Things don't get easier for her when classes start back up at Geek High. Between the dreaded Math Team competitions, an annoyingly love-struck best friend, and a stepmother who seems to delight in making Miranda miserable, it doesn't take a genius to see that the semester ahead is going to be tough.

Sam: Please don’t sing.

George and Whitney: Oh but they're weird and they're wonderful. Oh Bennie she's really keen . . .

Sam: Stop. Singing.

George and Whitney: [singing louder] She's got ELECtric boots . . . A MOhair suit . . . You know I read it in a magaz-EEEN! Buh-buh-buh Bennie and the Jets!

Sam: STOP! SINGING! STOPSINGINGSTOPSINGINGSTOPSINGING!!!!!!!

Is it wrong to admit that I love listening to John Tesh’s radio show? That man’s voice is like acoustic valium to me.

"Lillet?" he asked doubtfully.

I worried that I was pronouncing it wrong.

"Yes. Lee-lay," I said carefully.

"I know what it is," he stood. He paused, reconsidering. "I know what the bottle looks like."

He stood next to me, and joined me in staring blankly at the rows of bottles. It occurred to me that he had no idea where it was either.

"Um, do you carry it?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. To be honest, you're the first person who's ever come in here and asked for it. Ever."

I couldn't tell if this was a good thing. It could mean that I am so damn cool, I might single handedly start a Lillet renaissance in my sleepy, little, decidedly unhip town. Or it could mean that I am now that person -- the pretentious, asking-for-impossible-to-find-drinks-just-to-be-a-pain-in- the-ass chick.

I don't care. I am now on a one-woman mission to track down a bottle.

The boring granny décor would have to go, but the house is yum. I can so see myself sitting out on the back deck, looking up at the stars, while A Kiss to Build a Dream On plays in the background . . .

(Yes, I understand that the house doesn't come with a soundtrack. But
this is my fantasy, damn it.)

The publisher recommends it for kids ages 9-12, but I totally won't mock you if you buy it for yourself. And think of it this way -- it will give you a legitimate reason to head over to Barnes & Noble, where you can pass a pleasant afternoon guzzling mocha lattes and thumbing through a stack of magazines.

Read all about the books here.

Courtesy of Cute Overload


More pug hilarity:

Not only is this video hilarious, but it gives true insight into the pug psyche.

When confronted with potential threat, the pug will snort, circle, snort some more, and generally make a big show of posturing.

If the threat continues, and the pug senses that some danger may actually exist, the pug will immediately disengage from the conflict.

And, finally, once the threat has passed, the pug will adopt an if-I-can't-see-you-you-don't-exist pretense.

Our setting: the Child (a) has Pink Eye, and (b) loathes having eye drops administered. The Husband of our Heroine attempts to signal to her that it is time for the Child’s eyedrops . . . and our Heroine is too exhausted/ drunk/stupid to figure out what the hell he is talking about . . .

Husband: It’s time for E-Y-E-D-R-O-P-S

Heroine: What? Are you spelling out Eeyore? Why?

Husband: No. E-Y-E-D-R-O-P-S.

Heroine: Drops? Drop what? I have no idea what you’re trying to say. Just tell me.

Husband: For God’s sake! Eyedrops! We need to give him his eyedrops!

Heroine: Oh! Is that what you were spelling? I didn’t get that at all.

Child: NO!!!!!!! I DON'T WANT THE EYEDROPS!!!!!

Husband: See?

Heroine: [sighs deeply]

GEORGE: Let me get this straight . . . watching this show made you feel better about yourself?

ME: Absolutely. There are some really awful women out there. So lucky you, you got me! . . . Okay,why exactly are you laughing? This is not the time to laugh. This is the time to go out and buy me something sparkly.

Am now craving simplicity: sitting alone in all-white room, surrounded by white orchids and with soothing classical music playing in the background. Bliss. Since it’s Sam’s spring break from pre-school, this is not going to happen, but it’s nice to dream.

My Disney immersion has left me with some lingering, unanswered questions.

Such as, When did bra straps become fashionable? I have lived my life by the rule that bra straps should never show. Never ever. If you, for example, wear a racer-back tank top . . . well, you must wear a racer-back bra underneath. Right? Apparently not. This hard-and-fast rule seems to have been cast aside in favor of one that calls for all-bra-straps, all-the-time. Tank tops are apparently now selected specifically to show off the maximum amount of bra strap. Wearing a tube top? Well, all the better to display your bra straps! I find this bizarre, and not a positive step forward for humanity.

