Great Leap Forward

Before I had kids, I vowed I'd never let them watch tv. Until they were old enough to appreciate it, that is.

TV=bad. TV=fat. TV=ADD.

Until I had a baby. And then another one. Suddenly, there was a new god in town, a new kind of salvation. We called it the television. No, not just because I was home with my pvr every night. No, the tube was a godsend. A babysitter. A drug.

Need a break? TV. A rest? TV. A potential punishment? No TV.

And just when we'd finally got a handle on the TV situation, my older son asked me for a Game Cube.

A game cube? Huh? He's 4. he barely knows his own address. What does he know from Game Cubes?

No, no, no.

Video games=bad. Video games=fat. Video games=ADD.

Until my boys were old enough, there was no way I was going to succumb.

Erm, until I did.

No, we don't have a Game Cube. Yet.

We got a Leappad. It was a gift, and I was able to justify it. My neices loved their Leappads when they were little and look how clever and well-behaved they are. Besides, it's basically reading. But with a stylus. And sounds. So my son was hooked. It's essentially an interactive book, not a dreaded video game. No harm done.

And then we got a LeapFrog Word Launch. I stared at my husband in terror: A VIDEO GAME. He rubbed his hands with glee. He is, after all, a computer geek and all-round tech-whore.

He ripped open the package and the world as I knew ended. the Word Launch launched us into the video age. Imagine the sheer joy of a kid as he learns this wasn't just TV, wasn't just a toy - this was a toy you played on the TV. A real, live video game.

The first day we plugged it in, I fumed. I stamped my feet. I was disgusted - with myself, my husband and of course my kids. It was the end of the innocence. So long 4-year old, hello rated-T-for-teen. It was probably a matter of months before he slunk off to the mall, pants below his crack. God help us all.

But then a funny thing happened - and by funny, I mean funny for us: we plugged the thing in and it asked us....I mean, my son...to spell a word. And the word was "hump". For those who know my boy, they know he'll stop, drop and roll on dime. Humping is his thang. Always has been. (Apparently normal...) So to learn to spell it was a highlight for him. And the fact that the first word was, ahem, hump, was a highlight for me.

And then, get this - the next word was "dump". I SWEAR! Who needs primetime when we've got this? Fun for the whole family! Granted, the words that followed were less thrilling - for us - but I noticed a little something. My son wanted to spell. Not that he knew it. Poor soul thought he was rebelling with his video game. Sure we had some fun spelling out dirty words - look, if given the choice, it's hard to resist. But for the most part, it was good, clean fun. And now the guy was coming home from school wanting to word launch! Who could argue with that? No annoying characters or songs (Diego tunes aside, o'course), no muss, no fuss, no guns. This game rocked.

And despite all media evidence to the contrary, he's learning a lot. And listening. And being, well, a good boy. Especially now that I have another "privilege" to dangle over his head.

Thank you, Leap Frog...

Imagine the harmonious house I'll have when he asks for a Wii!

HIT THIS MOB

Once there were two friends. Friends with a vision. Some might call them, well, Family. And the vision? A business venture. Like so many great and powerful Families before them, they figured they'd make it worthwhile to pay a small price for protection.... from mass production, mundane home furnishing and, as they'll tell you, lead paint.

Shopoholics, look out - Mob is back. Modern Objects of Beauty, that is.

What started as a concept back in 2005 has now evolved. Featuring one of a kind objets des artes, painstakingly curated by the women of mob, this is no ordinary retail experience - it's anything but. Candies, cocktails and humour abound at this travelling salon. And boy, does this mob know how to travel.

Showroom, private home, cafe, design show... these ladies, ahem, get around. And through it all, there's me, tagging along, desperate to be a made (wo)man, a part of it all. Because, quite frankly, I can't resist the lure of mob.

The Showroom? Red and pink handblown glass bowl. The Annex house? Bone key ring. The Cafe? Shell necklace. The Design show? Porcelain choker.

And that's me using retraint!

'Cuz what I want, what I really, really want is everything. All of it. The lot. The tubular table. The Mitosis cube. At least two of the clocks. Oh, and the folding lamp.

And don't even get me started on the jewellery! Oh, the jewellery. Animal, mineral, vegetable. Semi-precious, precious, whatever. Hook me up! I modelled a piece for them once (and by modelling I mean I kind of picked it up and flounced around, hoping it - and I - would get noticed). And we did. When I accidentally-on-purpose modelled it all the way home. My man noticed it immediately (that's right ladies). It was almost like it followed me home. So it was only right to keep it.

And I'm not the only one. Once you go mob, you never go back. Mob hits are the kind of things you see, you stalk, you can't resist. Crystal drop necklaces? Bone and horn bracelets? Toy images? Talk about offers you can't refuse...I don't even know where to begin.

Actually I do. www.mobcollection.com

It's a start. A hint. A sneak peak. And maybe, just maybe, if you tell them The Mother sent you, you can get in on their next travellin' show, coming soon, very soon (TOMORROW!!!) to a local hotspot near you . The hits of the season, for every reason. Or not. But they're bringing out the good stuff, and nothing too pricey either! If you're local. If you're not, check out their website, don't just read it and weep.

My cards are cleared and I'm rarin' to go. Oh, and if anybody asks,it's all gifts. For other people. I swear.

It's not personal. It's just business.

A WORD FROM YOUR SPONSOR

When I first started blogging, I never dreamed it would bring me fame and fortune...

Which is a good thing because it hasn't.

