I'm trying to get myself mentally prepared for tonight's onslaught. Halloween in our neighborhood is something of epic proportions. I've never seen anything like it. We're not actually trick-or-treating with My Little Sunshine this year, since he is only two, and there will be a lot of traffic that has made its way down from the sticks. A lot of these pickup trucks will have a cooler in the front or back, and it's just not worth the risk to parade my kid around the neighborhood. He's going to dress up and help us hand out candy instead. Hopefully, he won't be terrified, because we'll have to shut the place down and sit in the dark for hours until the madness subsides. If you don't participate in Halloween in this 'hood, then you become a prisoner in your own home. I suggested to my new neighbors that if they didn't want to deal with it, they plan a Halloween trip to the Bahamas or something. I wasn't kidding.

Sunshine has two Halloween costumes this year, courtesy of the grandparents. He has a Steelers football uniform from my parents and a Chiefs uniform from Soul Mate's parents. He's already worn each of the costumes a bazillion times. We've gone to no fewer than five Halloween-related activities for which he's dressed up, and then you've got to count the days that he insists upon wearing one of the uniforms from morning until night, and then sometimes we even have to sleep in it. The challenge is getting him to take off the helmet to go to bed. A couple of times, I've had to pry the helmets off of his head and perform formal retirement ceremonies for the helmets. There must be reassurance that the helmets are not going to sprout legs and run away in the middle of the night, and they will, in fact, be right next to his bed when he wakes up in the morning. We then have to immediately put on one of the helmets as soon as we wake up for fear of it sprouting legs and running away while we're awake but not looking. You try changing a two year old's diaper while he's wearing a Chiefs helmet. It's not easy.

Last year, Sunshine was pretty cool with the Halloween insanity. I hope he'll be cool with it this year, too, because I think it could be a lot of fun watching him figure out what everyone is. However, he's developed quite a few new fears over the past year, so I'm not sure how it will go. I'm going to cross my fingers and go with the flow. That's what I try to do with most things kid-related these days.

The thing about Halloween that ticked me off last year is the sheer laziness of the kids. We encountered several kids who were old enough and perfectly able enough to walk from house-to-house, but their moms would pick them up on each corner in their mini-vans and take them to the next streets. I wanted to scream at a few of the moms, "Hey, chica! You're not doing your kid any favors by babying him. Why do you think he's a fat ass? You think he's getting any skinner by eating all this candy and riding around in your van?" Of course, most of those moms were fat asses, too, and so their kids are learning their habits from somewhere.

The kids who come to the door with absolutely no enthusiasm also tick me off. There's no "Trick-or-Treat," or "Happy Halloween," or anything. They just hold out their bags and give you this look like, "Hey, bitch, gimme some candy." I want to give these kids rocks like Charlie Brown got in The Great Pumpkin. I always want to, but I never do, because I'm afraid of these little bastards these days. I'm afraid they'll come back and mess up my kid's pumpkin or even slit my throat over a Twizzler and a Kit Kat. I don't remember kids being that scary or angry when I was young. Maybe I was scary and angry, and, therefore, didn't recognize those qualities in others. I don't know.

My least favorite lazy ass kids are the 16 year olds who come to my house smoking cigarettes and not wearing any costumes. We had a few of those last year. First, you're too old to be doing this anymore, you freaks. Second, if you're going to do it, do it. Participate in the holiday instead of simply begging for a sugar high. Third, have some freaking respect. If I'm sitting on my porch with my toddler, it is rude to walk up and blow smoke in his cute little face. It makes me want to shove that lighted death stick down your way too fat throat. I won't, though, because I think you're all crazy and you're simply here to case my house. I'd expect to see my car windows shattered or my front door kicked in or my throat slit if I didn't give your sorry ass what you want. In the end, I look at that candy as self preservation and a further investment in the demise of your kind. I'm just contributing a small part to the heart disease that is most certainly in your future anyway.

For all the good kids who come to my door in your cute little costumes and say, "Please," and "Thank You," Happy Halloween, you adorable little sugar lumps! Darwinism will take care of the rest of you slugs. I'm sure your final words will be something like, "Hey, y'all! Looka dis!"

