple asking for livestock as wedding gifts.

The couples who marry in their 60s and 70s do nothing but leave me in awe. The optimism and the “I’m giving this another shot”-ness of it all is spectacular. God bless.

Last week, though, I did find a winner in the annoying category. Not so much for me, but for every single person out there who has so much to give, with such a positive attitude. For every man and woman who, despite all good intentions and optimism toward the online dating world, hasn’t made a lasting connection. One of this week’s couples met online – yay – but the bride recounted her experience this way: “I was on Match.com literally for 48 hours before I met him.”

That’s just super, isn’t it?

Maybe this is all a result of unfortunate editing. Maybe her next lines were something like: "I know how that sounds and believe me, I know my story is unusual. I wish everyone could have the same experience with online dating that we had! We both feel incredibly lucky!!"

Let me digress for a moment here to say that several years ago, I worked with not one, but two women, who accompanied me to my company’s blood drive one day to donate blood. Not one, but both of them, were turned away because they were underweight. That’s right: They were too thin to donate blood. (Yes, your assumptions are correct. I was not turned away. Let’s leave it at that.)

So why bring this up now? Turns out, this is exactly the kind of circumstance you keep to yourself. The very notion of being too slim to spare a pint of blood could make the women around you, mmm, incredulous. And maybe a little cranky. Incrankulous. Let’s call it that.

I certainly understand that a young couple in love, telling the story of how they met and their courtship, then announcing their marriage, are insanely happy. Honestly, congratulations and I'm happy for you, in my own way. I wish you the best.

But sharing the story about your online dating membership that lasted all of two days before you met your true love? Even though I’m not in the dating world looking for love, that story made even me feel a little incrankulous. I’m guessing my single and looking-for-love sisters who read it may have felt something similar.

A little slice of heaven right on earth....AKA: a marriage.

For your reading pleasure, a recent exchange at home, as I attempted to coordinate the next few days. I'm wondering if this is me (us), or if something similar plays out across the nation each and every week, with only the details changing from house to house and couple to couple. Do Barack and Michelle do this? Do Joe and Jill? Did they used to?

The people may reverse roles - this isn't a female / male thing - but I wonder.

Who is the person who keeps track of stuff and who is the person who gets updated on the details of the stuff in your house?

Enjoy.

Sunday (as we're talking about the coming week):
Me: You know I have that Board meeting Tuesday night, right?

Him: The what?

Me: The board meeting, in Easton....

Him: What time?

Me: 5:30.

Him: How long is it?

Me: I don't know - maybe a few hours.

Him: How many people will be there?

Me: I don't know.

Monday:
You remember about that meeting Tuesday, right?

What meeting?

The board meeting I told you about.

Oh yeah - what time is that?

5:30 (...and we're off and running on a second round of the above)

Tuesday:
So I won't be home for dinner tonight.

Why not?


Sigh.

Please tell me this is rare. Please.

One day, I hope to never again be taken by surprise when I read the latest news about the insecurity of women and the lengths some of us will go to in order to feel worthwhile.

That day can't come soon enough. Once again, I have to ask: didn't we march about stuff like this? And write millions and millions of words about why this is so unnecessary? And look down on our sisters who cared about insignificant details like this?

That's what I thought, too - and yet...this.

Today's Daily Caller column for your contemplation. I'm starting to believe this kind of thinking is inevitable, as long as there are men and women on the planet, and researchers determined to interview them.

Today's fun fact: men still don't get it.

Okay. That's a bit of an exaggeration. Some men get it. And the ones who do are lining up right there, outside the theater showing the the triple feature showing Pride and Prejudice, Bridget Jones' Diary and Dirty Dancing, with an added bonus, Sleepless in Seattle + The Holiday. See them there? All seven of standing outside the theater??

I know. I'm exaggerating. (There are only six in line.)

But honestly, isn't it about time we call a halt to the relentless and, so far, fruitless, quest for the new miracle drug, the "female viagra" that will address and resolve women's seemingly pervasive sexual dissatisfaction?

I'm not saying the idea isn't worth study. I'm saying that maybe the answers (and solutions) would be found if men (and researchers) would concentrate on a different part of our anatomy.

All that said, here's today's column in The Daily Caller. I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially if you have a plausible argument to today's fun fact.

Enjoy.

It's the most realistic moment in the movie. And I know just what she means.

In 1995, I walked into a darkened theater, no doubt holding hands with a little boy, maybe one of my four-year-olds, maybe my five-year-old. We didn’t know it then, but like millions of families, we were about to enjoy a soon-to-be classic children’s movie, Toy Story. At that time, Pixar Animation launched brand new digital technology into the entertainment world that brought a unique, charming and moving story of childhood to life on the screen.

In 1999, we made our way into the theater again to see Toy Story 2. Once again, these adorable toys and their story of loyalty and love captivated us. Sure, a little time had passed since the last Toy Story film, but I was still the mother of three young boys, and they still needed me. And trusted me to be there. And knew that they could count on me, in almost exactly the same way they had just a few years earlier. We were all a little older, and just slightly rearranged in mind and body from where we’d been in ’95.

Eleven more years makes a difference in almost every life and it’s made a difference in mine. I’ve undeniably entered “middle age” and have celebrated the birthday that everyone seems to take comfort in calling “the new forty” although I can’t explain why. I’ve lost and mourned some people very dear to me in that time, but celebrated the arrival of a dozen new family members through marriages and births. I’ve felt successful; I’ve felt like a failure. I’ve questioned everything from my faith to my marriage to my career choices to my sanity. But I never questioned this: my boys and my relationship with them.

Which is exactly why I knew we would see Toy Story 3 together. And we did. On Monday night, in a theater filled with people who all appeared to be in their late teens and early twenties. In other words, people who grew up right along with Andy in the movie. People who were out of high school, or soon would be, and like Andy, were very likely finding their way into the world. My husband and I were the oldest people there.

I’d heard about the final scene of the movie, and that if you’re inclined to such things, you would find yourself tearing up. Forget about that. I could barely make it through the opening, when you see a home video camera view of Andy as a young boy, exactly the kind of images you have of your own kids on hours of videotape. The kinds of images that captivate me whenever we dig up our tapes and relive our lives. It’s not possible that we were that young or the boys so small.

Twenty years. Just. Like. That.

Whatever the future holds for the Toy Story franchise, the story arc seems to have come to a tidy little ending at just the right time for my family and me. Like Andy, my boys are college guys now. Most of their boyhood toys have been given away; others packed away, possibly for other boys to come; possibly to eventually find their way out of our home and into the hands of children who will love them.

It’s fifteen years since we first entered that theater playing Toy Story, but even when we’re not in the dark, I still reach for their hands, and am rarely disappointed. All these years later, they slip their own hand comfortably into mine – or more accurately, they cover mine with theirs. They still trust that I’m there for them but now, these days I’m also trusting that they’re there for me. We count on each other for different things now, and I’ve learned to value and accept the unique approach each of them takes to life, to the people around them, to the ideas they hold dear. I’m positive they’ve discovered a different perspective on me, too. While I may not have the same energy or outlook I had at 36, I hope they’ve accepted a more realistic view of a flawed person who above all – despite the moments we’ve lived through that will never, ever find their way into a Pixar film - loves her children.

At the end of the movie, Andy’s Mom – I love that we don’t know her name – gets caught up in the moment of his departure and says something like this: “I wish I could always be with you.” I know just what she means. And on my better days, like when I'm sharing Toy Story 3 with two nineteen-year-olds and a twenty-year-old, I like to think I will be.

Thoreau was wrong. We're living lives of strident desperation.

Once again, I shouldn't be surprised by the story behind the story these days. In a matter of days, we were media-anxious (which is light years away from personal-anxious but still...) about the fate of one Abby Sunderland, then relieved to find she had escaped injury (or death) and then - if you're like me - jaded and thinking more along the lines of "what the..." when you read the story about her family and the reality show that was, then wasn't, to be.

As a friend so colorfully expresses frustration, "Christ on a bike." Is everyone craving that much validation? Have we all given up our lives of quiet desperation for something more outlandish?

Every bit of me hopes that's not true. But you knew I'd have to write about it, so here you go. Today's Daily Caller column. Written with love and great admiration
(really) for the young men who inspired a great deal of it. And inspire me daily.

Enjoy.

Multitask your way to paralysis.

Check this out of this and see if it sounds familiar.

You’re at your desk. Phone to your ear, headset on or wearing that little android earpiece thingie; and from the corner of your eye you watch a new call come in and check the phone number or name that pops up on your screen. “What’s does Todd want?” or “What now…” or “Rats – I wish I could take that,” or “Who is calling me from Baltimore (or Chicago, or San Diego or Texas)?” or any number of thoughts that race through your already distracted brain for just a few seconds as you mentally wander away from the call going on right then to breeze through the possibilities about the call you’re missing.