A bit of fame, sure - in and amongst my people and their people and even some of their people. But fortune? Erm, not so much.

But then a funny thing happened on the way to the blogosphere.....people started sending me stuff. Free stuff. Despite not making a dime on these musings of mine, I have somehow become one of those bloggers that people think people wanna know about. I love that!!! And now the marketing genies, keen to cash in on all things bloggy - ie. trusted word of mouth - have sent me freebies. Samples. Swag. Call it what you want, it's free free free!!!

HOW COOL IS THAT?!?!

Well, it was cool. Except now that they've paid the bill, I'm expected to, ahem, put out. And I can't. I'm just not that kind of girl. (Anymore.) Look, I know nothing's really free. And that when something seems too good to be true it's cuz it is. Or isn't (is too good? isn't true? Y'know what I mean). Anyhoo, I've been tracked down. The stuff's been sent. And now it's payback time.

Faced with mounting pressure to lie back and spread 'em - the word on these products, that is - I find I'm more inclined to blow is all off and hide. Except now I feel like a real tease. They took their time to treat me to their product, and yeah, I encouraged them to, so the least I could do is tell you about it, right?

Wrong. You see, trusted readers, at the end of the day, I'll only tell you about things I love. Or loathe. Anything in between, well, what's the point, right?

Remember Pom Tea? I adored it. At the time I couldn't sing its praises loud enough... Now I can't stomach the stuff.
Joe Fresh? Cheap and cheerful. And cheap - the zippers are constantly undoing and they wash like crap.
Tassimo? retired my machine the other day - too pricey and I felt like an environmental terrorist in my own home.

No one paid for this press - good or bad.

Banu? Paid full price for every meal. Every hookah. And I'll keep going back for more.
Paige Denim? A bloody fortune, but I love love love 'em. And I'll keep going back for more.
Jude Law? Didn't give me the time of day, despite bringing a hot leggy blond as my winger. And, yeah, I'll keep going back for more. (Sheesh, not even a passing glance...._

Again, think any of that was free? I WISH.

Granted, once in a while something works for me - I got these awesome Crayola crafty paints and markers and crayons that rocked down my house. Especially the crayons - triangular, easy to hold (what? my kid has fine motor issues) and even easier to clean.

And see? I told you about them. Because I wanted to. On my own terms. I don't think I need to write about something simply because someone went to town and couriered it to my house.

Am I protesting too much? Probably. I'd kill to turn a profit here in the blogosphere. Maybe I should whore myself out a little more. Maybe I should write about any - and every - sample that someone sends me. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm not being sent the right kinda things. Hear that PR people? Marketers, start your engines....and start sending me stuff I can get excited about!!

Jude Law's agent - you getting all this?

Please and thanks....

THE DAY THE MUSIC(AL) DIED

Disclaimer: I am a musicals person.

No, that's not a type-o. That is an "s" you see before you. Musicals. Stage, screen... wherever there are folks spontaneously breaking out into song to lament a love lost, a home found, and everything in between, you'll find me. Laughing, crying, whatever. I'm in.

Until last night, that is. When I sat through the train wreck known as "We Will Rock You". Rock me? Hardly. This show was a crime scene. A sickening accident that, despite being destructive and brutal, one feels compelled to watch. Hideous, gory and loud loud loud. A concert gone awry, a story gone south and some creators gone bonkers.

My pal and I sat, mouths agape, wondering if what we were watching was for real. Who was the demo? Youngsters? Nostalgists? This hokey farce of a show appealed to neither. Suburbanites on a big night out? Is that who those freaks were with the glo-stix? There were plenty of 'em, whoopin' and screamin' and jumping to their feet. While my theatre directing pal and I, as I said, sat stunned.

First off: volume issues. Volume, as in wa-a-a-a-a-y too loud. How did the stage-diving fogies lapping this shit up stand it? Was it that loud that they didn't even know what they were hearing? Maybe.

Secondly, performances. I know, I know, touring companies, right? Wrong. This was/is a big deal. And is continually extended. Mamma Mia, anybody? I guess Brian May and his pals are laughing their way to the bank on this one. And poor Freddie M must be rolling in his grave. At least make the campiness work!!

It didn't. 'Cuz it was earnie earnesto from beginning to end. Set in the future and - gasp! - all musical instruments are banned. Only one hero - swoon - The Dreamer, can set the kids free so they can rebel and play air guitar and find their soul.

Soul? Not in this show. Spunky heroine? Too nasal. "Show-stopping" diva? Bored off her socks. Baddie who turns good? Hey, he wasn't bad! And our hero? Well, his voice was OK but he's no triple threat. Can you say the word "wooden"? With feeling? Neither could he.

And the list goes on. Mediocre support characters? Earned screams of delight. Lame Britney Spears jokes? Had 'em rolling in the aisles. Breaking into "flash" as skeletons - wow! - flashed on screens? Gasps of approval.

Where the hell were we? Oh yeah, downtown Toronto, where the self-congratulatory Canadian references guaranteed a standing O. Or two. And they got 'em.

You're probably wondering why didn't leave. So was I. But, as I said, it was strangely compelling. Like an open casket. You're totally uncomfortable, but you need to look.

So my fellow Musical-ists. And Queen fans. And subscribers to theatre packages. Go forth and be rocked if you must. But don't say I didn't warn you.

And don't forget to drink. A lot. Maybe that's the secret to its success...

Back to School Blues

Put away your whites, people, 'cuz it's Back to School time.