In my current state of sitting back and waiting, I can't get my mind to stop racing. My head was at critical mass yesterday, and Soul Mate recognized it the second he stepped out of bed. He told me to leave the house and not return for at least five hours. Being that it was a Sunday, and most of my friends were occupied in family business, I wasn't quite sure what to do with my free time. I desperately wanted to hang out with someone somewhere other than my house, but it was not in the cards. I tried to weasel my way out of my own freedom, which seems insane in hindsight. However, Soul Mate was having none of it. Before he kicked me out of the house, he wrote down a list of things I must do. His list was written in Sharpie on the back of my grocery list, which has since found its way to a trash can somewhere. I do know that his first suggestion set up a day that worked wonders for my state of mind.

I started out at Barnes and Noble per Soul Mate's orders. I got myself a pumpkin spice latte and a piece of pumpkin cheesecake. It was not a low fat snack, but for me, fat has some serious therapeutic powers. So does the smell of pumpkin. I then leisurely wandered through the maze of shelves in the bookstore, and I picked up five or six books that looked interesting. Being the frugal person that I am, I plopped myself down in one of their less-than-comfortable chairs and sampled my selections for just the right reading material. I'm a big fan of Southern women writers who make fun of the idiosyncracies of Southern life. Although I was born a Northern girl, I've spent a good bit of my life in the South. There are things that I've grown to love about living in the South and about the people who live here either by choice or by birth. There are also things about the South that in my years here I've never understood. Some things I've chosen to patently ignore as invalid, and therefore, don't understand by choice. There are other things that I've tried to understand, but my nomadic lifestyle will not allow me to relate. The point is I get a great deal of pleasure reading about women in the South. I thumbed through two of those books that were somewhat entertaining, but not enough for me to buy at the moment.

Before I get into what I ended up with, I'll say that I am an incredibly cheap person. My father and father-in-law, who ironically have been my examples in all matters financial, are appalled by the car I drive. I admit it's a piece of crap, but I haven't found it in my heart to get rid of it yet. It runs really well, and it rarely has caused me any trouble. Plus, it gets fantastic gas mileage. My two year old has caused me to re-evaluate this point of view repeatedly. It's tough getting him in and out of my little car, and he has a lot of crap that we have to take with us everywhere. Diaper bags. Sippy cups. Snacks. Strollers. All that stuff takes up space, and sometimes my car isn't big enough to fit it all. It's kind of funny looking at it that way, since my parents fit three kids and their crap in a Ford Fairmont, but we live in different times, and I am of different financial means than my parents were at this stage in life. I could afford a new car, but I just can't bring myself to buy one. The point of this tangent is that I am cheap in most things. However, I like to buy books rather than checking them out of the library. Occasionally, I'll buy them used if I'm not really sure about them, but most of the time, I like to give over my hard-earned cash in return for reading material. I think it's because I would like someone to buy my work some day. Maybe it's the whole Pay It Forward thing in a strange way. I don't know.

After sifting through my stack, I ended up with two very different works. I tore through one of them over 14 hours yesterday, so I can speak about that one, but I'm planning on starting the other one tonight. Strangely, I think I will find some interesting parellels between the two, even though on the surface they are diametrically opposite. The first one is Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. The second is Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty. I've read a few of Welty's works, since I spent a good bit of my life in Mississippi, Welty's home. Both books seem to be about the dynamics of family. Welty's work is about a large Southern family living on a plantation. It's a work of fiction. Burroughs' book is an autobiography about his family that struggled with extreme mental illness, violence and alcoholism in the Northeast. Call me crazy, but I bet I find some similarities after reading both books. I'll let you know.

I took both books to a downtown park that is centered around a river with a small waterfall. It's one of my favorite places in town. I like to take My Little Sunshine there. He can spend hours watching the bees and butterflies swarm around the flowers in the park. It's one of my favorite things to do with him. I also like to go for long walks with my friends there. We walk and talk about everything from politics to music to relationships and reality television. That's also one of my favorite things to do. Yesterday, I discovered a new wonderful purpose for this place. It's a great place to lounge in the sun and read by yourself.

I decided to start with Burroughs' book, because I saw Annette Bening on Jay Leno the other night. She is playing Burroughs' mother in the movie version of this story. I find her to be a very interesting person, and that is what led me to buy this book. I might not have ever picked it up otherwise. I read in the park for about three hours, and got about halfway through the book there. As I read the story about this boy and his family, I often stopped to watch the families who were spending the day in the park. My town is not the most diverse place in the world, but it's getting more diverse by the day. This park has become a beautiful little microcosm that attracts families from all different races, religions, and social status. As I read and watched, I wondered what goes on behind closed doors in some of their lives. I stopped reading several times when little kids would roll into me, and their mothers would freak out in a flurry of admonitions and apologies. I always reassured them that it was no big deal. I was, in fact, sitting in the middle of the most perfect rolling-hill in town, so I was in their way, not the reverse. I also am a huge fan of rolling down hills, even today, so I was tempted to join them. I also have a kid who if allowed, would probably roll all day every day.

