What's Your Damage?

Hello, dear readers. (Not that I have any readers left, owing to my posting approximately three times in the past year!) If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I'm going there in a handbasket because I have mentally composed dozens of interesting articles to post here. Of course, by the time I get a chance, they're always old news. But I do have a new blog. It's completely devoid of the political commentary and postmortems of the weekend's partying you have come to know and love from the WYD blog, but it's written in what I hope is an entertaining style.

As you well know, I am an avid shopper, so it stands to reason that it is a shopping blog. My new website, Mamakaze.com, is geared toward moms (and stepmoms, and even cool aunts) who shop online but don't have time to peruse the magazines to find the latest styles. You also may know that I don't require sleep and thus have copious amounts of time to pore over the pages of Vogue and RealSimple in the wee small hours. Therefore, running a shopping website is the perfect job for yours truly.

Of course, my main objective in posting tonight is to get Mamakaze in the search engines by having a few pages online that link to my fledgling site. But as a side benefit, I get to update you all on my life -- boring and alcohol-free though it may be!

Little Maddi is 14 months old and has a 50-word vocabulary. She isn't walking much but who needs to, with those communication skills? She enjoys spicy foods such as Monterey Jack, raw ginger and wasabi. No, really, I'm serious. We aren't sure if she has nerve endings.

And here, for your viewing pleasure, is a shot of Maddi and me on her second-ever trip to the beach a week ago.

Why, Hollywood gods, why?

What would possess you people to make a movie starring the ever-tasty Matthew McConaughey and then cast a bony bag lady as his love interest?

I realize that, as a grown man who lives with his parents, his character is not much of a catch. But really. Sarah Jessica Parker? Even if he gained 80 pounds for the role, wore a huge prosthetic nose and false teeth (a la Jude Law in "Road to Perdition"), this match would still be unbelievable.

I may have mentioned this before, but Sarah Jessica Parker's only real talent is being the only person on the planet able to wear $30,000 in clothing and accessories and still look like a hobo who dressed in a Dumpster. This is mainly owing to her, um, eccentric taste but also attributable to the fact that she's skinny and haggard like she's been on meth and living under a bridge her entire adult life.

Are there no actresses in their 30s or 40s who could play opposite the McConaughottie whose ribcages don't double as cheese graters? And let's not forget that this is a middle-aged woman who has frequently been known to dress as if she is going to have a tea-party with her teddy bears, and who has been known to pair spandex and stilleto heels, and who has been seen quite often in public wearing things you would expect your great-aunt to cover the back of her plastic-enshrined sofa with. Are we really expected to take her seriously in a romantic role opposite anyone besides her male doppelganger, CKY whipping boy Rake Yohn? (And let me state for the record that nine times out of 10, Rake Yohn's outfit makes more sense than does SJP's.)

Not only that, but the only emotion her "acting" elicits from me is whatever emotion it is that makes you want to hit someone in the head with a shovel. The best thing about having "Sex and the City" on DVD is that I can fast-forward through Carrie's treacly monologues and SJP's smug posturing.

Normally, I'm a sucker for romantic comedies. Anything cute starring Reese Witherspoon, Drew Barrymore or Renee Zellweger and I've got a ticket. Two thumbs down? Screw Roger Ebert, I'll be the judge of that. But when my darling shot me his usual tragic look of despair during the preview and asked, "You're not going to make me watch that, are you?" I didn't even have to lie. Much as I like Matthew McConaughey, watching him co-star in a date flick with Sarah Jessica Parker would be about as enjoyable as viewing the Kid Rock/Scott Stapp sex tape.

I'm really hard pressed to think of an ickier pairing involving one party who's a sex symbol. Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart don't even come close, although I think Calista and SJP may be eating at the same soup kitchen.

Needless to say, I'm going to have to pass on this one until such a time as a software is invented that allows one to go into a movie and replace an actress with someone better. When I can scrub SJP's noxious presence from this film and insert a talented nonhobo such as Jennifer Aniston or Catherine Keener, then I will watch "Failure to Launch."

Until then, Matthew McConaughey just isn't enough to make me care about this movie.

If television were better, I'd long for the days when I taped about four hours of it per day to watch at 2 a.m. when I came home from work. Ironically, although I'm home a lot more these days -- and, in fact, in the early days of motherhood was known to go a week sometimes without stepping out the front door -- I watch far less TV than I used to. Mostly because I'm trying to keep the baby from eating so much cat hair.