Yep, for all us North Americans, it's the real deal new year. Doncha think? You get all sentimental about the summer. Then you reflect: too hot, too cold, too fast. Blah blah blah. Same time next year, right? All through August you lament the end of summer and now it's here. The end, that is. But instead of looking back and waxing nostalgic, it's really a time of looking ahead. To fall. And the rest of the year. As I said it's Back to School time.

Despite all the ads and plans and warnings, it doesn't hit until Labour Day. And then, poof!- it's here. New Year's Rockin' Eve.

For the kiddies, it's a new grade, new teachers, new friends. For the rest of us, it's the memory of that back-to-school feeling. It's makes even the die-hard drop out feel new-ish: new season ( not really, but it feels like it, right?) New job/attitude (even if you've worked all summer, there's a different, fresher, more serious vibe, right?) New movies (Goodbye silly boy flicks, Mr Apatow and co notwithstanding. Hello Oscar Bait. Right?) New footwear (even if it's boiling, you're tempted to put on your boots, right?) And of course new outifts (September mags, right?)

Everything is new new new.

Labour Day (Labor Day for our American cousins) has a certain weight to it. It's far more momentous than any January 1st has the right to be. So I say Labout Day is the new New Year. Why not? New year's resolutions? Do 'em in Sept. Starting a diet? Post-summer's the perfect time to start. Quitting smoking? Hell-ooo? What better day than the one after a long, hot, smokey summer?!

So what, you may wonder, are my resolutions? Hmmmmm....To tell would be giving away too much, don't you think? 'Cuz resolutions aren't really that different from wishes and I'd hate to think that if I told they wouldn't come true.

Let's just say...well, I'm here, right?

Besides, I'm trying to keep my own resolutions at bay. My focus is on my oldest child. For this week, anyway. My almost-4-year-old starts school tomorrow. Real school. The kind that is no longer filed under optional. It's Junior Kindergarten - not just another program in his overprogrammed world. This one is It. The Biggie. The school he starts tomorrow will be, (hopefully, please god, poo poo poo) the one he graduates from in 9 years. Or 10. Whatever. It's the one that'll teach him to read. To write. And god only knows what else. For better or worse.

Yes, this Labour Day is all about Back to School. The first of many for some. And yet another slew of hopeful new beginnings for others.

Healthy. Wealthy. Wise. And working. What more could a girl ask for - for herself, her kids, her people? Aside from a few more glorious weeks of open-toe shoe that is.

Happy New Year.

stalker nation

From friendster to myspace to facebook...Such a long journey. And such mixed metaphors! First there was the printed word: the classifieds. Then the matchmakers - by phone and on-line. And now? These crazy communities sprouting up left, right and alt center on the world wide web.

That's right, communities. 'Cuz that's how they're billing themselves these days. Hmmmmn...

At first, I was skeptical. Sure, singletons unite. Happy hunting. Let us live vicariously through you as you regale us with tales from the dark and technologically advanced side. But marrieds and takens? Nice try. Who but a low-down lying cheating dog would be on these sites?

"Friend"ster? Come on. I never really looked around there. MySpace? Seemed to be an on-line ego trip with options to get laid. Not that I have my OwnSpace. But hey, I've been around. Stalking...That's right, stalking. What else is a married girl to do? I could post a screenplay on there - but puh-lease, does that really work? Music, maybe. And maybe not. Good for friends/snoops to take a listen and pass around to praise or chuckle, but otherwise....Are you telling me all those cats who list Ms P. Hilton as friends really are? Still?

A few months ago, I got my first Facebook request. I immediately declined. I couldn't snoop around without joining, so forget it. Then I got another one. And another. My interest was piquing. Daily. Then a far flung friend put in a request I couldn't deny. Log me in!

And then what?

You see, I still don't really get what to do on there. I still kinda think it's a slippery slope. From secret stalking, to innocent chatting to.....god only knows. Because the fact remains, the people I want to keep in touch with, I...erm, keep in touch with. The people I want to chat with? You guessed it, I chat with. In my own private yahoo world.

And yet...Once I created an account, I couldn't see the harm in having a poke around. And by poke I mean virtual poke - because I find myself doing a lot of that. I also found myself plugging in that device that tells you who, in your address book, is already facebooking.

Is this the new scrapbooking?

It's the new something. And it's addictive. I found myself sending out that mass email asking my friends to be my friends. 'Embrassing? Kinda. It seems to me the aim of facebook is to list as many peeps as possible as pals. Why? Hmmmm, maybe so's you can snoop through their friend list. And so on, and so on and so on.

In other words, it's for looking up exes. Ex lovers, ex friends, ex schoolmates, ex coworkers. All manner of exes, all the time. I, for one, would never acknowledge. Most of my exes are either freaks or friends. Throw in some drunken mistakes and a lack of self esteem and, honestly, do we need to go down that road? Relive it? For what?

I told one of my friends - who only occasionally snoops (via his wife's account). I explained that I didn't want to look up some old stalker. He pointed out maybe that was the point - to turn the tables. Maybe. Another friend and I played secret stalker. But there were hundreds of people with the same name - all of 'em much younger than we are. She seems to think Facebook is THE site for the over 30 crowd.

So what are my nieces and nephews, barely out of their teens doing there?

And what about the guy who shares my husband's name? When it says "view friends", it really means view friends. What if someone thinks that little f*&k is the father of my children?!

A lot of my overseas joined at my behest. they now think I'm the queen of Facebook, so when they email me (publicly!!) asking what it's all about, I quickly yahoo them back. Et voila, we're back in touch. But I don't think that's the main attraction here. Nor is the buzzfeed, giving you the rundown of everybody else's facebook business. It's all so very strange.