Then, even as you try to concentrate on the call at hand, you make yourself crazy watching the blinking red light blink that indicates the voice mail waiting for you.

As you return the call, you read an email or two or ten and start to answer one in particular just as your call gets answered. Do you then say something like this? “Hold on…just want to finish this and hit send…hold it… wait just a second … okay. Now – you called me?”

Or how about this: while you’re talking to someone – over the phone or in person - and you’re trying to concentrate on the subject at hand, you watch emails flash onto your screen and even open a few, or purposefully ignore a few and once in a while even shriek at a few.

Then you hop onto Twitter, or Facebook, or your two other email accounts, check your text messages and then browse the Times, the WSJ headlines, and any number of enewsletters that enter your inbox hourly.

All while you’re composing a Powerpoint, running a P and L, drafting a proposal, reviewing an agenda and reading a document that needs your feedback by 9 am.
Welcome to your office in 2010, or what I like to call a whirling dervish of rudderless activity that masquerades as progress.

I know this is not new. That we’ve all been walking this wireless tightrope of progress and efficiency and availability for years now. It’s just that it seems that with every new gadget, we get yet another way to be accessible.

What we’ve lost in all this new-found technology is the concept of manners. Nothing makes me crazier than talking to someone – even over the phone – and knowing that they’re not really talking to me. (I do it, too – don’t get me wrong.) But I hate myself for it. I really hate it when I do it to my Mom – who says something like, “Oh, honey...just call me back when you have time. You’re busy….” She can hear me typing, or typedissing her if you ask me.

A colleague and I discussed this very thing and he suggested someone should develop technology that darkens your screen when your phone rings. Or maybe it could lock up your keyboard. Some new gadget that forces us to pay attention. That’s kind of pathetic if you think about it. We need gadgets to distract us and now we might need something to stop the distractions.

Wait a minute. We might already have that. It’s called an on / off switch. Or a log off button. Or even just one unwired moment for God’s sake.

Maybe we should create rules around technology and stick to them:

Monday: Please Pay Attention Day. No typedissing while you talk on the phone.

Tuesday: LYLOD or Leave Your Laptop at the Office Day.

Wednesday: Black-bury Day – bury your blackberry at the bottom of your purse or bag, especially when you attend a meeting, seemingly to discuss topics that need your attention and good thinking.

Thursday: It’s 10 PM – do you know where your brain is? Day - Read and compose no email once the sun goes down.

Friday: Turn It Off Day – Take one evening a week with no cells, blackberries, laptops, ipads, iphones, itouches or any other i-thing that takes you out of the real moment, filled with real live people and real live conversation.

Would love it if some company were to adopt even one of these rules – or some version of them – then measure employee satisfaction six months later. I have a feeling productivity would be up, courtesy and respect would be on the upswing and people would experience a feeling of overall worthiness. Any takers out there?

Unlike Debbie, I don't want to do Dallas. I want a do-over in Dallas. At Gate 35E. For the DFW to PHL flight at 5:35 pm.

I’ve taken five flights and checked in and out of three hotels in the past two and half weeks. And believe me, if the trips I took had been to exotic and stunningly beautiful places and full of moments of true relaxation and rejuvenation, you wouldn’t be hearing a peep from me.

They were all work related, hectic and mostly made up of some very long days but truth be told, they were also full of some wonderful people who are delightful colleagues and friends.

But this wouldn’t be worth writing about if something didn’t irritate me, right? So here you go.

I’m waiting in Dallas to board my flight to Philadelphia. Wait – let me back up a bit. I had previously flown from Allentown to Philly to Dallas. The 18 minutes in the air from ABE to PHL were the worst flying minutes of my life. The WORST; and I have to admit I’ve flown a fair amount over the past twenty years. The flight was constantly, relentlessly, spectacularly turbulant. It bumped. Jumped. Dropped. And swayed. It was horrible and the weather out the window looked perfect.

It took me about ten seconds to decide NOT to fly back to ABE on my return trip. Instead, I’d get transporation home from the Philly airport. The timing worked, too. Even in a car, I’d be back in Allentown right around the time the Allentown flight was scheduled to depart from Philadelphia. Perfect. Done.

So – back to Dallas. I’m at the gate, waiting to board the flight to Philadelphia, fully aware that I was not going to fly the final bit although I held a boarding pass for that trip in hand. Then the gate attendant announced my favorite thing; that the flight was checked in full and it was unlikely there would be overhead space for the bags that absolutely everyone was wheeling on board. “If you are seated in Zones 4 or 5, please come to the podium and I’ll gate check your bag for you.”

Nice. No fee; they’ll gate check the bag, you pick it up in Philly as you depart, and off you go. No need to visit the baggage claim. I checked my boarding pass, although I had a sinking feeling about what I’d find there: Zone 5. Super. So go ahead – gate check. Perfect. Like a good, obedient, accommodating air passenger, I walked up to the attendant and told her I would gate check my bag. She scanned my Philly boarding pass and – what’s this – a warning screen came up and indicated I had another pass as well – one that got me from PHL to ABE. I explained that my air travel was ending in Philly that evening and couldn’t she please gate check the bag through that far.

No. She couldn’t. Absolutely not. I’m ticketed through to Allentown.

“I know. But I’m not flying into Allentown tonight. I’ll just pick up my bag on the jetway in Philly.”

“No. I can’t gate check you to Philadelphia, ma’am.”

For God’s sake of America. Here I volunteer to gate check a bag and make it easier on everyone managing that overhead space. And by the way, isn’t the point of a gate check – correct me if I’m wrong – that your bag is just checked through to the next stopping point? And that the guys on the ground will haul your bags off the plane and place them on the jetway or at the bottom of the stairs as you depart?

That’s what I thought.

She was adamant. So –I gave up. Told her I’d take my chances storing the roller bag on board.

Boarding time comes. We finally get to Zone 5 – after nearly every single person in the terminal boarded the flight – and she stopped the few of us with roller bags and insisted we gate check them. We’d never find room on board.

Once again, I got the warning screen when she scanned my pass and we had another round of her insisting to me that I was checking through to Allentown and me insisting to her that I was doing nothing of the kind. It ended when I snapped at her – I admit it, I did – and walked away into the plane, wheeling my bag behind me.

The overheads were completely full. Of course they were! I explained the situation to the flight attendants who said they’d get my bag checked to Philly – not to worry. They’d get it done.

A few minutes later, one of the attendants came back to me and sort of incredulously admitted: “She won’t give it to us either. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m so sorry – but we may have to send your bag to ABE.”

At this point, I was tired and too cranky to fight anymore. I thanked the attendant and told her I’d get hold of the bag somehow once I got home. “The gate woman really hates me. But thanks for everything and thanks for trying. Just check it to Allentown. I’ll work it out.”

Then – surprise! – she stopped back again and said they found room. Up front. I could just stop by and pick up my bag on the way out.

Victory! Hurrah! Was that so difficult?

Honestly, if I hadn’t been so aggravated by the gate attendant I would have said something like this to her instead of storming off in a huff, wheeling my bag behind me:

“Hold it, hold it, hold it - just one minute. You’re telling me you can’t gate check a bag to my midway point because of the rules? The rules that say you have to follow my entire itinerary to print out the label? Then explain to me how I was on board a flight on this very airline [US Air, by the way] and witnessed several flight attendants as well as several regular old passengers STANDING while the pilot landed the plane? What about the rules that say you must have you tray table and seat backs UP during takeoff and landing and you must have your seat belt fastened low and tight across your lap?? Then how is it possible that I saw people standing during the landing? Hmmm? What about that?

What’s that? You’re telling me you can’t gate check a bag to Philly because I have a boarding pass to Allentown? Please. Don’t waste my time. Just check the bag, please.”

Don’t believe me? You can read all about the previous standing while landing incident here. You can't make this stuff up.

Jack McCoy never saw this coming.

Yet one more reason I wish Law and Order were still on the air, "ripping stories from the headlines" like this one.

Maybe it's me - okay, it's definitely me - but I'm positive that if I were up on 24 counts of law-breaking related to various misdeeds that took place while I held a pretty responsible public position in government, the last thing on my mind would be "tweeting" everyday about the hours I spent in Court.

The question is: are the tweets protected? Can the prosecution use them? Isn't this akin to trying your case in the court of public opinion?

Adam Schiff would never stand for it. And he'd never, ever use the word Tweet.

Hope you enjoy today's column.

Stories like this convince me I'm not quite as insane as I usually think I am.

If anyone reads this blog regularly - which is certainly open to debate - they will surely bear witness to the fact that I have issues. Lots of them.