The liner notes on Burroughs' book say it's so strange it could never be fiction. Given the whole James Frey A Million Little Pieces controversy, I don't know that anyone will ever believe a statement like that again, but I will say that I believe most, if not all, of what I read in Burroughs' book. Some of the stuff in there is so insane that it would be hard for most "normal" people to conceive, but the idea that truth is stranger than fiction came from somewhere. It might have come from my own family as a matter of fact.

If I am to believe the stories I've heard about my not-so-extended extended family and, in some cases my own memory of things, my family struggled with all of the issues Burroughs addresses in his book. Alcoholism. Mental illness. Physical Abuse. Sexual Abuse. Most of the members of my family didn't turn out to write bestselling books about their experience, though. Most of them wouldn't talk about it if you paid them a million dollars. They choose to deal with it in their own private torment sort of way. I've watched this history eat many of them alive. One of my favorite people in the world killed himself rather than deal with it anymore. Was it the alcoholism, the drugs, the abuse, or mental illness that ended in his death? Maybe some. Maybe all. I don't know. I'll never know. Everyone has their own theories. What I do know is that pretending it never happened is not the way to deal with it. What I do know is that he was brilliant, beautiful, and had something to offer the world, and we'll never know what he could have done. What I do know is that every member of my family thought his death would be The Thing to "wake up" the rest of the family. To get them to change. To get them to care. To get them to move on. As we've learned, though, in a long string of tragedy in our family, nothing ever does. External forces do not cause one to survive or thrive or get on with things. It's an internal battle that a person has to wage on his own, just as he has to struggle to play the cards he's dealt.

I think that's one of the many points Burroughs is trying to make. We all have something. In my experience, some people seem to get more than their fair share of somethings, but that's life. You can't change what happened to you when you were a kid. Unfortunately, kids don't have control over who their parents are, or who ends up coming into or out of their lives. They don't have any power to change whether they're poor, or Catholic, or uneducated. But after they've claimed their own lives, after they've "grown up," they have the power. By that point, though, it seems like many people are comfortable in chaos. They don't know any different. It's almost comforting to live in a parallel universe.

Burroughs has seemingly overcome what could have been insurmountable odds, and he's a bestselling author for Godsake. Is he a loony bird behind closed doors where none of us will ever see? I don't know, but he's done something with his life. He's talking about issues few people want to tackle. It doesn't matter if you live in the projects or a country club community, these issues exist everywhere, and I dare anyone try to challenge that. I've spent time in the projects (that's where I was born), and I've spent time in the country club (never lived there, but I have friends who do), and I've seen this stuff in both places. Who's to say that it's any less damaging in the country club than the projects? I've seen a whole lot of rich kids end up junkies, losers, or dead. I've seen a lot of poor kids end up the same. Some of the poor kids are born with an innate sense of Darwinism. They are fighters. They are survivors.

I know my family is full of fighters. Full of survivors. They made it out, but they're still living with the consequences. I wish they could all find a way to forget, but that's usually not possible. I wish they could find a way to deal and move on, but maybe that's not possible either. I wish I could take away their pain and their booze, but I'm simply not equipped to do either. I do know that a lot of their kids are significantly better off than they were, so that's got to count for something. I do know that I can't forget what happened to them, and I can't forget that it can happen to anyone anywhere at any time. That's why we have to talk about this stuff. That's why we have to show some compassion. That's why we have to try to do something about it. Even if it's only in our own little family circle. If you know someone who is hurting, don't look the other way. Not everyone survives like Burroughs did. Some people make it out of hell, but the hell doesn't make it out of them. It burns their souls to dust. I've seen it happen more than once, and I never want to see it happen again.

I have a serious case of writer's block. I think it's because my head is all swimmy with all of the possible outcomes of That-Thing-We're-Being-Annoyingly-Vague-About. I can't keep a thought for more than two seconds. I'm losing things. A lot of things. Important things. Expensive things. Fortunately, I've found most of the things I've lost, but I'm still searching for a couple, including my head.