So why am I constantly on there?

Good question.

I'll let you know. After further exploration. But now I must dash. I've got some more, erm, friends to find.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Location, location, location. The three magic words when it comes to Real Estate. Or are they? I know a couple of others: Just. Listed.

Yep, real esate fever hit me hard. So hard, in fact, I've been able to do nothing but speculate - on my house, my neighbours' houses, your house. The online MLS listings are like porn for me. I need more, more, more. More info, more knowledge. Which sold when. And of course, for how much.

You see, we've just bought and sold houses. Out with the old, in with the new. And what a long, strange, trip it's been.

As anyone who lives locally will tell you, these days it's better to give than to receive. In other words, don't even think of putting your place on the market until you've made damn sure you know where you're going.

You've heard the stories - lost 6 bidding wars. Had to rent month to month. Got pressured into accpeting an offer they couldn't refuse and now rent back their own house as they look for something comparable.

Tell someone from the - ahem - previous generation that you're buying without selling and they'll look at you like you're nuts. Rest assured, you're probably quite sane, but won't be for long.

You see, we bought a new house after 6 months of looking. Not too bad, all things considered. We only lost out one bidding war - which was in itself a true blessing in disguise - we never could've afforded the bills, let alone a reno. Everything we saw didn't really hold a candle to what we had. Until, of course that magical day when I went to see a home on a street I vowed I'd never live on, and fell in love. And after a bidding war of our own, we found our not-quite-dream-but-good-enough-for-us home.

All that was left, was the sale.

Selling our house? Ha! Pas de problem. Everyone knows the demand far outstrips the supply in our 'hood. Who hasn't heard about the crazy bidding wars? The knocks on the door, offers in hand? The private sales? And, hell, if I liked my house enough to buy it, why wouldn't someone else? Cocky? Maybe. But as everyone knows, "it's the market".

So we primped. And cleaned. And tossed out. And cleaned. And vacuumed. And cleaned. And moved out. The whole gang. Kids, cat, dog. We went out, the sign went up and all was well with the world. We were excited. We priced low and were gonna sell high. We started fantasizing: $10K over means a new deck. $20K over, a new bathroom. $100K over, a whole new floor. And why wouldn't we count our chickens? The dumpy house down the road went for $80K over and that was just land value! OK so we have an irregular lot. But it's beautifully landscaped. And, sure, the basement is somewhat, erm, moist. But it's bright. Our kitchen wasn't renovated, not exactly. But the gleaming stainless steal applainces would surely make up for that. We even did a pre-inspection. But let's not go there. After all, our house is a little older. Charming. So what would you expect?

We opened for business. And guess what? Someone else did too. The perfect, extra long, no dampness issue, fully inspected and well up to scratch house down the street. Talk about competition. And really, really, bad timing.

On offer night we sat with bated breath. And ordered in. And couldn't eat. 'Cuz we got nary an offer. Not a-one, nay, nay, nay. We were done for. Finished. Ruined. Our parents were right! Who the hell buys first, sells later? We could've moved in with them. Or friends. Or taken a sabbatical from, uh, life. But noooooo, we were the losers who'd have to re-sell our new house and never leave our old one. Ever.

Now of course things worked out. And, as we soon learned, this kind of thing was happening to lots of people. Friends of friends and actual friends. Mind you, it didn't happen to the house down the road - it got multiple offers and went for$130K over asking. Looks like they'll be getting a lot more than a new floor in their new place.

And us? Yeah, we sold. One day later. To a lovely couple who'd endured 2 years of seeking and 9 lost offers. Everyone was happy. Ish. They got their house, we got our price. In fact, we got just voer. Sure we priced it a little on the low side and the big overage is hardly a new deck (or bathroom). But wait 'til you see our new window boxes!

And what's done is done. And now we can look forward to boxing and cleaning and packing and cleaning and moving and cleaning some more. And then settling in to mess it all up and make it our own.

And next time around? Guess it'll all depend on the market. But I'll be ready for it. 'Cuz I'm still speculating. That house down the road form our new place? You'll never guess what they're asking....

IF EVER WE MEET AGAIN...

Reunited, and it feels so good.... Or does it?

Reunion season is upon us. And being invited to reunions can only mean one thing: I must be getting old.

Who knew? Certainly not me.

But in the last few months I've been invited to two camp reunions, one family reunion, and there's been talk of a reunion from an organized trip I went on 20 years ago. Mind you, I was the one doing the talking, so maybe it doesn't count. Reunion fever is catchy - makes you start thinking about all the other reunions you could - or would - go to. Public school? Perhaps. Junior high? For sure. High school? Hmmmm... which one? University? Definitely...maybe. Grad school? No chance, Lance. So many reunions, so little time...

The family reunion was an interesting one. Oohing and aahing over the latest family members (babies, spouses, pets); trying to create new family memories by recreating memories of yesteryear (egg toss, races, games); reminiscing about people who couldn't be there (travel, divorce, death); and of course a lot of food. A lot. It was a bittersweet day, a day of reconnection and marvelling that these people who live such different lives from yours are you relatives, your family. And you could really feel it. Everyone left with shiny happy smiles and wondered if and if and when we'd do it again.

Well, apparently, we're doing it on an annual basis now. Which, to me, kind of rubs off some of the magic of, say, an every-five-year shin dig. Or ten. Then it becomes more like a holiday or something - everyone gathering every year, shooting the same old shit. But we'll see what happens. More often than not everyone gets carried away with the reunion fever, but as they settle back into their own lives, it tends to subside. I hope.