However, TV seems about as crappy as it's ever been. "ER" has continued its spiral into mindnumbing lameness, and if I hadn't already invested 10 years in its watching, I'd cancel my weekly appointment with this former "destination television" show. (Even if I did weep happy tears when Abby told Luka she'd decided to keep the baby.)

I won't even go into how bad "Will and Grace" has gotten, mostly because I haven't watched a full episode since the second season. Oh, I've tried. How else am I supposed to keep my Karen Walker impression fresh? But I just can't bear to watch Will sulk and brood, Grace act selfish and petulant, and Jack talk at a speed reserved only for female members of the Gilmore family.

And speaking of the Gilmore girls, how lame is it that Luke and Lorelei finally got together? Sure, they break up every second show, but don't the writers know that the thing that keeps fan hanging on is unresolved sexual tension, NOT spats over wedding plans and endless worrying about the kids?

Then there are the new shows (and since I'm nearing 30, "new" means fewer than two years old). I've tried to watch the much-loved "Grey's Anatomy" and found myself wanting to strangle a majority of the characters. Not to mention the fact that I want to jab the nearest scalpel in my ear at the sound of the words "Dr. McDreamy." (Thank goodness my dissection kit is packed safely away, and not sitting on the end table, or I'd surely be watching everything with closed captioning by now!) "Desperate Housewives" was great for exactly one season, and one season only. Even last week's long-awaited nun catfight scene failed to live up to a single first-season episode. We will not even speak of "Four Kings," "Stacked," or worst of all, "Freddie."

Of course, all is not lost. Amid the bad sitcoms and dull dramas and the 18 bajillion ludicrous forensics shows are a few glistening gems of quality programming.

In ascending order of couch-lounging, Cheeto-eating, pajama-wearing goodness:

"Medium": Despite the glut of crimefighting dramas, I like to think that one that depicts a medium getting messages from beyond about crimes past, present and future is, for reasons that should be obvious, immune from my normal criticisms regarding authenticity. Even though it's "based on a true story," "Medium" is enjoyable in the way that the first season of "Charmed" was fun. I can't suspend my disbelief for DNA testing that takes 15 minutes and CSIs who interview suspects, but spooks and spirits and psychic visions? Not a problem. Although they've got to stop with those annoying kids. Jeez. Get that little curly-haired one to a speech therapist already!

"Beauty and the Geek": This is the official WYD reality show until further notice. You may recall that the rules of Casa de WYD mandate that only one reality show be followed per season. While I have broken my own rules by watching "The Apprentice," a horrible show that is like crack in that it is addictive and makes you feel gross and dirty and very angry, and while I also cannot live without ANTM once it starts up again, "Beauty and the Geek" remains the only reality show that anyone should watch. I actually cried at the end of the first season when everybody learned Very Important Lessons about stereotyping themselves and others. And I've almost cried this season already, every time that poor, sweet, panicky geek with the 'fro opens his mouth.

And finally, the very best of the newer shows goes to:

"My Name is Earl: This is by far the funniest half-hour comedy since "Scrubs." In fact, I love it so much that if it were on at the same time as "Scrubs" (not possible, thank goodness, since both are NBC shows), I would have to go with "Earl." Jason Lee plays Earl to a "T" in this hilarious sendup of trailer-trash existence, and while the show has what sappy people refer to as "heart," it is also sidesplittingly funny and original. And even though Jaime Pressly is nasty and fugly with her too-tan tan, shellacked stripper hair and inbred meth-binge mug, so is her character -- so it's all good! Makes me want to get some Lee Press-On Nails and a bag of Cheet-ohs and sit on the pull-out sofa watching Springer and spilling out my troubles to that nice lady on the psychic hotline.

But instead I'll just eat the Cheetos, watch girls with scary manicures on "Beauty and the Geek," and get my psychic fix from "Medium." And no matter how hard up I am for entertaining programming, I'm never hard up enough for "Jerry Springer."

And with that, I leave you with this truly trashy tale of a mom who abandoned her three kids (all under age 4) so she could watch a taping of, you guessed it, "The Jerry Springer Show." I'm not really sure why this is even in the news. Isn't that the typical childcare arrangement for Springer guests / audience members / viewers? Anyway, I hope she at least left the kids some Cheetos.

Thanks a lot, Ben Affleck.

It wasn't enough that you made Gigli. Or Paycheck. Or Daredevil. Or helped usher the dreaded word "Bennifer" -- and all that it stood for -- into the American pop-culture vernacular. No, you had to go and spread darkness and despair to the world of television as well.