We had a really great day yesterday. We carved Sunshine's first jack-o-lantern. It turned out pretty cool if I do say so myself. We used one of those carving kits. It's actually a lot more difficult than I imagined, so I'm glad we picked a really simple design. Otherwise, it might have made me cranky. Sunshine helped dig out the seeds and the muck, and Soul Mate and I did the carving. It was a fun little family project.

Then, we dressed Sunshine up in his Steelers uniform and went to have Mexican. I'm kinda ticked at the restaurant, because they changed their guacamole recipe. Sunshine used to eat the crap out of it with a spoon, man. We'd get a large order, and he'd eat most of it by himself. Now, they're putting in mayonaisse and something else I can't figure out, and it's totally changed the taste. Sunshine won't eat it, and I don't blame him. I won't eat it either. Anyway, the cool thing to come out of that part of the day was that we got Sunshine to say "Hola!" and "Adios!" He was looking around the room saying, "Hola, Man!" "Hola, Little Boy!" and "Hola, Witch!" The funniest thing was when he said, "Adios, Deer" to the head mounted on the wall near the exit. That's a good time, folks.

Anyway, after that, we went to some Halloween festival at one of the county rec places. I thought it was super cool, but Sunshine and Soul Mate weren't so sure. In fact, Sunshine was crapping in his pants he was so displeased in the beginning. Finally, I convinced my boys it would be a good idea to go ride the little train to get us in a more festive mood. Sure enough, it put us all in the holiday spirit. Sunshine was happier, and I was, too, because I got to talk to complete strangers. That drives my husband crazy. Especially when I go into great detail about mundane things instead of ending the conversation immediately. I just can't help it. I love to talk. Anyone who knows me (or any stranger who has ever had the misfortune to run into me on the street) knows that I have a big mouth. It's genetic. Sue me.

Anyway, we went back inside the Halloween festival after the train ride, and Sunshine was in a better mood, but he was still acting petrified. I know my kid doesn't like loud things, so I speculated that that was our problem. I was kind of annoyed at the bad music that was playing loudly over the center's intercom system, so I figured it was ticking off my kid as well. Suddenly, I saw a spark in Soul Mate's eyes. He looked at me with that look that says I'm-the-Man and said, "As a former football player, I can tell you it's really loud inside those helmets." I'm not sure whether he liked saying he was a former football player or that he was pleased with himself for figuring out our malfunction, but either way, we were both pleased with the results. Sure enough, we took that helmet off the kid's head, and like magic, he started running all over the place, happy as a clam. Who knew football helmets magnified sound? Well, former football players, of course.

We all left the festival a happy family. We'd had a great day together. Our kiddo always goes to bed without fighting, so we should have settled in for a very fine adult evening. Something shifted in my noggin', though. Somewhere between the punkin', the Mexican food, the Halloween festival, and the World Series I got cranky. Very cranky. I can't even lay my finger on what flipped the switch exactly, but something certainly did.

The Land of Limbo is not a good place for a control freak. That-Thing-That-We're-Being-Annoyingly-Vague-About is driving me mad. I'm not worried about the outcome. I know that it will all work out. It's the Not-Knowing-What-the-Outcome-Is thing that's making me crazy. I just want to know where we're headed. I can handle just about anything. I love stress. I thrive on it. I'm just very task-oriented. I can't complete my tasks if I don't know what the assignment is. I feel like we're suspended in time. I just wish someone would come and drop a fifty pound weight on one end of the see-saw so we can get on with things.

It's been one of those days. Unfortunately, those days now have a soundtrack. Damn you, American Idol. "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter has been playing underneath every scene in this day I'm having. If you've been living under a rock and don't know, "Bad Day" is the song they played when they kicked someone off American Idol last season. On the one hand, this song just made my bad day worse every time it played in my head. On the other hand, at least it made me smile through the tears. There's a silver lining to every cloud, I guess.

Part of me feels guilty for even whining about this day. Although it has both sucked and blown, it certainly could be much worse. In fact, we have a lot of people in our lives who are having a string of very bad days. You might even say they're living a nightmare right now. I cannot even dare to go there. I'm pretty fortunate in the big picture. Today is just one of those days that no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to get on very steady emotional footing.