The camp reunions were an entirely different kettle of fishsticks.

I actually only made it to one of them. Previous engagements aside, I felt like too much of an imposter to go to the first one. I'd only gone to this camp for a single summer. So it just didn't feel like my camp, y'know? And that single summer happened to be one of the worst of my life, so going to the reunion was pretty much off the cards from the start. But a handful of friends were the organizers, and it did sound like fun, so I was tempted. Just not tempted enough. Revisit the time I consider the peak of The Dark Year? Erm, no thanks.

The other one, however, was for my camp. So I had to go. Or did I? Most people go to reunions to see old friends. I, however, was still friends with most of them. Or they go to see old flames. Hello?! Have you seen the haircuts we sported in the early 80's? Combined with being 14, it simply wasn't a pretty time. So not a lot of luck there. But I knew I'd regret not going, so I twisted some friends' arms, and off we went.

It was packed. For the most part I hung out with the posse I went with. It was a 50 year reunion, so we didn't feel ancient at all. Au contraire. And there were lots of friends and faces we hadn't seen since forever. Of course there were some awkward moments too. You know, the kind where you try to subtly read a person's nametag as they hug you and gush and you haven't a clue? And, even worse, the kind where you bump into someone you thought you'd been really tight with and they can't remember your name. Apparently that's quite devastating...

I've recapped since the big night and everyone had a wonderful time. Especially the folks who were a couple years older than my gang. I think our year must've been an odd one. Or a nomadic one. Or the kind filled with those too-cool-for-school to show up. 'Cuz we were somewhat under-represented, in person and in pictures. Where the hell were these people? More importantly, who the hell were they?

Guess we'll have to wait for the next reunion to find out.

Blabber chat

Boy yoy yoing...it has been ages. Sorry children. Been a wee bit preoccupied. Where to begin?Let's start with some idle....I mean Idol talk.

The telethon - a good cause, natch, but oh so earny earnesto, no? Celebs lipsynching to the Bee Gees? Why, oh why? (foreshadowing, perhaps?) All funny men were funny, but Teri Snatcher? When will America speak and send her back to the c-list? Still, all the power to them, getting spoosrs and regular joes to pay up...and then taking all the credit Idol Gives Back? Erm, no, Idol watchers give back. Idol gave nothing. Only Ellen did. Those Idol folks really are media geniuses.

Loved Blake's Jon Bon perf. L-o-v-e-d it. With his new 'do he looks like Bono. Intense stare, pas de lips... Don't get me wrong, sportsfans, he's no Bono. But I think he's awesome and hope he wins the whole damn thing. Read it closely - don't think he will win, but am living in hope. Last week we said adios to Nasal Beckham Timberlake and, dare I say it, Cancer Boy Phil. (Reference should be obvo, but if it isn't, don't fret. It's not cuz he has cancer, just looks like it.) So now it's The Ladies v. Blake. And guess what next week is? DISCO. With the king of the tight white pantaloons, Mr Guilty himself, Baz Gibb.....Moment for the Brothers no longer with us. And Andy....And back to the show: Woo hoo! Can't wait for it!

On other MOAM news, we're no longer all about the shits at our house. Not as much as before, anyway... #1 son has made it to the toilet. That's the good news. The bad news? We've had, erm, toilet traffic jams. We're talking grid lock. Stand stills. So now we really need to move house. Who wants to share with a 3 year old who can't wipe his own ass? Pas moi.

Gee, what a great lead in....

We are moving house! Yes, the real estate gods have been kind to us. We found our dream-for-now home - and only had two other bidders to contend with. Talk about tense. In the end, an acknowledgement of The Princess Bride won us the house...Oh, Wesley... More space, more rooms, more toilets. More house. Now we have to fluff our own.

Tell me, movers, does everyone fluff? Or just purge? Do you stay in you house or hit the road? Once the crap's out, how do you let it back in? Or do you just start accumulating all over again? Inquiry minds wanna know. And I need to know. I won't be a moving maven until later this summer, so let's discuss.

Since I plan on turning from gossip rags to decor mags I'll share some cheesy-in-a-good-way sites: www.dlisted.com, idontlikeyouinthatway.com, and of course Perez, Lainey and TMZ. Such good wastes of time and will save you big bucks on mags. Unless you double dip paper and web.

Wondering where I'm going with all this? Me too.

Erm....nowhere. Fast.

But the tribe has spoken and I had to give 'em something, so a little ramble should satisfy. For now. When the head's elsewhere, the typing fingers follow. I'll be back - on better form for-sure-cross-my-heart - next week. Or the week after. Stay tuned....

OUT! DAMN BLOG SPOT.

I have been trying to blog for weeks. WEEKS!

About house hunting and toilet training and, of course, American Idol. Not the hopefuls but the guests: Diana Ross as Oprah! Who knew? Lulu as Olivia Newton John! Why? And that Noone fellow... creepy or what? That cringe-worthy dancing!!! Very pedophile-y.

But instead of going on about the Vanjina scandal (He's a herm! He's a girl! It's all fixed!) or singing (ahem) the praises of my fave, Blake such a talent! Such good choices! When did he become attractive?!), I've been forced to sit back and wait. Wait until all these subjects, and more, fade out of the collective consciousness. Or at least mine. 'Til tomorrow.

But I digress....

Which is the point.

Why the long wait, you ask? Why indeed!