You see, Ben, for several years now I have had a weekly date with my television. Not even a weekly date -- a fulfilling and meaningful relationship. Interpersonal attachments have come and gone, shoes have been adored and discarded, but the one constant in my life since 2001 has been my weekly appointment with the ABC show "Alias."

I fell in love with the kickass girl-power action and Jennifer Garner's unrealistic but entertaining portrayal of a spy, and stuck with my beloved show through nonsensical storylines; killings, unkillings and rekillings of characters; and the most bogus science and technology imaginable. Even when superhottie and main love interest Michael Vaughn was killed off in the season opener, I kept watching. Despite the fact that the chemistry between Vaughn and Special Agent Sydney Bristow was all the show had going for it after the writers ran out of cool gadgets and went crazy with the weird prophecy stuff and the implausible Renaissance-era doomsday weapons.

Even when my beloved show became but a shadow of its former adrenaline-pumping self as Jennifer Garner's role was scaled back, I knelt lovingly at its deathbed, holding its hand and whispering words of encouragement. Like Arvin Sloane at the side of his criminally violent, comatose daughter, I held out hope that the show would come back to life and embrace good rather than evil.

Alas, evil, in all its stiff-haired, clench-jawed, egotistical glory, prevailed. Yes, I'm talking about you, Ben Affleck. It wasn't enough to have your girlfriend's ex booted off the show, effectively ushering in the beginning of the end for this show (whose female audience happened to really, really like Michael Vartan!). Nope, you had to begin the last rites by getting her pregnant.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for celebrity marriages. Reese and what's-his-name, Madge and Guy, Liz and all 75 of her hubbies. I've enjoyed every single one of J-Lo's and Britney's weddings, and was delighted when Drew Barrymore and Tom Green burned it up (haha) offscreen. Even though I had no idea who they were, I certainly enjoyed Nick and Jessica on "Newlyweds" (although more in a laughing-at-them than laughing-with-them way). I am even looking forward to TomKat's nuptials, although not as much as I'm looking forward to the prospect of Katie Holmes' postpartum depression. Yes, I know -- new tenth circle opening up especially for me. But you know you're looking forward to it, too.

I'm certainly not against celebs having babies. Lord knows that little Apple, Coco, Phinnaeus and Hazel have brought me endless delight, albeit in a schadenfreudey kind of way. And I think that having Sean Preston was quite possibly Britney's crowning achievement, entertainment-wise, when you set aside her traipsing about public bathrooms in her bare feet.

But stars should definitely NOT get married and have babies when anxious viewers are sitting in front of their TVs on a weekly basis wondering burning questions such as, "What is the true extent of Jack Bristow's involvement with shady mercenaries?" and "Will Rambaldi's prophecy of a deathmatch between Sydney and Nadia be fulfilled?" and "Will Syd and Vaughn get married?" (I guess we know the answer to that one NOW. Thanks a lot, Bennifer II!)

Call me selfish, but couldn't they just CGI Jennifer's head onto a stunt person's body and continue the storylines as planned? Heck, why not just replace her with another actor and explain it away with yet another bogus-science plotline involving brain transplants or some such? It's not like it takes a Meryl Streep to scowl intensely and look shifty while marching down a hallway in a candy-striper's costume to open up the inevitable can of whoopass in that little room where the feckless security guards are making small talk in Russian.

But noooooo, you and Jen have to wreck my show. And kill off one of the best characters on the way down.

Before portraying the show-killing villain of the Alias cancellation saga, you've played a lot of crappy roles. In fact, in one of the very few movies you didn't manage to ruin, you played a guy who liked to screw girls in "a very uncomfortable place."

By knocking up Jennifer Garner, you have done exactly that to loyal "Alias" fans everywhere. It's bad enough that you made all of those godawful movies. But to destroy something without even acting in it, well that takes a real talent for turning everything one touches into shit.

I'll see you in hell, Ben Affleck!

RIP "Alias"

2001-2006

One of the (many, many) fashion magazines I have a subscription to is Lucky. At first, I was psyched because, busy chica that I am, I don't have time to shop in EVERY store.

But I have come to the conclusion that Lucky, The Magazine About Shopping, is actually Lucky, The Magazine About Taking the Joy out of Shopping. Dare I say that the magazine, touted as a tome for people who love shopping, is actually best targeted at people who find shopping distasteful? It's a magazine for people who are too busy (I imagine them tanning by the pool) to actually go through the grueling process of, um, SHOPPING.

