The bad news: It's been so long since the show was on the air, I can't remember a damn thing that's happened.

I have a vague recollection of half of the Losties living in the 70's and driving around in VW vans, and the other half of them purposely re-crashing on the island. And Jin can suddenly speak English. But that's about it.

My one request: Please end the Kate-Sawyer-Jack triangle now. In fact, feel free to kill off Kate and Jack. Have them gobbled up by the smoke monster or taken out by a rogue Hurley. Just leave Sawyer to battle it out with John or Ben, or whoever the current baddie is going to be. Or, better yet, have Hurly emerge as the new ass-kicking leader.

More Hurley. Less Kate. That's what the people want.

But tell me this: If domesticated dogs really are descended from wolves, why are they so opposed to peeing on wet grass?

Sam: It's beautiful! And, if you jumped out of a plane, you could also use it as a parachute!

Me: Um, that's not exactly the look I was going for . . .

George: Tomorrow's your big soccer game! Remember the three rules. One, have fun.

Me: Two, win.

George: Two, be safe.

Me: And, three, kick butt!

Sam: Mom said a bad word!

Me: Butt isn't a bad word. Is it?

George: Yes. It is.

Me: Really? Butt is bad? Huh. I thought that was the PG version of the old saying. Anyway, I stick to my original advice: kick some serious butt out there.

Sam: Mom said butt again!

George: And, three, do your best. We don't care if you win. We just want you to try hard.

Me: But don't be afraid to throw a few elbows. Look, all I'm saying is that you have possession and a kid runs at you, and your elbow goes out -- just a little, because you don't want the ref to see -- then, boom, you keep the ball.

George: And, four, ignore your mother.

But at a cool six grand, I have to admit it's a tad overpriced. And, as George pointed out, like all of the furniture in our house, it would become yet another pug nest.

So I have a feeling Santa will not be stuffing this chair down our chimney this Christmas.

If we had a chimney.

Which we don't.

Me: What should I wear?

George: Clothes are always a good option.

Me: Don't be a smart ass. What I meant is: I don't have anything to wear.

George: You have a closet full of clothes.

Me: (staring mournfully into said closet) Nothing. I have nothing to wear.

George: Oh, no! You'll have to break out the potato sack!

This conversation never ends well. I usually end up muttering about just what I'd like to do with the above referenced potato sack and George ends up shocked at just how salty my language can be.

But now that the holidays are here, I'm back to the same old question. What does one wear?

We've been invited to a number of holiday cocktail parties. Which is good. I like the holidays, and I enjoy cocktail parties. So putting the two together is a fine combination.

But what is the correct sartorial choice? We live in a beach town, where no one ever wears cocktail dresses to cocktail parties. Cocktail dresses are reserved for the rare and elusive black tie event. (Black tie is never worn, unless one (a) lives on Palm Beach, and (b) has had at least three face lifts.)

Cocktail parties here require something more than jeans, but less than short, strapless dresses. Black doesn't work, but Lilly Pulitzer shifts have become a cliché.

What to do, what to do?

I'm waiting for George to break out his potato sack commentary. Because this time, I'll have a snappy return in the form of the Anthropologie charge on next month's American Express bill.

{Insert evil laughter and the obligatory villainous mustache twirl.}

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT.

It’s quite a relief. For the past few months, my editor and I have been like parents who bring a baby home from the hospital without a name, other than Baby Boy Gaskell, and then stare at him, waiting for inspiration to strike. Does he look like a John? A Max? A Wolfgang?

Every time one of us had a flash of brilliance, and thought up the perfect name, a quick amazon.com search confirmed that some other author had already had the same brilliant idea. For the longest time, I had the book saved on my computer as WORK IN PROGRESS, which - in my desperation - actually started to grow on me.

"We could call it WORK IN PROGRESS," I suggested to my editor.

She laughed, and then, when she realized I was half-way serious, quickly shot it down. Which is a good thing. Because, much like naming a baby, as soon as the book became WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, it seemed like it was meant to be called that all along.

I showed it to my pug, Zoe, and she was equally horrified. She now wants to track down the stroller pug and kick his furry ass into next Tuesday.

London. Tennis. My Roger.

If there was only a way to work s'mores into the mix, it would have been even more perfect. Well, that, and being there in person. Some day!

I'm SO sad it's over -- I no longer have an excuse for work avoidance -- but so thrilled that Roger won!

George and I celebrated Championship Day with strawberries and champagne, and both agreed that starting the day with a bottle of bubbly is most civilized. Although not really conducive to getting anything done thereafter, unless it involves napping on the couch.

ME: I straightened it.

SAM: Why?

ME: I thought it would look nice. Why, you don't like it?

SAM: No, I don't. It looks funny like that.

ME: I guess it's time we have that conversation called: Things you should never, ever say to your future wife.

I think the key was that I was Camera Mom. I’ve always been an epic fail at being Camera Mom. I never remember to bring my camera anywhere, and when I do, it’s always one photo away from the batteries dying.

But today I learned there’s a big benefit to being Camera Mom – you spend all of your time framing shots, and yelling at everyone to smile and say cheese, and with all of the busy work, you manage not to burst into tears when your sweet little boy is handed his first diploma. Of course, I also managed not to hear his poem about what he wants to be when he grows up the first two times he recited it – I was too busy taking a picture of him reciting the poem – but luckily, he was happy to repeat it a third time, so we were golden.

The bad news is that my neighbors think I’m a skank.

Have you seen tennis dresses? They’re short. And made of spandex. But they’re obviously tennis dresses, right? Apparently, not so if you’re not on a tennis court at the time you’re wearing one.

Before my match this morning, I was out walking the dogs – which was taking forever, because they, for some unknown reason, refuse to pee when it’s rained anytime in the past twenty-four hours – when I ran into my neighbor.

"That’s a cute sundress," she said.

I looked down at my orange-and-pink-spandexed self, confused. "Thanks, but it’s not a sundress. It’s a tennis dress."

"Really?" She looked at me, brow furrowed. "Oh. I thought it was just a regular dress."

And then I realized that the four times a week when I head to the tennis courts at eight in the morning, my neighbors apparently think I’m dressed in a spandex mini-dress to go to the grocery store. Or a bar.

Maybe I should just start carrying my racquet around with me everywhere, so as to give the visual cue: No, I’m not a whore, I just like to play tennis.

Summer has arrived in Florida. It’s freaking hot out. I took Sam to the playground after school, and after running around in the sun for an hour, he’s now dehydrated and cranky. I bribed him with a movie (he chose Sword in the Stone, which I’ve come to regard as the dullest of all the Disney movies), to gain five minutes of blogging peace. I’m now hiding in my office with an ice cold dirty martini.

So here's the update: nothing much is happening with me. We’re in the end-of-the-school year push here. Sam’s excited to leave pre-k behind and graduate to kindergarten – insert my heart breaking here – and I’m trying to get as much writing done as possible while school is still in session. I’m currently writing the next book in my young adult Geek High series (which I publish under my pseudonym, Piper Banks).

My only other big news is that my next adult book is done! It's off my desk, and in my editor’s hands! It’s not coming out until Summer 2010, but I can honestly say it’s my favorite book to date. Normally, by this point in the writing process, I’m so sick of the book, I’m ready to torch the manuscript, Misery-style. But this one’s different . . . this one I’m still in love with. So hopefully, my readers out there will find it worth the wait.