Bloody blogspot, that's why. Wouldn't open one day. Wouldn't let me blog the next. And, worst of all, wouldn't let me publish AFTER I'd written, ranted and raved.

Melinda vs. Kiki? Check. Merits of boys being able to pee outside? (Little boys, not grown men) Check. Understanding your real estate competition? Check, check,check. I'll give you a tip: the folks with the Prada shoes and shiny BMW will outbid you. Doesn't matter how optimistic you are. They just will.

But alas, 'twasn't to be. None of it. Maybe that's why blogs are becoming so passe. Not only are you, dear readers, getting sick of certain voices (hopefully not mine - is work that busy?!), but no news is, well, no news.There's nothin coming. Not on my computer(s) anyway.

So for those who've asked, and yes, there've been a few, thank you very much, that's where I've been. Cursing blogger, yelling at my computer. And now, now that I've FINALLY managed to open, write, and hopefully post, what do I have to say for myself? Ermmm.

A whole lotta nothin'. That's what.

Blogging. You gotta love it....

OLD NEWS

Oscar who?

The fat lady has sung. And won awards for it. But once the Academy has strutted its stuff, once we've seen the outfits, the frozen faces, the sore losers, the passed over , what's really left to discuss? Ellen? Not bad, not bad at all. Was I rolling in the aisles? Um, no. ut Jack Black and Will Farrell and John C Reilly were hilarious. Maybe they should host next year. Really, they should. All musical comedy, all night long. Oh, wait, that was Billy Crystal. Admittedly, I miss those songs....

So why write now, you ask? Well, simply put: because you asked. I've received more than a few emails wondering where the Oscar talk was. I figured everyone and his brother and her mother-in-law are blogging about Oscar. Or were. What's done, is done. But I'm a bit of a crowd pelaser, so hear I am, BOD. Blogging on Demand.

And since you asked...

Does anyone else think that Jerry Seinfeld was there to subtely pitch himself as next year's host? His new Bee Movie aside, what's he done for us lately?

La Kidman. Oh, Nic, what have you done with yourself? Turned from Batman heroine to the Joker. And Mr Freeze. That face! Once so gorgeous, now so....still. She's always been like a statue - but now her face is too. And not in a good way. According to one of my gossip hound friends, she's being written up as being 35. 35!!!!! She'll be 40 this year. Or at least 39. A fellow gemini, I like to keep track. Obviously she does not.

Murphy's Law. Bird in hand. Calll it what you want, but Eddie's loss was the scoop of the night. And no one was more surprised than the man himself, who promptly left. Grow up, Edward!

JHu should take a leaf out of JLo's book and learn how to do the red carpet. The latter, always perfect. The former, I know she's a newcomer but come on! My mom always told me, never put your hands in your pockets. Someone should've told Jen H. Fact is, when you've been generously endowed in certain areas, you either accentuate the positive (Ms. Lopez), or you hide it. Drape it. Skim over. You don't thrust your hands into your fancy shmancy dress. On the red carpet. Or anywhere. It's simply not a good look. From skimming to straining in a matter of seconds.

That's about all, sportsfans. While the list goes on, I shalll not. Unless, of course, you'd like to discuss Idol. I figured I'd wait 'til the top 12 are chosen, considering these ealry exiters will be promptly forgotten. They're the best of the worst, after all, chosen to put - and keep - the real talents in teh spotlights. But let's let them enjoy their moments in the spotlight, brief as it may be.

Oh, before I leave you....dedicating Let's Get it On to your parents? That ain't right.

Go Beat Boxer! Go JT Beckham!

MOAM....out!

SIMON SAYS...

Idol Fever. It's back. And it's bad.

In a good way.

Auditions are over, so all the saps out there don't have to worry about Simon being too "mean". Waah waah, cry me a river. If some sad soul is that desperate to get on tv -and honestly, how else can you explain some of these deluded freak shows - then you're fair game for Simon's wrath. Afterall, that's why they pay him the big bucks right? And that's why we all tune in.

Hollywood week? Done. Cloying and cheesy to be sure as they group together and doo-wop their hearts out. But it's only a 2-day affair (for us). And it's kinda funny to watch them freak out. And they whittle 'em down so fast it keeps you (me) glued. Good tv.

But that's all the preamble. The real fun starts now: The Top 24. 12 boys, 12 girls. Let the voting begin. My fellow idolheads and I have already discussed our faves. Not an easy task when half these cats are utterly unmemorable - but I suppose someone's gotta be the first to go, right?

My personal faves? Well, since you asked...

The Backups. I like the Minnie-Mouse girl backup. But I love the Hot Boy backup even more: gorgeous voice, gorgeous face - one to watch in every sense of the word.

The Innocent. You know, the one whose sister didn't make it? The Michael Jackson/Young Mick Jagger combo? Once he gets a smidgen of confidence, I think he'll really shine. Let's hope he's the young girl/granny choice this season, and not some annoying boy-band wannabe. Chicken Little anyone? Or tracheotomy guy? I shudder thinking about them. Go Sanjaya, go!

The Mean Girl who isn't. Annamaria? Anastasia? Antonella! She's The Hot Chick of the group and it seems folks thinks she's nasty. She's not. Yet. Her friend was, but she's been booted. Justice. Get ready for her makeover....re-ow.

The Justin Timberlake Guy. Where'd he come from? No one really knows. But he's JT's doppelganger. Voice, moves, 'do...Question is: will that help or hinder?

Lakisha. The single mom with the crazy pipes. Even the judges got a little welly over her. I love her. Love her!!! Hell, who doesn't?