Don't get me wrong, I love that, by flipping through a few pages, I can find 70 nearly identical pairs of shoes at 70 different prices. But after several issues of Lucky, I realized that if I actually went out and bought one of those pairs of shoes, I would simply have the same pair of shoes as hundreds of other readers.

Within months of their purchase -- possibly before I even had the occasion to wear them -- my lovely shoes would be so last season. What's worse, people would know! Because while other fashion rags such as Vogue highlight the "It" shoe, ensuring that discerning readers know which look WON'T have people asking what one is wearing and where one got it, because it's what everyone's wearing just then, Lucky exposes myriad shoe possibilities to the masses.

For instance, last year there was this Louis Vuitton satin pump that I lovedlovedloved, but what I didn't love so much was that it was splashed prominently across the glossy pages of every single fashion magazine, thereby guaranteeing that, were I to wear it in subsequent seasons, everyone (not just hardcore fashionistas) would recognize it as being soooooo Fall 2004. Also, there was the fact that, owing to pregnancy, my feet looked like close cousins of the Hamburger Helper hand, and also the fact that the shoes cost $700. But I digress! Imagine that I had fallen in love with a shoe that wasn't the season's "It" shoe. Years ago, before the ascent of Lucky, nobody would have known where I got this fantastic shoe, nor, a few years hence, exactly how old my shoe was. But now, with so many shoes getting so much exposure, it's impossible to guarantee that my carefully-selected shoes, chosen (as always) to look stylish yet somewhat timeless, won't be identified while walking down the street.

Ditto for clothing. And, because it's not enough to simply showcase Edwardian velvet jackets or expose readers to a variety of menswear-inspired trousers, Lucky will show you how to artfully craft a vintage or bohemian look not by digging through thrift stores or traveling the world, but by shopping at major stores and spending major bucks. Worse yet, you will learn where to find doppelgangers of Sienna Miller's cowboy boots online, and then copy her "unique" style.

Maybe I'm a shopping snob, but that's because I cut my teeth on magazines like Vogue, which encourage readers to wear the season's pieces in their own, individual way. Women like Sarah Jessica Parker and Chloe Sevigny, who clearly don't utilize Lucky, are held up as people to be emulated (even though they dress like a tranny at a tea party and a cracked-out streetwalking granny, respectively) because they put some thought and effort into their outfits. Does that thought or effort translate into good fashion? Well, no. But an A for effort, right? That's the whole point of fashion -- carefully assembling spunky, individualistic outfits, the better to be mocked by those of us with the good sense to wear something chic, black and timeless.

And just as Lucky is antithetical to the idea (well, my idea) of fashion, so it is in diametric opposition to the concept of shopping. As I've told the man of Casa WYD many a time, shopping has very little to do with buying. It is an experience.

You see, shopping is defined by Webster's as such:

1 a : to examine goods or services with intent to buy b : to hunt through a market in search of the best buy

2 : to make a search : HUNT

Now, tell me, in what way is Lucky remotely about examining goods or hunting? In my world, this entails going to a number of retail establishments and sifting through racks and stacks of goods, inspecting seams and soles, feeling the fabric and (best of all) trying things on for hours. Where is the fun or the creativity or the honor in letting the editors of Lucky pick out your next season's wardrobe? How can someone who actually enjoys shopping be OK with making their purchase decisions based on someone else's aesthetic and research? And how is it OK that everyone else, without having thumbed through seven different fashion magazines or watched coverage of Fashion Week, will be buying the same coveted items as you?

(I know, I know, this all sounds very silly coming from someone who owns a million nearly-identical items of black and khaki-colored clothing. Hell, some are wholly identical, because I loved them so much I couldn't bear not to have "backup pants." Really, I love to shop! Just for black and khaki things, that's all.)

Don't get me wrong, I will still be reading Lucky. Since my darling daughter doesn't believe in napping and rises promptly at or before 7 each morning, I don't have as much time for shopping or even to read all my fashion rags in a timely manner (in fact, this month's issue of Vogue is still in its wrapper). If I am to remain on top of the selection of wedge heels or take advantage of Spring 2006's schoolgirl styles, I can count on Lucky to provide a Cliff's Notes version of what would normally require hours of fashion research and days of shopping.

Of course, if my shopping activity (or lack thereof) of late holds steady, I won't be seen in my local mall for months. But, since I haven't been using Lucky to make my purchasing decisions, nobody can tell when or where I got any of my clothes, which are chic, black and timeless.