Not the least of which is the self-doubt and nagging thoughts that plague me about how I've irreparably damaged my children, through my own insecurities, incompetence and just plain old mistakes I've made over the years. On my worst days, I truly believe they don't have enough hours left in their lives for the therapy they'll need to overcome my "parenting."

Then - just when I'm about ready to weep, I read something like this and it cheers me up considerably. I may have made mistakes - in the thousands by now - and I may have lost it from time to time, and I may have said or done some things I regret, but by God I never once thought about the fashion statements my children were making with their diapers. Not once.

That has to count for something, right? Score one for me?

Here's the link to today's Daily Caller column. And if you buy and love these diapers, I really want to understand why. I've clearly missed something here.

Gag me.

I adore this quote. I really do, courtesy of Levine Breaking News:

"My schedule is such that I don't get very much time to eat. But I certainly don't have an eating problem.

A little MDMA [Ecstasy] once in a while never killed anybody, but I really don't do drugs. I don't touch cocaine anymore.

I don't smoke. Well, maybe a single cigarette - with whisky - while I'm working, because it just frees my mind a little bit.

But I care about my voice. The thrill of my voice being healthy on stage is really special.

I take care of myself."

Let's deconstruct that for a second, okay?

Not getting very much time to eat = no eating problem.

Not doing drugs = taking Ecstasy once in a while.

Not smoking = a cigarette with whisky, while on the job.

All of this = freeing your mind + taking care of yourself.


Just two days later, I read this story one on MSN's homepage:

"...she never touches cocaine and that her habit of collapsing may be related to the tests for lupus she's undergoing.

...she also admits to taking prescription medication -- and the occasional hit of ecstasy -- to keep her "tortured" thoughts at bay."

Translation:

"habit" of collapsing = medical tests

Prescription meds + occasional ecstasy hit = good mental health

The winner of this month's "I want to be Amy Winehouse" award is Lady Gaga.

For God's sake, is this what makes icons these days? Is this what we admire in our "artists?"

Let me admit right here, right now that I have no idea who Lady Gaga is. None. I haven't heard a note of her music - on purpose anyway - nor have I seen her perform, nor have I heard so much as one word of an interview she's given. So yes, maybe that makes this post extremely snotty and judgmental. Maybe it's condescending and ill-informed. I grant you all of that may be true.

So grant me this: she's hardly an admirable person. Nor does she particularly need to be. No one has to hit a certain IQ minimum to get a record contract. No one takes an ethics test in order to become a pop sensation. She doesn't need to be sober, or drug-free, or healthy to gain fame and build an enormous fan base.

I don't expect my favorite performers or musicians or artists to be perfect. But it helps if they seem somewhat centered and solid, at least in terms of their art.

Even that doesn't really work, though, does it? The list of artists who are - sometimes - fatally flawed, is long and eclectic. They've had trouble with alcohol and drug abuse, sex scandals or various other addictions.

It just seems to me - and this is only one theory - that years ago, before a celebrity could start to succumb to the temptations of money and fame, they had to be living a life of money and fame. How is it that these days, the first thing - okay, the second thing - we hear about some celebrities are the demons they're battling? Really? You're there already?

Ugh. It's feels almost like the faster you fall, the bigger you are. And if you spend years atop the mountain, enjoying your fame and building on your success without the drama, the rehab, the arrests, the custody battles, the acting out, the jail terms, the accusations, or the cheating, you're never going to get the money and publicity of the quasi-talented celebrities who command the headlines daily.

But you probably sleep at night. You probably know how to have real relationship with people who aren't part of your entourage. And you'll probably still be working and doing what you love long after these other 'stars' burn out.

Yes, one more scrap of proof that I have issues.

Although in this case, twenty years can't be wrong.

I started watching Law and Order when my first son was born in 1990. I have clear memories of bravely fighting sleep at 10 pm, and making it through the arrest before falling asleep on the loveseat. I don't think I saw anyone prosecuted (10:30 pm - 11 pm) until at least 1995.

I also remember startling myself awake one night to the sound of a baby in distress and starting up the stairs to check on him. My husband stopped me and said, "It's on TV." Ah - Law and Order; got it. This is partly why I could watch the show for years and they were all new. I never saw the second half.

My attraction to the show never faded; in fact I've shared the experience with my boys, who agree that Jack McCoy is fiercesome.

All this to say, it's the end of an era. (Note: a brief but sincere "thanks for trying," to James.) I'm not sure I'll be literally wearing a black arm band on Monday, but I'll want to. As my brief homage, I offer today's Daily Caller column.

Enjoy.

Why are you like this? (Don't answer that.)

If someone asked you to describe your children in just a few words, what would you say?

I had a few not so uplifting adjectives occur to me the other night, as we attacked and ultimately subdued the dorm rooms that seem to have exploded in various bedrooms and spilled over into our hallway.

By around midnight, I settled on just the one word that seemed to cover everything.

Today's DC column is attached. For everyone moving someone home, remembering the move home, or dreading that day, enjoy.

This is mostly just questions. Prompted by SATC and too much Tiger in the news.

In Sex and the City, a movie I’m still not sure I like, married couple Miranda and Steve go through a painful separation after he admits he had sex with another woman. According to Steve, he and Miranda had been through a distant period in their marriage with very little intimacy between them and “it just happened once” with someone else and “it didn’t mean anything.” He also shares these sad, plaintive statements: “Don’t know how I could do that to you.” “It just happened.” “I wasn’t thinking.”

I guess that’s exactly what someone says to the spouse they discover they truly love after straying into warmer arms for a night or two or twenty and then harboring guilt and regret. But here’s the thing. I don’t understand how something like this can “just happen.” It “just happens” only when one partner puts themselves in a situation where it can not only “just happen,” it’s very likely to happen.

I have a lot of friends who are men. Not once did I ever find myself in a compromising position with any of them. (I have no idea if any of them believe the “When Harry Met Sally” theory about men wanting a sexual relationship with just about every woman they know.) For me, I have two reasons I’ve never had an affair:

1. I’m married.

2. I have too much respect for my husband, my male friends – and their wives – to ever risk their friendship over an affair.

Many years ago, a (guy) friend of mine told me something profoundly simple: “The easiest way for a man to never, ever cheat on his wife is to never, ever be alone in a room with any woman other than his mother or his sister for any length of time.” [Needless to say, he was true to his word and he and I were never alone anywhere, anytime.] Did we meet to share a drink occasionally; or a lunch; or have a friendly phone call or even an out of town trip or two over the years? Yes; to all of those things. But don’t misunderstand this: his statement wasn’t protesting too much. I never doubted his commitment to his wife and family.

Maybe he sounds kind of extreme; maybe not. We’ve all heard stories about workday trysts in empty conference rooms or in deserted offices or parking lots, stolen moments in the meeting room, the church basement, or near the soccer field, not to mention in out-of-town hotel rooms. Sounds like a pretty good rule to me, for a married man or married woman.

But you know what line I never understand in this SATC scene between Miranda and Steve in the movie? It’s when Steve tries to comfort the distraught Miranda who is rejecting him and their marriage by saying, “It’s still me.”

Miranda answers in the only way that makes any sense: “Is it?”

I think she has exactly the right response to that odd little notion. I need an explanation of his explanation. “It’s still me?” What does that mean? What’s still him? He’s still the guy who will cheat on his wife if he feels lonely or neglected or – you’ll forgive the vernacular – horny? Or he’s still the guy who loves her and desperately wants his marriage to work but his extra partner just happened while he wasn’t thinking? Which guy is he? A lunkhead who couldn’t help himself, who doesn’t know how he could have done this or is he a loyal husband who was seduced by a temptress?

Maybe he means it’s still him, completely familiar and recognizable to his wife but for this one teeny tiny little thing he did that was so startling: cheating on her. In which case, to me anyway – he’s just a little bit different than she ever imagined him.

I’m not saying this is a deal-breaker. That depends on the couple and their own situation and many other variables I can’t begin to quantify or judge. I have friends whose marriages have endured after an affair. I have others who have ended their marriage for the same reason. Again, not my call and I can honestly say I don’t know what my reaction would be in that situation.

But I am saying I’m not sure how in the movie, Steve can be both men at once: the contrite louse who wants forgiveness and the clueless stag who found a convenient and warm bed, even for just one night, although that appears to be his contention. He confesses his indiscretion, an act he deeply regrets; he loves Miranda and wants her forgiveness. The question is: is cheating on her just part of ‘him being him?’ And she’s supposed to forgive it on that basis?

Let me go on record here with one sort of sidebar thought for any married men reading this. I can pretty much guarantee you that if your wife is out in the workplace, or involved in your children’s school activities or volunteers with the church group or has a weekly bowling night out with her girlfriends, a man has hit on her. Yes, it’s true. Read that again: your wife has in all likelihood had a guy approach her in a sexual / romantic way, flirt with her or in other ways send her signals that he was interested in her. Maybe he was even someone you know.