Curly Sue. How long will it take her tresses to be ironed? I'm guessing within 2 weeks. She's quite appealing, with a great voice....but a face for radio. Could be a problem for her.

Jack Osborne Guy. The funny guy. With the funny hair. And a very serious voice. Awesome.

The Guy Who Missed His Daughter's Birth. Hat's off to him. No, really, hat's off. I quite like his voice and think he'll grow on us as the season goes. If he ditches his toque. If he's, ahem, receeding, then shave 'er down and face the music. Just lose the lid.

Sundance Head. With a name like that, who needs another? A bit of a Lucifer look-alike, he's the booming voice of the gang.

Crying Blond. She's cute. She's keen. She cries. America willl love her.

And the best of the rest?

Hmmm. There are some terrific singers whose faces escape me. And a couple of what-were-they-thinkings. And that incredibly annoying chick with the red streak in her hair. And the guy who wipes his eyebrows and calls it dancing. Oh - and the Beat Box guy!!! I forgot about the beat box guy. How cool is he? But can he sing?

I can barely sit still as I await next week's sho. or make that shows. This ratings juggernaut will be on every Tuesday, Wednesday AND Thursday for the next few weeks. If the sheer entertainment vaue wasn't reason enough to tune in, surely the broadcast schedule is. AI is taking over, so why hold out?

Play your pools, and place your bets. All aboard. The Idol train is leaving the station. Will you be on it? Will you have any other choice??

FIGHT CLUB

Parental playground question : who's got it worse - mother of the victim or mother of the perp?

Poor victim. No one wants to see their child hurt. You feel awful, wishing you could absorb your child's pain. So the victim's mom gets righteous indignation. Not the perp's mom. Or Dad. Or Nanny. Or whatever Guardian has to cringe as their charge taunts, teases, or beats the crap out of another small fry. After all, there is only so much you can do to, erm, train your child. Despite your best efforts, at some point, your kid's gonna be the bad guy.

And how will that make you feel?

Complicated answer.

I remember my older babe had these "friends" who liked to push him around after school. By day, they were all pals. In fact one of them constantly referred to my son as his Best Friend. Well! With friends like these...The second those tots were released into their parent's charges, mayhem set in. Every afternoon, like clockwork, these two little f&ckers would torture my angel. Push him, poke him, yell, scream, hit. You name it. Oddly enough, they were tiny things compared to my strapping lad. Possibly half his size. Did Napoleonic complex set in at 3? Maybe, Cuz they were like ratty little terriers.

I'd watch, loathe to get involved, as my son would tell them it was enough. He didn't like that (his emphasis). Part of me was proud. My son chose words. Brain over brawn. Another part of me wondered why the parents of these monsters didn't remove them, rather than issuing half-hearted warnings amid discussions of Christmas presents. And then there was the other part of me. The one I silenced. The one that secretly wished my son would realize his own strength and just wallop his tormentors once and for all.

One afternoon, as the moms stood around pretending to be pals, I noticed the kids playing one the slide. Together. Nicely. What a relief. Maybe I could make friends with these people. Maybe those boys were my son's best friends. Maybe....Suddenly a man started yelling about the kid in the red jacket. I pretended not to notice. There were lots of kids with red jackets, right? Then the waterworks started. And they weren't our brand. I turned to see this Dad holding my son by the hood of his coat. The look of defiance on my son's face was all I needed to know that he'd gone from victim to perp. He looked me in the eye and told me he hit ----. When I asked why, he said he had to. Before I could respond I was being berated on all sides. He didn't just hit ----, he kicked him in the head.

Suddenly, my child was the devil. The enemy at the schoolyard gates. I tried consoling the hysterical bully-turned-victim. I tried forcing my child to apologize, but no chance, Lance. I grabbed his hand to take him home, my face blazing with anger. But inside, I was jumping for joy. Atta boy, son! You showed those twerps. At last, he stood up for himself. Granted, he took it a little further than the pushes he'd experienced, but still... His "best friends" never bugged him again.

Yeah, I felt bad. Ish. And my son was punished. Sort of. But the fact is, that kid kind of deserved a swift kick to the head. It's a pity that my son had to be the one to give it to him. And, yes, it did make me feel guilty. Guilty that he got caught...

OSCAR TALK

It's official. The biggest lunchbag letdown in showbiz has announced its contenders. Who's the little gold guy gonna go home with? And does anybody still care?

Yep, it's Oscar time. So wake me when it's over.

The Academy Awards has lost its spark. Not that this is news to anyone, but it's sort of sad nonetheless. Will I still tune in? OF COURSE! But I'll be bracing myself for the inevitable disappointment. Not because of the cheesy song 'n dance numbers. And not because of the overall earnestness. And definitely not because of the below-the-line-people's speeches. In fact, I kinda like those - especially when they thank their families and dead relatives. Those speeches, the death montage and all the tear-jerking sucky stuff I kinda dig.

No, the real reason for the letdown is because every other major award has already been given out, so there really are no surprises. DGA's, PGA's, SAG's. Every critic and their circles. And of course the Golden Globes. It's like unofficial insider trading to determine who will win the official Oscar race. In fact, nowadays the only way to win an Oscar pool is to correctly guess the short film and documentary categories. For everything else, the work is done.