Every few years, I develop an ambitious plan to grow my hair out. Visions of a lustrous, flowing mane like the ones in shampoo commercials dance before my eyes. Memories of the waist-length waves I sported as a small girl tantalize my follicles. Vogue's assertion that long is the latest thing is a much more attainable mandate than, say, dolling myself up in Nicolas Ghesquiere's Edwardian jewelry. Of course, these fantasies of luxuriant waist-brushing tresses are but a carrot on a stick, for as any grrl with shoulder-length hair knows, it is nigh but impossible to grow one's hair out.

It starts off easily enough. With each passing week, your hair get a little bit longer and you pose in front of the mirror with your new, longish locks, thinking "This will look great after a couple more inches." But then you hit what sailors used to call the doldrums. Your progress slows, and things get ugly. Very ugly.

There is a certain length, which is different for everybody, at which your growing-out hair looks terrible. It's not just that you need a touchup, because even if you trim the tresses, they lie wrong or fall at just the wrong place and make your face look fat or drawn or asymmetrical.

But lo! By some miracle of self-restraint, I managed to pass that point sometime last spring and now have the Rapunzellike locks I so coveted.

Therein lies the rub: Once you reach a goal, you sometimes realize that the journey was more exciting than the destination. This is one of those goals.

To be sure, my luxuriant mane is a thing of beauty. My highlights are so gradual that my hair looks completely naturally sunkissed, and when I've blown it out and primped with the appropriate products, my 'do is long, smooth and fit for my Cosmo cover shot.

But now that I have long hair, I realize exactly why, 20 long years ago, I begged my grandmother to chop it off while my parents were gone (hooray for grandmas!).

Sure, on special occasions it looks great. But on days when I don't have 20 minutes to blowdry it in sections using the ubiquitous round brush, my new long locks are a gorgeous pain in my ass.

Option No. 1 is that I blowdry it anyway and arrive late to whatever I am doing. Anyone who knows me at all knows that's not going to happen. Ever.

Option. No. 2 is that I let my hair air dry. This means it will be straight on the top, and then somewhere around my ears it will turn into straggly little waves. But lest you think that could possibly be cute, in what fashion magazines might call a "beachy" or "tousled" or "bedhead" way, let me remind you that it is not a deliberately unkempt look that requires pounds of various thickening and smoothing products. This is, literally, leaving my hair to its own devices. And its devices are pretty heavy on the flyaways. Thus, Option No. 2 cannot be employed if I am to show my face in public. (Not to mention that this option gets really tangly, and what more fun is there for a baby than to grab a good handful of tangle and yank?)

Therefore, at least three days out of the week, I am forced to exercise Option No. 3, which is the lazy bun or ponytail. Sometimes I class it up by caring enough to wrap some extra hair around my elastic so it looks like I at least tried, but most days it is your basic "I stepped out of the shower and put my hair back" updo.

Which brings me to the point of this post: How ironic is it that I spent all this time and energy growing out my hair until I had the luxuriant locks I so aspired to, only to promptly stick my gorgeous long hair up in a bun every damn day of the week?

Thus, I will soon be cutting my hair. Doubtless, the minute I have my old shoulder-length cut, I will begin afresh my quest for beautiful sheets of long flowing hair.

In honor of the recent Canadian Thanksgiving and upcoming American Thanksgiving, here's some seasonal cuteness for you all:

And this one is especially for Sean.

Perhaps my subscription to RealSimple is finally rubbing off on me. Perhaps it's the alluring home-organization/consumerism wet dream that is The Container Store. Perhaps it's just me finally recoiling from the chaos that occurs when two unmedicated people with ADD combine years' worth of both their junk in a hasty and disorganized manner.

Yes, gentle reader, for years I've thumbed through pages featuring neatly-organized California Closets brimful of matching cedar hangers, tidy canvas shoe cubbies and meticulously stacked and labelled baskets, only to promptly throw yet more shoes on the floor of my own closet, in which mismatched hangers languish, empty and tangled (and often broken), as clothes pile higher still on the floor.

I realize that previous attempts to change my messy ways have been fruitless. My makeup organizer leaps to mind. It is a Lucite marvel with slots for lipsticks, a bin for brushes, and compartments for sundry eye and cheek colors. It is in my drawer and full of makeup, but the lipsticks rattle around in the skin-care compartment and the brush section is now occupied by an assortment of roller eyeshadow, lipliners, concealer, and occasionally a nail clipper. (What can I say, even when there's a place for everything, I never put anything back in its place!)

Then there is my craft box. Imagine my nifty makeup organizer, but bigger and with craft projects. Then imagine all those projects' materials thrown willy-nilly into any compartment, with vows to organize them all very meticulously, but "later."