What’s that? She never told you? No kidding. You know why? Because the idea of having an affair was so nonsensical she couldn’t be bothered to share it. She declines (almost of the time, women do decline) and moves on with a little something she calls reality. Flattering? Maybe. Kind of intriguing? Sure. Tempting? I’m guessing at least sometimes, yes. Something she will act on? Maybe, but unlikely.

Tiger Woods and Ashley Madison.com notwithstanding, turns out that most men and most women don’t cheat on their spouses. A study by the National Opinion Research Center concluded that a mere 3% of married women and 4% of married men have cheated on their spouses. Alternatively, the “American Sexual Behavior” survey concluded that 22% of married men have cheated and 15% of women. I could go on here but you get the point. Studies are flawed and statistics are skewed. No one knows the real stats behind infidelity. But even with these wide disparities, we’re not finding a majority either way.

Look, I fully acknowledge that some marriages are loveless, distant, cold and unsatisfying to the partners for any number of reasons. I fully acknowledge that there is such a thing as “irreconcilable differences.” I know that some people enjoy the illicit nature of an affair and love the excitement surrounding new love and the romance of it all. This might be easier on everyone if we just acknowledged this: you’ll probably meet some fascinating, interesting, attractive people throughout your life – despite being a happily married adult. Even the most loyal among us have to acknowledge a fleeting “crush” that goes nowhere and then fades.
But when a marriage is broken and irreparable, staying together is pointless and debilitating to everyone in or around the marriage.

What I can’t work out is how one partner can do something hurtful, know that it’s hurtful, and then explain it with something as pathetic as “It’s still me.”

If that’s the case, then maybe you just gave your partner a really good reason to walk away. As they leave you behind, they can honestly say, “It’s still me…just without you.”

Why is it that the only people who "take responsibility" these days are almost always the bad guys?

In an effort to view the headline landscape surrounding us daily, I did a few quick searches online. Then I remembered something I had written about 5 years ago and was struck by the difference.

Today's Daily Caller column elaborates on the situation. I don't think I'm imagining this. Reading today's headlines feels like a trip down memory lane. They sound exactly like we did when we were kids and wanted to get out of a bad situation, only the details are different. Instead of arguing about Barbie, or taking turns, or not doing something we were supposed to do, it's about Congress, or BP Oil, or political views. "It's not MY fault!" "She started it!" "They did it, not me!"

Good lord, can't we all grow up a bit and move onto solutions? We seem to be stuck on "who did it," not what can be done about it.

The Merry Month of May

One year ago, the month of May started to take on a new meaning for me. It became “the month college ended and my son would move home.” This year, it has three times as much meaning. It’s the month all three of my sons will end the college year and soon move home. For a little while anyway.

Spending that first school year with my oldest son gone was an adjustment for all of us. My comfort during that time was that my twin sons were still home – but only for one more year before they would graduate. Then they, too, found their way into the college life and now are about to wind up their freshman years.

I find myself wondering who is more different this year: me or them. It was very hard to spend a school year with all my boys gone. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I missed them everyday. Walking by their bedroom doors without entering their rooms and smoothing a bed cover or re-positioning a desk chair that was already squarely in front of a desk, and then eventually walking by with no more than a glance into each room, took me much longer than I expected it would. But I got there, or mostly got there.

Thing is, there’s nothing I want more for them than lives of happy independence. Lives that fulfill them and thrill them. Years ahead where they meet people and travel to places that are full of promise about what might be. So why does it feel like I want to hold on so tightly?

Maybe it’s because I can’t really imagine my role in their lives unless I’m their Mom. I know – that won’t really change except that as the years pass, the definition of ‘Mom’ becomes more and more hazy. When your kids are small, you’re the one who just knows a lot about a lot of stuff. Some of it sort of important, like how to recognize Chicken Pox or “Fifth’s Disease” and some of it trivial, like the names of all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. When your kids are small, you need to know about cool mist vaporizers and Pedialyte and when to take off the training wheels.

But then one day, you’ve become the smallest person in the house and you wonder: Who are you if you’re not the person who manages and clarifies daily life? Who are you if you’re not the person who asks when they’ll be home and who they’re going out with and where they’re going? Who are you if you’re not the person who worries?

I’ve spent a couple of years now, knowing that they’re leading busy lives, on and off campuses, and not once did I have the opportunity to say “Be careful” as they went out for the evening. I admit to calling each of them during one of this winter’s snow storms and asking them to please stay put and not venture out onto the road. The only thing that makes this mildly amusing is that not one of them had a car on campus.

The truth is, it’s my own fantasy that I’m still in the midst of their lives – when in fact, there are countless decisions – wonderful and terrible decisions - that have been made with exactly no input from me. It appears they have found ways to live among strangers who became friends and strangers who didn’t. I’m guessing they’ve laughed hard and maybe cried hard. They’ve argued and resolved arguments; they’ve forged ahead in some ways and remained stationary in others.

Coincidentally, I’ve spent the last year doing most of that, too. And the only stranger I’ve had to learn to live with was me. I’m no longer the mother of minors, and “responsible” for them in that capacity. I’m the mother of young adults, and we’ve moved beyond some of those “growing up” moments. I don’t listen to the school delays anymore. I don’t listen for car doors late at night.

But that begs the question: what do I listen for these days? That’s hard to say. The good news and the bad; the vague stories with no harm done that don’t get shared in very much detail for everyone’s sake. Phone talk is different than in-person talk but I try to listen “between” the words. The weariness in a voice; the exuberance of a story. The class stories, the dorm stories, the roommate stories. And as I listen, I want to ask: are you happy? Lonely? Frustrated? Tired? Confused? All the things that would be easier to see if I could see you. Everything that would be right there in your eyes if I could look into your eyes.
We don’t ask those things, though, right? “Hi, honey… what’s up? Are you okay?” That’s as close as we get. “Are you okay?”

That may be how I’ve changed. A few years ago, when I asked, “..you okay?” I meant just that. Nothing dramatic, nothing more than a simple question of attitude at that particular moment. We had day and nights, weeks and months to get into the details.

These days, “…you okay?” means “Please feel free to tell me everything. Or mostly everything. Or anything you think I can help you with. Or that will make me laugh or smile or even cry. Or anything you just want to get off your chest or say out loud and leave behind. I’ll try to listen carefully and answer you honestly and help you if I can.” This almost feels like the end of ‘The Princess Bride’ when we learn that the phrase “as you wish” really means “I love you.” “Are you okay?” really means, “I’m still here. Just like always. And listening even harder now.”

It's 'give your dog or cat a hug' day.

I am not - and have no plans to become - an attorney who specializes in First Amendment rights. I have no plans to join any law-making group in the foreseeable future. (I know - that's a relief to everyone reading this.)

But - here's the thing: wrapping yourself in the First Amendment to excuse behavior that society in general (and that's important,) deems unacceptable at best and corrupt and deviant in many cases, is unconscionable.

I realize you could line up ten people on any given issue and possibly get ten divergent views of a topic, an activity or a belief. But on some issues - oh, let's say dog fighting - the views might not be all that different. In fact, the Supreme Court's views were 8 - 1 about this particular case.

Maybe the Court strives to rule for the exceptions, those who push boundaries beyond which most of us would not go, in order to keep all of us free. Maybe. But this decision makes me feel like I need a shower.

I've linked to today's Daily Caller column. Would love to hear your thoughts: am I completely off base about this?

I had this wrong. Turns out, childbirth isn't painful; it's a pleasure. Yes, that kind.

Mothers and fathers to be: Don't go into the delivery room without reading this.

Actual parents: Remember your own delivery room experiences and enjoy.

Moms: Like me, you may have missed something. I'm still laughing about this.

Enjoy.

Radical. Well, that's one word for it.

Just in case it hasn't been obvious to date, my general outlook on things is pretty conventional. It must be the Capricorn in me.

But espousing any world view based on Astrology isn't exactly conventional thinking, right? Which is proof we are all many-layered people with any number of views.

Then again, I'm not sure I could ever embrace of the views depicted in Today's column. Different drum and all that aside, some on this just sounds crazy to me.

Enjoy.

Twist this.

From the “I almost can’t take this anymore” file, we have the following update, courtesy of Levine Breaking News, my absolute favorite daily news feed:

“Kate Gosselin is launching a series that will profile everyday women facing personal challenges "Twist of Kate" will follow the reality star and supermom as she visits the homes and workplaces of her subjects, where she will exchange insights for living. The 12-episode season will premiere in late summer, the TLC network said Thursday.”

First off, a reminder to those who haven’t read this fact previously. I’ve never once watched an episode of Jon and Kate + 8, the “reality” show that catapulted the couple and their many offspring into the national consciousness. But let’s assume for the sake of argument, that it was somehow entertaining and diverting. At the very least, it was a train wreck and many people couldn’t seem to turn away from it week after week.