Still, it's exciting to hear about Dreamgirls. The most nominations of all. Sure they missed the biggies, but let's face it, it's all about Effie. Always has been, always will be. No wonder audiences burst into spontaneous applause when Jenny Hudson belts it out. She's spectacular. So much so that when asked "Have you seen Dreamgirls?" the only possible answer I could give is "how many times?" (OK, that's a bit of a spice. Despite my best intentions to go again and again and again, I've still seen it but once. But hey, I have the cd - movie and play - in the car. It's the next best thing to being there. What? There's lots of flicks out there. Who has time for traders?!)

Looks like Marty Scorcese will finally get his Oscar. Not because The Departed is his best work, but because his time has come. And gone. And come again. And gone. And come again. The Academy loves doing that. Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman, anyone? I liked The Departed and I LOVED Marky Mark in it. But best picture? By the end the entire theatre was laughing - out loud laughing - as the body count rose.

Best Actor race has Mr Whitaker's name all over it. Haven't seen Last King O' Scotland. And I don't really want to. Maybe because I read the book years ago. For work. Back when I used to work. And I passed on it. Didn't think it was a movie. Oops. But he seems like a nice enough fellow, and that droopy eye always gets me, so Go Forest, Go.

Yes, I know it's Helen Mirren's year, but if I had a vote, and if it counted, it would be for Dame Judi. Always. Personally, I think Ms Mirren is a TV actress. An awesome TV actress, but I never can get past Prime Suspect. I also think The Queen is a TV movie. A very good TV movie, but a TV movie all the same.

But what do I know?

I know that Little Miss Sunshine was fantastic. And that Sasha Baron Cohen was robbed (robbed!). And the saying "yah man" in a South African accent is enough to score a person an Oscar nom. And that Ellen is hosting. I also know that I'm rooting for Babel - in every category. (Even the best supporting actress ones that it so deserves but will never get. Don't tell). And I know that no matter how you slice it, the best song demos always bite. Big time.

Oh who am I kidding? It's the Oscars....and it's all about the outfits!

RESOLVE THIS

I will, I won't, I swear, I'll try.....Talk, talk, talk, doesn't anybody...erm...do anymore?

I'm talking about New Year's resolutions. It's January 12th. Do you know where your resolutions are? Are they down the crapper? Come on, you can admit it. Still eating? Smoking? Lounging? Working too hard? Not working enough?

Probably.

Rather than fall off various wagons and miss crucial deadlines, I didn't even bother making resolutions. It's not that I think I'm perfect. Far from it. I'm just as much a fixer-upper as the next gal, if not more so. Always in need of a fine tuning here, a slight shaping there, a little motivation...

Motivation!! Maybe THAT's the problem. I'm so unmotivated (insert: "how unmotivated are you?"). Well, I'm so unmotivated that I can't even make a bloody New Year's resolution.

But with all the studies showing how fruitless they are, really, who can be bothered?

VIVA LA REVOLUCIONE!

Yep, I'm rebelling against resolutions. For me, this New Year's backlash isn't about staying home on New Year's Eve. Au contraire!!! But Jan 1st? Could there be a worse time to start making empty promises? I mean , puh-lease people - it's a national holiday! We're all still on vacation!

The good intentions of Christmas - I mean - The Holiday Season - are sweet. Nice. Charming. But come January? Buh-bye. I almost want to start smoking - almost. Except I need to be supportive to those who resolved not to. Eat less? I resolve to do that every week. But in January? Sheesh...I'm a Weight Watcher's Lifer and haven't been since the '007 began. Working too much? A non-issue for me. Starting work? Erm...It's January. Isn't showbiz dead in January? Isn't it?! All the best movies came out in Dec and the best TV is on hiatus 'til, well, Sunday. And people are just starting to get their work-groove back. Right?

That's what I tell myself.

And then there's the working out issue. Talk about been there, done that... I used to be a daily do'er. Complete with trainer. Mr. Mexico, no less. That's right, the real Mr. Mexico. While Miss America was saving the world or getting wasted, Mr Mexico was training me. Until I fell for someone else - Bikram. Cuz folks, let me tell you - nothing beats a Bikram body. Nothing. Except you can't do hot yoga pregnant. So that was replaced by walks. Power walks. Then strolls. Then stepping into the car. And now? The closest I come to a workout is lifting my fork to my mouth.

But not for long. Because I joined a gym. I joined a new, hot, fancy shmancy gym. I figured the price alone will drive me onto that treadmill. Except for one thing. My gym isn't open yet.

That's right, I'm so loathe to make a new year's - or anytime - resolution that I pre-joined a gym. Back in Sept. I figured I'd give myself a couple months to procrastinate and then, when it opened, I'd go. Is it a coincidence that it looks like it'll be opening in January? Perhaps. But because I joined a while back, and didn't make any announcements, it wouldn't be a real New Year's resolution. And thus I wouldn't be breaking it.

Here's the thing - while it's still not open officially, it's getting close. Every week I get emails informing me of the club's progress. The lobby's done. The equipment's in place. The classes are up and running. Unlike me. All that's left are the showers. And any minute now those changerooms will be rarin' to go - but will I? What excuses will I have left? By the time it opens it won't be about breaking New Year's Resolutions. It'll be about breaking in my shoes and breaking out of my lounging habit. The other day they even left me a message about setting up a fitness consultation. Is it too late to resolve not to waste time talking on the phone? Would that count?

Tick tock....January's flying by....If the resolutions are out the window, does that mean we have to keep the secret promises we made to ourselves...in September? I'm changing my mind. I am going to make resolutions. And stick to them too. If Jan 1st is the day, so be it. January 1st, 2008. Shame I missed the boat this year, then....A real, lovely, lazy shame....