But this time, I promise to do better. All of my shoes really will go on the shoe rack instead of in its general direction. My valuables really will be stowed in attractive, matching boxes rather than underneath 20 pairs of jeans on top of my dresser. And my tops really will go back on the hangers after my daily ritual of getting dressed in seven different outfits before discarding them for a favorite shirt rescued from the depths of the hamper.

Sure, I have been bad before. But this time, I will be really, really good. I promise. My house will be organized from top to bottom and it will stay that way! Either that, or the mummified remains of my family will be found 15 years hence, buried beneath a mountain of recyclables and out-of-season clothes.

As do so many tragedies, it starts off so innocently. But somehow, one pizza box on the kitchen counter manages to call all his little friends over for a party and within two days, there is cardboard to the ceiling. And after months of "organizing" by way of throwing stuff in Rubbermaid bins and shoving it in the storage room, one day you go down to find that box of "Baby clothes -- 9 months and up" and realize that not only are there approximately 43 million boxes in that room, but that none of them are labeled.

Now you are trapped in a filthy house with a naked baby and 800 back issues of RealSimple.

That is when you know it is time to visit The Container Store, my friends. Because nothing helps bust clutter like buying more things!!

Since my days are spent playing entertainment director to an adorable but exacting dictator and my nights are spent trying to recuperate from my day job, I haven't got much to blog about. Well, except "Rock Star: INXS." However, since, in the tradition of reality shows, it was won by the most annoying, least talented contestant, I just don't have it in me to relive the horror by blogging about the finale.

So here, instead, is a dose of incredible cuteness. You wouldn't be able to formulate a coherent thought, either, if you had this to look at all day!

Oh, INXS. We really must talk.

Up until now, I have agreed with your decisions. You are, after all, a "supergroup" and I am but a lowly fan. (Not so much a fan of your band, since there are maybe three songs in your catalogue that I recognize, but a fan of music in a very general sense.)

But why, why, why would you keep the bombastic, Queen-butchering, crotch-grabbing, drama-fanning J.D. Fortune and lose Ty, who actually had a bit of talent and played well with others? Don't answer that. I know exactly why. The reason J.D. got to stick around is that you are big, huge ratings whores. The show just wouldn't be interesting if everyone got along. So the comically named J.D. Fortune lives to talk smack another week.

It will be interesting to see, once Jordis and Marty are gone (this is all conjecture, mind you -- I haven't really tapped into the minds of the supersellouts INXS), how the band plans to justify getting rid of Mig or Suzie and keeping the obnoxious but lovable ratings-booster J.D. And, quite honestly, I fail to understand how anyone could possibly find J.D. more "right for our band INXS" than ANY of the current contenders. Sure, he is cute and his hijinks are indeed hilarious, but have we forgotten the the debacle that was "We Are the Champions?" Oh, the humanity! (Or, in words you might understand better, I'm not digging his vibe.)

Dear, dear members of INXS, I can forgive you for allowing Dave Navarro to outdo Paula Abdul in both the eyeliner and compliment departments. I can even forgive you for allowing Brooke Burke to rummage through the Osbournes' trash in search of ever more tragic outfits, because next to all the dorky cliches and innovative permutations of the word "rock," they are the funniest part of the show.

I can even forgive you for keeping J.D. Fortune. But you must promise me this: He cannot, I repeat cannot win. Second place is fine. Whatever you rating whores have to do to keep people watching. But J.D. is just not right for your rock band INXS.

Normally I pride myself on being a good big sister. The kind of sister that will fix her brother up with her friends, buy platform shoes for a 7-year-old, and kick the living shit out of other kids who mess with her younger siblings (or, if they're too big to beat up, make obscene Mad-Libs-type cartoons for her brothers to color in and laugh at).

But I have been a bad big sister lately.

My baby sister is turning 13 in a few days and I have postponed calling my mom to find out what she wants for weeks now. I am the absolute worst sister, since any little girl will tell you that birthday is, importance-wise, second only to your Sweet Sixteen (or your quinceanera or Bat Mitzvah, if you celebrate those instead). Now I will have to express-post her present internationally and hope it makes it to her in five days.

Also, my little brother has had his own blog for a couple months now and I keep forgetting to link to it. This is the brother who was famously beaten up by The Queers and who wore an eyepatch to a wedding, so I don't think I need to tell you that his blog promises to have the occasional really bizarre entry (and he posts more often than yours truly). Along with anecdotes from his life as a barista/musician, he also has a link to some of his artwork.