Let’s also assume that Jon and Kate played their roles very well and the audience found ways to identify with them as characters, in roles, creating drama and tension. Let’s finally assume that the children – as close to voiceless victims as anyone could be – emerge from this bizarre chapter of their lives healthy and relatively unscathed as a result of their parents’ egos and pursuit of fame and fortune based on nothing more than fecundity and fertility drugs.

Kate has since moved on to another venue, a more glamorous train wreck called Dancing with the Stars. Once again, truth: I’ve never watched this, either. But my expert on the show – Howard Stern – tells me she comes off as rude and obnoxious. And that she can’t dance. What a surprise!

The question is: can’t she just go away now? Apparently not. Someone somewhere did a focus group or polling research or some reading of her Q rating and determined that a measurable and significant enough group in America was not yet finished following the adventures of Kate. Which brings us to TLC, which now stands for The Laughable Channel, because what they want us to learn is a joke, and their announcement of the new series.

If Kate is a supermom (hate that; it’s a meaningless term in every way), what the heck is she doing taping a new television show that has her visiting the homes and workplaces of women “facing personal challenges?” Why isn’t she home with her eight children? What on God’s green earth does she have to offer ‘women facing personal challenges’ in terms of brilliance? Oh, sorry – that’s not right. They’ll simply “exchange insights for living.”

Let’s pretend I’m a woman facing a personal challenge and Kate comes knocking on my door. Assuming I didn’t need or value her insights about life because I’m not also the mother of eight children including sextuplets or trapped in a loveless marriage because of a television production commitment, I’d like to imagine my side of the exchange would sound something like this:

“Kate, thanks for stopping by and bringing the entire “Twist of Kate” production crew into my living room; but I don’t know you. I never watched the show about your family and I’ve never watched you try to dance. I haven’t read even one article written about you, your ex-husband, or your children. I didn’t buy nor read your book and I haven’t tuned in to see you interviewed on any program. In other words, your notoriety alone is the one and only reason I have any idea at all who you are.

That said, you seem to think you can help me if we exchange insights for living. Super. Me first: Kindly leave. The day I believe - in even the most far-fetched, inscrutably infinitesimal way - that an ex-reality show “star” who basically exploited her children and private family life in exchange for fame and money could possibly have become elevated and enlightened to the point where she has something worthwhile to share with me about something as critical as "life challenges," based on nothing more than her kind of quasi-celebrity status is the day I take the tailpipe.”

This is what you might call full disclosure. Well, something's full, or looks full, or is spilling over because it's so full.

After years of suffering incredulity, sadness and brooding misery whenever I encountered them, I have to applaud that quintessential “just in case you don’t feel awful about yourself today, here we are, ready to help with that” company: Victoria’s Secret. As noted in previous posts and several newspaper columns, I am finally at peace with old Victoria. Why? The new ad campaign.

I can’t remember every detail. All I know is it promotes yet another new line of underwear called “The Nakeds.” There you go. Finally, the name of the product actually reflects the whole philosophy of the company. There’s never been another company that spent more time, energy, marketing savvy and advertising effort to sell garments that were designed specifically to spend as little time as possible on your body.

And God bless her, Victoria is always coming up with new lines, new approaches, new ways to sell products to women – and the men who love to love women – who want nothing more than to spend upwards of $80 on a fushia colored push-up bra they’ll wear semi-annually. Women who want even more colors and more choices of tiny little panties they’ll never wear on purpose unless everything else is in the laundry basket. Women who love looking at themselves sideways in the mirror to calculate exactly how much their stomachs don’t resemble the ones on the models in the commercials. Wait – you mean not everyone does that? Never mind.

But honestly, I love the idea of a whole collection called The Nakeds. I mean, you can’t call Victoria deceptive. Victoria’s Secret may want to but they can’t exactly sell you “naked” because that would mean a store full of empty hangars. But they can sell you a bra and panties called “The Nakeds” that seemingly will help you get naked, or want to get naked, or something similar in short order.

Maybe they’re really comfortable. Maybe they’re designed so well you feel naked wearing them. In fact, that seems to be the promise: “Bras and panties so light, so bare you’ll wonder if they’re even there.” They’re “smooth and seamless” under clothing. The woman on the home page of the website looks like she is enthralled – that’s one way to describe her expression - with the lightness of her garments.

So there you are. For just $42.50, you too can feel Naked, courtesy of Victoria. Don’t want to feel Naked? You can buy ”Second Skin.” Or something from a line called “Pout.” Or a weekend bralette. (Nope – don’t know what that means.) Or let’s just forget subtlety altogether and purchase something from the Very Sexy line.

I may have aged out of Victoria; I recognize that. All I know is that several years ago, the company reported that their best-selling undergarment was a plain, white bra. This news restored my faith in the good sense of women the world over. I like pretty and sexy and adorable as much as anyone but please. Buying underwear because its label reads “Very Sexy,” or “Second Skin” or “The Nakeds” may just make us look just a little pathetic, right?

It's good to be the Queen. Now go be your regal, wonderful self.

I'm thrilled to be able to use my small megaphone here to help spread the word about a new book I love.

Before sending you to the link, let me just add this: if you're a woman who smooths moisturizer over your skin every morning, staring at your neck as you do so, pulling back your face around your jawline to inspect the improvement, then contemplates wrestling on the Spanx in your drawer before settling for comfort instead, and wondering why you never once appreciated your 25-year-old body when you were in it 25 years ago, I salute you and send you a big, big blog hug.

If you're a man living with a woman who does some or all of the above fairly regularly, stop reading right now and go give her a real hug.

Enjoy.

Comedy is tragedy + time. Even just a few seconds.

Okay. This is about the funniest thing I ever encountered on the street in New York City. Thing is, whether you laugh or not tells you a little something about my sense of humor (and me a little about yours) but so be it. Here we go.

I’m walking from Borders Book Store in Columbus Circle toward Port Authority, straight down 8th Avenue at about 9:15 pm on Wednesday night. (Yes. I missed the 8:30 Bieber Bus and was stuck with the 10. Super.) The street, as always, is teeming with pedestrians and onlookers, some looking for something quite specific as it turns out.

In front of a store, I encountered a young man, apparently down on his luck, asking everyone who passed by for some spare change. That’s sad and troubling, but not all that uncommon in midtown, especially around Times Square. But here’s what struck me as unusual, and ultimately very, very funny. He shook his cup, and asked: “Spare some change so I can buy some Chinese food?”

I took a few steps past him and thought: Wait. Chinese food? So you could buy Chinese food? It’s not enough for him to ask, “Spare some change for dinner?” Or, “Spare some change so I can eat tonight?” Or even, “Spare some change (for reasons I won’t go into in great detail about right now?)”

Then again, you have to give him points for specificity. But if you’re going that far, go all the way: “Spare some change so I can buy some General Tso’s Chicken and an egg roll?” “Spare some change so I can get a plate of dim sum?”

What if I handed over my spare change and said, “I’m only giving this to you so you can go pick up a Gyro or a slice of pizza.” Would he hand it back?

Yes. I know. Being hungry and on the street isn’t funny but I’m so sorry; this is, right?

Not to mention, what I really wanted to say was, “Chinese food? Really? You’ll just be hungry again in an hour.”

Badumdum.

I tried. God knows I tried. Well, sort of.

In the spirit of journalistic honesty, I hopped online and attempted to read the healthcare bill. What follows is a very brief recap of my experience.

Enjoy.

I'm ethical. And I love London. So sue me.

Please review this list and get ready for today’s quiz:

Argentina

Belize

Chile

Ghana

Lithuania

Namibia

Poland

Seychelles

South Africa

Suriname

What do these ten places have in common? No, they’re not the latest countries to host American celebrities who are adopting children or the places bidding on the 2028 Olympics.

They are the developing world’s top ten ethical destinations in the world, according to Ethical Traveler. Wondering what the heck it means to be an ethical traveler? I was, too, so here you go, and it isn’t exactly intuitive. Forget about being polite, tipping appropriately and not taking the hotel shampoo. Ethical travel is mindful travel: an awareness of our impact and responsibilities as we explore the world. That certainly is mindful. Because I have to admit that when I think “vacation travel,” the words awareness, impact and responsibilities are almost never found among my “must haves” when choosing where to go and how to get there.

I get the feeling this makes me ‘the ugly American.’ The kind of person who runs around the globe, wreaking havoc and ignoring the cultural differences that exist from place to place and nationality to nationality. The kind of person who tries to find a McDonald’s in Rome or visits Eurodisney.

Not true. But it feels true.