Likewise, the tattooing epidemic. As I have proclaimed before on this blog, I am not a fan of tattooing. I can live with the modest butterfly-on-a-hip here or a little star-on-an-ankle there. I don’t encourage it, but I can live with it. But when did it become hip for the average thirty-something all-American soccer mom to start sporting prison-style tats? Barbed wire encircling a bicep, or vines weaving down a leg? Yuck-o.

And finally, worst of all . . . the line-cutters. I kept telling Sam, “There’s no need to rush, we’ll all get there eventually.” Huh. Someone should tell that to the vast army of evil Disney-goers out there who push and crowd and race ahead just so they can climb on to the Teacup- and-Saucers one millisecond before you. They clearly believe to the very pits of their bitter little souls that this is some sort of moral victory. I nearly came to blows with one such woman while waiting in line for the carousel.

HER: I need to get by you.

ME: Well, yes, but this is a line.

HER: [Dead-eyed stare. Then attempts to step around Sam, who is not paying enough attention to body block her, thus forcing me to do it for him. Damn four-year-olds, they have no focus.]

ME: Excuse me. This is the line. We are in line.

HER: [Mutters to her husband. Then, when the line starts to move, she attempts to push past me for a third time.]

ME: Look, bitch, if you try to step in front of me one more fucking time, I swear to God, I will drop you where you stand. And I have a black-belt in ju-jitsu, so don’t fuck with me.

Okay, so I didn’t actually say that. For one thing, I am a lady. For another, there were young children standing around, including my own. And thirdly, I’m not actually black-belt in ju-jitsu. To be honest, I have no idea what ju-jitsu even is. But, trust me: I gave her a very dirty look. And she didn’t manage to get by me. Which means I was the winner! Ha HA!

First, I scored $5 Mickey Mouse tees for the family to wear on our upcoming trip to Disney World, a purchase made especially gleeful by the knowledge of how much these will horrify George.

And then, I was sailing past the sewing aisle, when I happened to spy some cherry-shaped rhinestone iron-on decals. I bought one, of course, and, upon my return home, spent a very satisfactory half-hour turning a plain old white Gap tee into jewel-adorned splendor.

(I was so busy with this craftiness that I failed to notice I locked Lulu out of the house the last time I let the dogs out for a pee break. It wasn’t until I heard the muffled sounds of whimpering and went to investigate that I saw her standing by the front door, her homely face pressed against the glass, her entire body bristling with outrage, that I realized I hadn’t seen her in an hour or two. Whoops.)

Still, I’m quite happy with my cherry tee. I’m trying to work up the courage to head back to Wal-Mart to snap up more sequined iron-ons with plans to update my entire summer wardrobe.

George: It’s the exact color of Lightening McQueen after his Radiator Springs make-over.

Me:

George: Well, it is. Is the color called Lightening McQueen Red?”

Me: Um, no.

George: It should be. Hey, where are you going?

Me: Calling the babysitter. I think we need a night out and away from all things Disney.

ME: Good. What does green mean?

SAM: GO!

ME: And what does yellow mean?

SAM: Go very fast!

ME:

SAM: [giggling]

ME: Your father and I will so be having a discussion about this when he gets home tonight . . .

The Fabulous Miss Zoë

We adopted her from the West Palm Humane Society two weeks ago. Her name is Zoë. (Yes, with the umlaut; the pretension of it suits her). I originally wanted to name her Farrah, but George overruled it. He also refused to consider Primrose, Madonna, Agatha, Harriet, Gertrude and Oprah Winfrey. That left us with Posy, which we discarded as being too fey, and Zoë. So Zoë it is.

We really should have named her Pea, as in Princess and the _____, as Zoë spent the first few nights in residence complaining loudly that her new bed was not plush enough for her liking, forcing one of us to stagger to her crate at two in the morning to stuff extra blankets in around her.

Sam was initially charmed by Zoë's presence.

"We have TWO Lulu's now!" he crowed.

And when I explained that she was lost from her home, so now we have to take care of her, he immediately grasped the gravity of situation.

"She is lost, just like Lumpy the Heffalump," Sam said sadly. "It's okay, Zoë, I'll take care of you."

But the glamour of being the new pug on the block has already begun to fade. Now Sam only pays attention to her when she's naughty.

"Mama! She's eating my goldfish!" he shrieks, whipping his snack bowl away from Zoë's twitching nose.

Or he'll take my hand, lead me to an offending pile, point at it and announce, "Zoë made a poo in my bedroom. I will not sleep next to that," before turning on his heel and flouncing out of the room, leaving me behind to scrub at the carpet with Resolve and a wet rag, and marvel at how much of my life has been devoted to cleaning up other creature's bodily waste.

Oh, well. At least she's cute, right?