As for my other brother, my good-sisterly deed for the day will be to say that I watched his birth and can confirm that he is neither adopted nor from outer space, and to point out that he's had a lot of head injuries.

This fall, it will be 10 years since I entered university. Tonight, after I got the baby to bed and suffered the insomnia that results from knowing you have the opportunity to sleep, I surfed around and somehow stumbled on the blogs of random people from my university days.

Now, having kept myself up pretty well the whole time, and having only stayed in contact with two people from those days -- people who also happen to be hip, hot, happenin' chicas -- it had not occurred to me that time may not be treating the rest of my peers so well. But when I followed a few links from my alma mater's alumni page, I discovered the awful truth: The people I went to school with are friggin' OLD. And therefore, so am I.

Which is really funny and karmic, as I only recently mocked my darling Chris for the "midlife crisis" he experienced as his 30th birthday approached. Being a "Sex and the City"-watching gal, I figured you're just as hot at 30 as you are at 20. But most of us don't live in New York, where vigorous sex and chemical peels apparently keep everyone looking tip-top well past 40.

Sure, there have been warning signs that I'm getting up there in years, but I ignored them. So what if Hillary Duff was born circa 1995? Madonna's, like, 60, and she's still a certifiable hottie! And maybe a lot of the kids I babysat are writing their university admissions essays now, but when Luke Perry was my age, he was playing prepubescent boys on TV. The writing on the wall was totally blurred by Hollywood, the plastic surgery industry, and my subscription to not fewer than seven fashion magazines (oh, yes, seven! Vogue, Glamour, Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Elle, Allure, and Lucky).

Those guys who were, at 18, strapping young studs are now fat and balding. The girls whose daily treadmilling and impeccable wardrobes made me feel like a fat, lazy slob (at 110 pounds, no less) have been ravaged by time, babies and -- most serious of all -- the utter lack of current fashion magazines.

For so long, I insulated myself from the horrors of aging with religious readership of Vogue, frequent trips to the mall, and cool, beautiful friends. But this horrifying trip down memory lane made me realize that I am now of a generation that has gotten old enough to be uncool if we let ourselves. We're talking about people who wear what they wore 10 years ago. People who haven't seen the inside of a salon since the "Friends" haircut. People who (shudder) think hunter green is a viable color.

Does this make me shallow? You bet it does. Although they are hopelessly uncool now, all these people seem very fulfilled. Not that I'm not fulfilled, mind you. I'm just vain and shallow and incredibly lucky that I didn't gain a lot of baby weight (although I have an appointment at the gym in 7 hours that I most DEFINITELY won't miss after checking up on the old schoolmates!).

I have no idea how I managed to ONLY keep in touch with the two people from school who actually look the same now as they did back when (or better, even). It's not like it's a matter of the cool, pretty people staying cool and pretty, because while my friends and I are smokin', so were some of the people who are now sporting combovers or wearing matronly high-waisted jeans.

Here I've been blithely failing to spaz about being just two years away from the big 3-0, because after all, "life begins at 30," when I should have been absolutely freaking out! These people are fossils, and that means I am old, old, old!

I don't personally have a problem with getting older, but the idea aging badly -- or even being old enough to age badly -- makes me a tad squeamish. If it wasn't for my classmates, I'd be fine with the prospect of 30 candles on my birthday cake, but now instead of seeing the number "30" and thinking of Drew Barrymore and Angelina Jolie, my mind conjures up images of women with unhighlighted hair pulled into a scrunchy as they accompany little Colton to soccer practice. Possibly the same scrunchy they wore in 1995, when scrunchies were socially acceptable. Instead of thinking of Ryan Phillippe and Tobey Maguire when I think of 30-year-old men, I envision guys with man boobs wearing ugly plaid dress shirts and matchy-matchy slacks to the church potluck, where they are now deacons. Deacons! The guys who used to do keg stands!

Now I know why so many women lie about their ages. After seeing what time has done to my contemporaries, I am giving it some serious thought myself.

Damn you, insomnia!!!

Me in my university days

Me this summer -- thank you, Vogue!

When I first heard about "American Idol" back before anyone knew who Kelly and Justin were (ahh, such innocent times!), I thought it was a great concept. That was before I heard the music and watched the wild gesticulations and dorky choreography.

Now, the promise "American Idol" made has finally been realized in "Rock Star: INXS." Instead of bubblegum pop that nobody over the age of 14 would enjoy, we are finally hearing actual entertainers. Some sucky ones, to be sure, but not an 'N Sync cover to be heard. It's "Idol," only with half the pain.