Let’s get back to the list. How is the list determined? Three general categories get considered and scored: environmental protection, social welfare and human rights. If that sounds kind of dry and almost grim, that’s because it is. The list also considers more light-hearted categories like experiencing nature, and interacting with “local people and cultures in a meaningful mutually enlightening way.”

For God’s sake. Let’s consider just a couple of things here, okay? If you’re planning trips to Seychelles or Namibia or Suriname or Ghana, you’re a traveler. Developing nations don’t generally attract novice travelers. If you fly to Lithuania, it’s probably because you’ve already visited Sweden and Germany. If you land in the Seychelles, you’ve already been to Madagascar, Kenya and Mozambique.

You starting to see a pattern here?

Let’s also consider this. Because of the land mass and other considerations, about 90% of the earth’s population lives in the northern hemisphere. Ninety percent! And even that 90% is concentrated in about 20% of the earth’s land mass. Can we agree that most travelers flying to at least half of these locations (found in the southern hemisphere) will leave quite a significant carbon footprint?

I hate the sanctimonious nature of lists like this. You like to travel but enjoy such pedestrian destinations as Western Europe, the Caribbean or Asia? Poor, unenlightened you. Your ethics are obviously lacking.

Then again, even this year’s report acknowledges some anomalies and seems to look the other way under certain circumstances. In Belize, Seychelles and Namibia, homosexuality is a crime, although it’s not “zealously enforced.” South Africa has a wide gap of rich vs. poor and a high crime rate. And some of last year’s most ethical destinations have been removed from the list entirely because they are leading the world in sex tourism or in trafficking children in to the sex trade: Costa Rica, Bolivia and Bulgaria. Nicaragua was removed because of fraudulent elections and both Croatia and Estonia basically outgrew the list by virtue of their economic success and classification as High Income Economies.

So in 2008, Costa Rica was on the list and travel there was encouraged. Now it's off because it rivals only Thailand and the Phillippines when it comes to prostitution and sex trade. Did this happen in basically two years? Really? That’s quite an accomplishment.

This is why lists like this are specious and pointless. How about this instead? Travel honestly. Don’t make a mess or cause any mayhem. Obey the rules. Respect the people around you, their surroundings and their traditions while you’re in their midst. Be kind. Don’t be judgmental while visiting another culture. There. My suggested rules around ethical travel. So go where you will - that’s entirely up to you - and enjoy.

Okay. Sometimes you can make this stuff up.

And I have the post to prove it, considering this post. I wrote it ages ago. If you want, take a look and then come back for the latest.

So today, I'm on my favorite homepage - MSN - and what do I see but a story about Demi Moore, and her latest "news."

For God's sake. It's not enough that she and her ilk inflicted the entire idea of "cougars" on us, and that a network produces a television show about older women and younger men. She's not satisfied that a dating service called Cougarlife.com exists only to create older woman / younger man couples, if only for a night or two. Now that the word has become part of the early 21st century lexicon, in no small way due to Demi's antics, she now labels 'cougar' a distasteful term. (Demi Moore determining what is or isn't distasteful is kind of funny if you think about it.)

May I ask why? Maybe it's because when she was the only one out there - the only older woman from a certain generation of Hollywood leading ladies that had attached herself to a younger husband - that being identified as a cougar was fun and unique. Maybe she doesn't want to belong to a club that would have her, although in this case she was not only the Founder and President, she was the Senior Publicist.

That's all in the past. Now she's a self-identified Puma. How sweet. I want to know the difference between a Puma and a Cougar, other than Demi's dismissal of the latter. Maybe Pumas are snobs? That may have first welcomed others like them but now look down on the cougars that surround them? Perhaps they pretend to be part of a group and then when too many others join they break off into their own new, better, more exclusive group.

God knows. If anyone finds any of the details surrounding this very vital differentiation, I'd be delighted if you'd share them here. Otherwise I'll be forced to imagine more of them. And not one bit of it will flatter any member of the feline family.

Isn't just being invited exciting enough?

At the risk of offending readers' sensitivity, I offer today's Daily Caller column.

Suffice it to say, I would have thought that most men would be delighted just to be asked to the party, so to speak. I'm positive not one of them would complain or be disappointed about the lack of decorations they found upon arrival, if you see what I mean.

A new low in self-esteem has been reached. Who could have imagined it would be so sparkly?

What passes for integrity in Georgia these days?

Many years ago, before we had children, I used to accompany my husband on a golf outing once a year. No, we weren’t golfers – at least, I wasn’t. Our trips were work-related. He spent several years working as a videographer for a number of clients, attending PGA tour events annually from April to August.

Because of a personal friendship with one tournament’s producer, I was invited to accompany my husband to that particular event every spring. While my husband worked as a cameraman, following specific golfers around the course, or shooting every stroke on specific fairways or greens, I held such important jobs as labeling videotapes and driving the cart. Clearly, not exactly something that needed my personal touch but it did give me the opportunity to spend a long weekend on a gorgeous course and watch some great golfers once a year.

I remember one specific exchange that happened on the course one year, and in light of Mr. Woods’ return to Augusta next month, I think it bears some contemplation. As I sat down – inside the rope line, mind you, courtesy of my “press” credentials – I slipped off my sandals to revel in the gorgeous spring weather and feel the soft, warm grass under my feet. No sooner had I touched a baby toe onto the carpet that covers a golf course when one of the “officials” stepped over to me and quietly requested that I slip my feet back into my sandals and keep them there, thank you very much.

Because of the horrified look on his face, I have to assume that sitting barefoot on a golf course – especially during a PGA event - was simply not done by anyone with any sense of decorum. It wasn’t appropriate or accepted behavior. It wasn’t polite or properly respectful of the course and the people surrounding me. This wasn’t a weekend at the beach, for God’s sake. This was the PGA! Have some pride, woman! A little dignity!

Now, I’m well aware that a bare foot on a tournament observer, even if she is “working” at the event, is a far cry from shocking behavior but it sure felt like it was. And as I said, I can’t help but remember this feeling of humiliation as Mr. Woods is about to step foot onto Augusta National Golf Course and claim his place back on the tour. Sure, he’ll be wearing shoes but what about everything else he did to sully the dignity of the game?

My husband tells me my logic is flawed here. Whatever Woods did – he did off the course. He didn’t exactly debauch Magnolia Lane or the Amen Corner. Had he done so, tournament officials – even the PGA itself – may have been well within their rights to request that he remove himself from their event, even if only for a probationary period. Plus, he’s not exactly the first pro-golfer who turned out to be a cheating scumbag, despite a pristine reputation.

But my contention is that at this point in Woods’ career, it’s difficult to separate the professional golfer from the very highly compensated spokesperson he became as a result of his athletic prowess. From the admirable, upstanding family man he conjured up for the viewing public, which is about as far from reality as you could get with this guy.

So the question is: if a prominent person acts in a way that is morally questionable (at best) in personal life, must they somehow make up for that behavior by bowing out of the public life that helped them achieve their prominence? Depends on the person, I guess. And the act. Elliott Spitzer resigned his governorship. John Edwards withdrew from political life. Senator John Ensign resigned his committee leadership after admitting an affair with a campaign worker. Governor Jim McGreevey resigned after admitting his sexual orientation and his affair. ESPN fired commentator Steve Phillips following his disclosure of an affair with a younger co-worker.

On the other hand, Letterman is still behind his desk. Mark Sanford is governing South Carolina. Bill Clinton never resigned for God’s sake after having an extra-marital affair in the workplace, aka The Oval Office, with a much younger associate.

Maybe none of this would bother me so much if I didn’t remember the look on that guy’s face when he more or less asked me to behave myself and cover my bare feet. If golf is so pure; if it’s so respectable and mannerly and played by gentlemen, how could it ignore Tiger Woods' cheating? Why is it so easy to separate the athlete from his actions?

According to the PGA website, it makes enormous sense for Woods to rejoin the tour in Augusta. The Masters Tournament is among the most restricted sporting events in the world. “Media credentials are limited even in normal circumstances, and the club has tight control over who gets in. Some fans with season badges risk losing them forever for violating rules, such as being caught with a cell phone or a camera. Among the rules: No running.

Most players expect Woods to be heckled, although not as much -- if any -- at the Masters.

"That's why Augusta makes such good sense…There's less of that than anywhere else. Everyone is afraid to lose their ticket. The etiquette and behavior is far better than anywhere else because of the fear factor."

Legendary Augusta stories abound, including the (possibly exaggerated) one about sportscaster Jack Whitaker referring to the Augusta fans as a “mob” and subsequently being asked to remove himself from the proceedings by club president Clifford Roberts. Augusta National and the Master's Tournament refused television sponsors for more than two years after the national outcry about having no women among their members. Says a little something about the club's ability to finance a network broadcast from its own resources.