Late to the game as I was, I have no idea whether they replicated the only part of "AI" I can bring myself to watch -- the auditions in which the delusional subject themselves to the criticism of Simon and then are shocked to hear that their off-key karaoke won't get them into a nationwide contest featuring slightly better off-key karaoke artists.

"Rock Star" still features off-key (or, better yet, the vague "pitchy") singing, but now -- since these are "rockers" we're talking about -- with obscene gestures and pelvic gymnastics. Cheesy like Poison rather than cheesy like a cruise ship entertainer.

And if "Rock Star" is "Idol" all dressed up in leather and a studded belt, then Dave Navarro is Paula Abdul with a soul patch.

Oh, yes. I went there. He may have legitimate rock 'n' roll cred, but deep inside, Dave Navarro is just a big softie who can't say anything bad even about the worst performances. Who knew?

If I was still into booze, I'd make a "Rock Star: INXS" drinking game: One shot every time the word "rockers" is used to refer to the karaoke singers. One shot when J.D. Fortune makes an ass of himself. A shot whenever Deanna Johnston says "Thank you" in an Elvis voice. One shot every time Navarro says something positive about a performance. The whole bottle when Navarro says a performance was the best rendition of that song he's ever heard.

Obviously this show won't be easy to replicate for subsequent seasons, so I'm enjoying the Mariah-free goodness while I can.

When people hear my little daughter's name, Maddux, they usually comment, "Oh, like Angelina Jolie's son."

I would just like to state for the record that I did not name the wee one some celebrity-baby copycat name (sorry to all those little Jadens and Nevaehs out there). It's not Maddox like Angelina Jolie's baby, it's Maddux like the Cubs pitcher.

Not that there's anything wrong with Angelina. I love that blood-vial-wearing, horse-kissing weirdo. It's just that I love the Cubbies a little more. And so does Maddi.

Part of the reason I moved back to the great Pacific Northwest was for its spectacular natural beauty. Of course, having only been to Canada a few times, I foolishly thought Washington was the best place on earth (clearly I had missed B.C.'s advertising campaign).
Last weekend, my guy and I took a spontaneous weekend jaunt to Lake Louise and Banff, and I can definitely tell you that Canada (eastern B.C. and western Alberta specifically) is the best place in the PNW.
How spontaneous was our trip? Well, it started out as an hourlong drive to a little town north of the city and ended up lasting about 30 hours and spanning two provinces. Did I mention we had not packed a stitch of clothing, had no toiletries, and were toting a pooptastic nine-week-old?
The bad news is, there are apparently no Wal-Marts between our city and Calgary (a five-hour drive). The good news is that there is a Gap store in Banff. The bad news is that we had already stocked up at an expensive drugstore in Revelstoke (or Revelsuck, as I now call it) and bought hideous souvenir T-shirts to replace our road-weary threads. The good news is that if anyone commented on our bad taste, they did so in German or Japanese, since apparently the only people visiting this gem of western Canada last week were from lands afar (except for a possible Avril Lavigne sighting at our hotel, and she's no one to talk about people who dress funny).
Going to Lake Louise is like visiting the most perfect, ice-blue lake in the Alps except that instead of ski instructors with sexy accents, you are greeted by overly polite people who end their sentences with "eh." Against the backdrop of majestic, snowy peaks and an amazing cerulean sky, the glacier-fed waters of Lake Louise sparkle in the most fascinating shade of blue-green. I'd like to find something romantic and beautiful-sounding to compare it to, but in truth it most closely resembles an Icee.
The nearby Kicking Horse River, also glacier-fed, has similar crazymaking aqua water. Between the towering Canadian Rockies, the dense carpet of evergreens and the gorgeous rivers, the whole five hours we drove each way, I never suffered for things to look at. Even little Maddux was remarkably well-behaved on the unusually long car trip, as if she was giving the jaw-droppingly gorgeous scenery the reverence it commanded.

Our spontaneous trip ended well, although there were a few massive diaper explosions and one very sleepless night, not to mention the commission of grave fashion "don'ts" owing to the fact we didn't pack anything for the trip. Despite our fugliness, we enjoyed our trip (and let's face it, the German tourists are not exactly fashion plates themselves) and I have set aside my foolish notion that Washington state is the most beautiful place in North America.
And here's more gorgeous scenery from our trip. If there's anything more beautiful than a happy two-month-old, I'd love to see it.