Augusta can be prickly but it seems to be consistently prickly. If anyone in the world of professional golf had had the guts to shun Woods and make a statement about honor and integrity, it would have been Augusta National. But they didn’t. And that’s just a little disappointing.

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Thanks in large part to friends who can't help but think of me when they encounter situations or come across news items that are annoying - I'm trying to take that as a compliment - I offer today's Daily Caller column.

Thanks to Mary for the Facebook inspiration. Enjoy.

Great. More inspiration for the rest of us.

I am far from an expert on anything but there is such a thing as the law of diminishing return in many, many aspects of life. According to an interactive tutorial from the University of South Carolina, “The Law of Diminishing Returns is an economics classic. It says: As you repeat doing something, each repetition becomes harder and/or less rewarding. The "returns" to your extra efforts 'diminish…'"

This concept occurred to me when I read the news about Sarah Palin’s next foray into publishing. Apparently, she’s writing another book, this one as yet untitled, in which she will gather a “celebration of American virtues and strengths.” She’ll select “readings that have inspired her and portraits of she admires.” Mixed in between her favorites will be her own musings on her personal experiences to “amplify” the themes she’ll cover in the book.

Let me see if I understand this. It took Sarah Palin about forty-six years of living before she burst onto the literary scene with her multi-million copy bestseller, Going Rogue. Full disclosure: I haven’t read her book but understand it to be her own irreverent, unapologetic autobiography. Granted, crammed into her years were a governorship and a national campaign for the Vice-Presidency of this country but those things happened only over the last few years. For the first forty-one years or so of her life, she was very far from a familiar name, living for all practical purposes the exact same life millions of Americans lead on a daily basis.

But there is no denying she has her fans and Harper Collins has the book sales to prove it. And like any publisher on the planet, it simply has to be true that one bestseller deserves another. There is no other reason to believe that the Sarah Palin has any more enlightened ideas about the “readings that have inspired her,” (which by the way would be “writings,” wouldn’t they?) or can choose from among portraits of people she admires better than you, or me, or the guy down the street who walks his two standard poodles every morning, or the man who pumps my gas, or the guy who hands me coffee through the window at Dunkin Donuts or the CPA who does our taxes every year.

I have no doubt that Sarah’s collection of inspiration, mixed with her own personal reflections on said inspiration, will sell like mad. But getting back to our law of diminishing return rules, it won’t sell as well as Going Rogue. There is simply no way it can. It’s not a personal, “let me tell you how it is” story. It’s not an inside look into the life of a woman who emerged from all but obscurity outside of Alaska onto the national stage in exactly one day in 2008.

What is it again? “A celebration of American virtues and strengths.” “Readings that have inspired her.” People she loves plus her own personal connection that will “amplify” the essays. That's super.

These kinds of books emerge from celebrities with some regularity. They must do well enough, although I don’t think I ever bought one. Maybe they’re supposed to inspire the rest of us to get inspired, or inspire others, or recognize inspiration when it smacks us in the face. All I know is that I don’t really care who inspires David Archuleta (“Chords of Strength”), Maria Shriver (“We Inspire”), Marlo Thomas (“The Right Words at the Right Time”), Marlo Thomas (“The Right Words at the Right Time Volume 2”), Charles Grodin (“If I Only Knew Then…learning from our mistakes”), or Jane Seymour (“Open Hearts”).

Question: is the book-buying public clamoring for another one? Are we all just dying to read Sarah Palin’s hand-picked collection of inspiration? Let me rephrase: are enough of us dying to read it make it worth publishing?

I guess we’ll find out.

Never have so many.....

Yes, I'll be watching Sunday night. And I'll be rooting for Tarantino and Firth.

That aside, here are rest of my thoughts about the Academy Awards in today's Daily Caller.
Enjoy.

A modest proposal. Literally.

Is it me, or do the figure skater outfits look like they were created by costume designers for La Cage and Cirque de Soleil who were smoking crack?

A modest proposal follows. Enjoy.

This woman's work.

Maybe it’s the snow.

Maybe it’s the relentless snow. And although it’s pretty and sort of fascinating in a way; and although things like a gorgeous and perfect winter snow help confirm my belief in God, this latest bit feels sad to me somehow.

Maybe my annual “it’s the new year and time to brood about my life” feeling has arrived a little later than usual this year. Typically, I spend the better part of January retracing my life and trying to figure out where certain aspects of it seem to have gone so far astray. Not every part – just some. But some – at least when it comes to life - is quite enough.

And as if I needed this, I came across something else gorgeous and perfect tonight, Kate Bush’s lovely and haunting song, “This Woman’s Work.” I heard it for the first time many years ago and connected it to a romantic relationship. Maybe that’s right; maybe it’s where you are in life the first time you hear it; maybe it’s what you make of it every time you hear it.

But tonight, in my snowy melancholy, I connected it to my sons. (They’re the part of my life that went exactly right.) They’re not perfect and neither is their mother, but together, it feels like we make each other better.

So what is it with the song?

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking of all the things I should've said, that I never said.
All the things we should've done, that we never did.
All the things I should've given, but I didn't.

Oh, darling, make it go, make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.

Of all the things we should've said, that were never said.
All the things we should've done, that we never did.
All the things that you needed from me. All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given, but I didn't.

Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.

The boys are all out of the house, even if only as college students, not independent adults. As they make their way into lives of their own, away from the home we had together, I do feel like crying but don’t want to let it show. When I try to stop thinking of all the things I should’ve said that I never said and all the things we should’ve done that we never did. And mostly, I think of all the things I should’ve given but I didn’t.

And then I think: give them back. Give me one more chance and I’ll do better. Give me your tiny little boy hand again and a tiny little kiss on my cheek.

Honestly, I don’t begrudge time and its inevitable march into tomorrow. I really don’t. But I do think about the things the boys needed from me. Like the nights they needed me to listen. Or ask. Or be available just in case they wanted a moment of clarity or truth. But maybe I was too tired to listen. Maybe I was too distracted and entirely absorbed in something that I can’t even remember today.

They all count as the things I should’ve given but didn’t. And in a moment of wishful thinking, I want to say, “Make it go away.” Just make those bad choices and missteps go away now.

I was (am?) one of those mothers who sat in awe of other women who were organized, efficient, accommodating, available, and familiar with every single aspect of their children’s lives. They knew every teacher, every coach, every club, team, and youth group. They knew about summer programs, camps, and art lessons. They turned in permission slips on time and never once got a call from the school nurse asking for health records that were five months overdue.

But all of that’s history. I knew who I was and who I wasn’t. I was never going to be the mom who “knew.” It came as surprise, though. My organization and efficiency elsewhere in life barely translated to motherhood. Was this not meant to be? In my worst moments, I think: no wonder the boys turned out okay. I interfered as little as possible.

So why am I stuck in this “give these moments back” mode? Nothing would change. I don’t think I would do anything any better or different. But maybe I’d try to hang onto that little hand just a little tighter. And make sure I leaned down for those kisses a little more often. That would count for something, right?

It’s here, very faintly in the background, but it’s here. That inevitable and relentless whisper that says, “Let go. Go ahead. Let them go.” Kate Bush knows. Here’s another bit of the song:

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman's work,
This woman's world.

I do sort of stand outside now, watching my sons grow and move and be – away from me. And do pray God they can cope. And that they know that while there may have been some words left unsaid, and some things left undone, we all came through with a little life in us, (and ahead of us); with a lot strength left in us, too.

Keeping it clean. In whatever way you choose. Fine by me.

Quietly, without much fanfare, a new era for men seems to be emerging. Drumroll, please: According to an article in Advertising Age, body wash outsold bar soap in 2009. This is the first time this has ever happened in the history of body wash vs. bar soap statistics. The reason? Marketers have discovered that more men buy body wash than cakes of soap. Market leaders like Proctor & Gamble and Unilever are among the industry leaders in the category, with brands that include Old Spice (P&G) and Axe (Unilever.)

One of the newer entries in the category is Dove, introduced during the Superbowl and endorsed by winning quarterback Drew Brees. Yes, Dove. For men. This is quite a departure for the Dove brand that up until now has been marketed specifically to women only. But have no illusions or fear of metrosexuality (remember metrosexuals?) creeping in: their commercial makes it clear that you can still be a man and use Dove.

In fact, they protest a little too much if you listen to their commercials. Yes, they’re sort of entertaining but still. One of them basically runs through a man’s life in a matter of seconds, from birth until he reaches adulthood, with a family of his own. It’s accompanied by a soundtrack featuring the most famous movement of The William Tell Overture, a.k.a. The Lone Ranger theme. Can you get more manly?

There’s another spot that focuses mainly on the requisite adorable, ripped guy in the shower, who appears to be having a cleansing experience like no other since he’s discovered Dove Body Wash. The voiceover mentions something called micro-moisture that activates on contact. Activating on contact sounds like a guy thing, right?

The narration in both commercials contains some variation on the following theme: “You’ve reached a stage where you’re comfortable with who you are. Shouldn’t your skin be just as comfortable?” “Now that you’re comfortable with who you are, isn’t it time for comfortable skin? At last, there’s Dove for men.” The tagline gets repeated: be comfortable in your own skin.

I get it. For God’s sake, we all get it. Indigenous people in the Australian Outback would get it if they saw it. Buying Dove doesn’t make you less of a man. It celebrates your very comfortable nature and the fact that you’re comfortable with who you are because you feel comfortable. In your own skin. With exactly who you are. And that feels very comfortable. Or something like that.

On the other end of the spectrum – focusing on the idea that not all men feel quite as comfortable in their own skin as the Dove buyers – we find the Old Spice commercial. This one is unapologetically directed toward women and features another adorable ripped guy, this time talking directly to us, as he stands outside his shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. Without naming Dove, it clearly refers to it by calling out guys who use “ladies scented body wash.”

The scene dissolves to him standing on a boat, still shirtless, this time walking across the deck in his terrific white pants with a shirt draped casually over his shoulder. Still talking to the women in the audience, he’s opening an oyster shell that holds tickets to same unnamed event “that you love” and then like magic, the oyster is dripping with diamonds. The shot pulls back to reveal him now sitting atop a white horse as he makes his final point: “Anything is possible when your old man smells like Old Spice and not a lady.”

I get this one, too. Hilarious, by the way. If you’re a man who finds himself in the market for body wash, you can’t really go wrong with a reliable, macho, unmistakable guy scent like Old Spice.

According to emarketer, mothers control 80% of a household’s discretionary spending so what the men think may be very nearly irrelevant. But let’s just say that at least some men shop for their own body wash and make their own purchase decisions. (They tipped the sales ratios, didn't they?) They’re the mavericks who disdain the traditional bar soap route and blaze their own trail to cleanliness. They’re the titans of the personal care aisle, who break all the rules.

So what’s the better choice? Do women want a man who is so comfortable he’ll buy and use Dove or a man who is so cautious and entrenched in 1954 that he will buy and use only the safe and familiar Old Spice?

For God’s sake, it’s soap. Liquid soap. Choosing a type of body wash is not exactly a revered, long-practiced ritual of manhood. Creating a commercial about a man who spends time calculating his self-worth, or worse, his masculinity, based on a type of soap sums up our culture just perfectly, doesn’t it?

But maybe this will help even things out a little, in an effort to reach equilibrium. I mean, finally, it’s not just women who think about this nonsense.

A Twix bar is not a crack pipe.

In the spirit of moderation in all things, here is today's column in The Daily Caller.

As always, comments welcome!!!

Trademark this, why doncha?

Not one bit of the following piece of news could portend anything good.

I can’t remember where I read this, but apparently ‘Snooki’ is in the process of trademarking her name. (She's following a trail blazed by a castmate, someone who calls himself ‘The Situation,’ whom no one could ever - in about a billion years - confuse with the eminently cool someone who calls himself ‘The Edge.’)

If you don’t know who Snooki and The Situation are, good for you and go with God.

Full disclosure: I once tuned in to about seven minutes of Jersey Shore on MTV before I’d had my fill. The scene depicted a bar, people getting hammered, and young women fighting with each other, to the point of punches and slaps. We’ve come a long way, baby. I was never so proud to be a liberated woman! We can now get wasted in public and brawl exactly like only idiotic men used to do.

Here’s why this is horrible news. Once Snooki has her trademark registered, you know what we’re going to be subjected to, don’t you? Snooki lingerie. Snooki jewelry. Snooki fragrances. And God help us - Snooki vodka. It’s inevitable. You won’t be able to swing an empty keg without hitting Snooki merchandise.

What I can’t quite figure out here is this: when did becoming a ‘celebrity’ (and I use that word in the most casual sense when it comes to the Jersey Shore cast) mean you could bankroll that moment into a cottage industry? Seems like this is a fairly recent phenomenon. Think about it.

All things being equal – meaning you have achieved at least a modicum of fame from a television show and have collected legions of fans – someone please explain to me why we weren’t treated to the following trademarked items over the years:

Lisa Douglas lingerie – no one wore chiffon and silk negligees in a cuter, sweeter way than Eva Gabor in Green acres.

Marcia Brady lip gloss – a no brainer. What was Maureen McCormick – or more correctly, her agent – thinking?

Ann Marie mascara – no one – before or since – wore mascara and eyelashes as brilliantly as Marlo Thomas in That Girl.

Vinnie Barbarino jeans – John Travolta and his jeans burst into our living rooms in the late ‘70s like few have since when he became the breakout star in Welcome Back, Kotter.

Cliff Huxtable sweaters – made a part of the 80’s culture by Bill Cosby in The Cosby Show.

One could make a reasonable argument that any one of these actors had more of a trademark opportunity in his or her day than Snooki whatever her name is will have in her lifetime. Which is why her trademark effort is so annoying.

Even more annoying will be the thousands of fans who line up to buy her merchandise. I hate to fall back on a familiar line but it's served me well in the past and it may serve me well now: We're doomed.

The perfect spokesperson at the perfect time for the perfect promotion.

This is one of those times when things just seem to line up for my own amusement.

Not 24 hours after I read the news about Tiger’s upcoming press conference – in the loosest sense of the word since he will confer with no one at no time about not one thing – I found a story lurking in my in box that amused me no end.

The Center for Biological Diversity distributed 100,000 condoms just in time for Valentine’s Day, in an effort for many of us to love carefully and care for our planet at the same time. I didn’t know that human overpopulation has a devastating effect on endangered species but I suppose that should have been kind of obvious. The more of us there are, the fewer American Burying Beetles we have room for, right? Randy Serraglio, a conservation advocate, puts it this way: “Human overpopulation is destroying the wildlife habitat at an unprecedented rate.”

Back to the condoms. They’re called Endangered Species Condoms and while that may sound kind of somber, don’t let anyone tell you the folks at the Center for Biological Diversity aren’t a fun bunch. Buyers can choose from the six varieties offered: polar bear, jaguar, snail darter, coqui guajon rock frog, spotted owl, and the aforementioned American burying beetle. The fun begins with the slogans attached to each:

Polar bear: wrap with care, save the polar bear

Jaguar: wear a jimmy hat (a jimmy hat??), save the big cat

Snail darter: hump smarter, save the snail darter – sounds romantic, right?

Coqui guajon rock frog: use a stopper (a stopper??), save a hopper

Spotted owl: wear a condom now, save a spotted owl

American burying beetle: cover your tweedle, save the burying beetle (Can we agree if you call it a tweedle you're not old enough for a condom?)

Free condoms were distributed in any number of expected venues, including in bars and at parties, as well as other places like supermarkets and concerts, by everyone from grandmothers to rock musicians. Demand was high, and more than 3,000 people volunteered to give out the samples.

Best of all – and this was my favorite part – five lucky people who entered the contest will win a lifetime supply of condoms. I’m wondering how the contest rule-makers come up with the number that works for each winner. If you’re 25 and unmarried, you get X amount. If you’re 45 and married, you get four. That should be enough to last you for the rest of your life. If you’re 80 years old and you win, go with God. But I really do want to know what a “lifetime” supply is and who figures that out.

Let’s get back to Randy and his words of good cheer for a minute. With a population projection of 9 billion by 2050, we should all be concerned about the lack of biological diversity that will result from that many of us on the planet. And – surprise! - Americans carry the most blame for this situation. According to Randy in the press release, the United States has the “highest population growth of any developed nation and extremely high consumption levels….We should be taking the lead in promoting policies that will stabilize global population.”

Super. One more thing American’s are ruining up for the rest of the world. Actually, more than one thing since we’re debilitating several species and upending the eco-balance for the rest of the world in the process.

But here’s the kismet that I just love about these two stories – Tiger and the endangered species condoms. It’s not enough that his nickname is Tiger and there’s a condom with a jaguar pictured on the package. Okay – they’re not the same but they are both predatory cats, right?

Here's the connection. Isn’t Tiger at least kind of worried about the endorsements that are now in his rear view mirror as a result of his back door activities? Problem solved! The endangered species condoms could probably use a spokesperson to take their campaign to the next level and Tiger can use a new endorsement deal. Having him promote condoms and wear a little condom decal on his golf shirts would be just about perfect, right? At the very least, he'd probably earn an A+ from the 'save our endangered species' advocates. It's a start, anyway. Plus, I keep thinking about that line from ‘Meet the Parents’…something like “keep your tiger in its cage” or something like that. And as a bonus, tigers are, in fact, also on the endangered species list. Even more perfect.

You can’t make this stuff up. But you can enjoy it when it happens.