It all started out at Midnight when I was still awake from Monday. I usually go to bed early on Monday nights, because Tuesday mornings are usually pretty hectic in our corner of the world. I couldn't sleep because of The-Thing-We're-Being-Annoyingly-Vague-About. Instead of getting up at 6:45 like I normally do, I kept resetting the alarm clock. I didn't get up until 8am, which put me waaaaay behind on my normal schedule. I was freaking out Sunshine trying to hurry him around, but we eventually got out the door. I was only halfway ready for my day, but oh well. When I got to the car, there was some strange white substance covering all of my windows. When I touched said substance, it made my fingers cold. What? What, I say! What is this cold white substance? Well, this sometimes happens when the temperature drops below freezing overnight. That substance put me even further behind, since it is a serious impediment to driving.

Anyway, I got Sunshine to school, and I got myself to the Jazzercise parking lot where I proceeded to finish getting myself ready for the day. I put on my contacts, put up my hair, and washed my face in the car. Now, that's efficient. Then I realized I had lost my membership card. Nowhere to be found. Good day Impediment Number Two. The owner kindly offered to beep me in "just for today," and I went about my merry way. Until Impediment Number Three struck. I ate too damn much on my camping trip this weekend. And when I say too much, I mean Too Much. It wasn't your standard camping crap either. One of our friends on the trip is a chef. He made gumbo and whole chickens and something called "Libby Goods" (story for another day) and corn muffins and ... well you get the picture. Not to mention our friend who is a wine and cheese efficionado. Not to mention our friends who brought stuff to make S'mores. Not to mention Punkinhead (also a story for another day). Not to mention all the stuff we and everyone else brought. It was cold, and since my body thinks it is a bear, it was preparing to hybernate. I had to have a little (or a lot) of everything. Therefore, I couldn't move this morning.

Then Impediment Number Four. My good friend and next door neighbor called when I was on my way home. She's moving to Denver. I've moved a lot in my day. I used to work in TV. I've said goodbye to a lot of friends. A lot of good friends. But I've spent the last six years living next door to this girl. We've been through a lot together. Life. Death. Near-death. Kids. Jobs. Weight loss. Weight gain. Weight loss. Weight gain. She's been my rock. I've been hers. We're both pretty tough girls, but we've cried on each other's shoulders a lot. We've also shared a lot of fun times. We've done everything together. This one's gonna hurt. It's what threw me over the edge.

I've been pretty cool about The-Thing-We're-Being-Annoyingly-Vague-About. I'm not worried. I know it will all work out. It always does. I was handling the stress of that just fine, until this news shifted the scales. I had just sort of counted that I would have her around to help me weather this storm. She tells me the truth. When I'm being irrational, she'll call me on it. When I'm being overly emotional and not using my brain enough, she tells me. When I'm simply being a bitch, she'll let me know, but she typically doesn't put it that harshly. I appreciate that in a friend. I like someone who can help prop me up, but I also need someone to knock me down a notch when I'm being stupid.

I know. We'll always be friends. We'll keep in touch. We'll write. We'll call. We'll visit. All of that is true, but it will never be the same. It will never be this easy. I'll never be able to call her from my driveway halfway over to her house. We won't babysit each other's kids. We won't watch each other's dogs. We won't keep each other sane when our husbands are out of state for extended periods of time. This is going to be hard. Really, really hard.

So here I am, watching Dancing with the Stars on mute, because I just don't care right now. Frivolous BS that gave me joy last week is just annoying me today. I can only hope that "Bad Day" doesn't play in my life soundtrack every week for the rest of the season, because that just might push me over the edge for good.

Oh, and did I mention that our heater is dying? Can you say $600 screw job? I know I can.

We're down from the mountain with a lot of great stories to tell. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to tell them right now. If you want a little taste of goodness, go on over to RER and read what Soul Mate had to say about it.

I might be a little less consistent in writing for the next few days. We're hunkering down here in our house on the mini-hill. We've got some serious work to do. We'll fill you in when the work is done. For now, we'll just be annoyingly vague. Please continue to send your good vibes. We could still use them. All I know tonight is that we have a great life, an awesome family, and the best group of friends in the entire universe.

LEAFers, we had a blast, and we miss you already. Thanks for laughing with us, crying with us, and dreaming with us. That's what life's all about, man.

Our trip to the mountain couldn't come at a better time. My husband is now shouldering a very, very heavy burden. It is not one that is too heavy for him to bear, although it may feel like it at this moment. He is a very smart, very creative and very good man. He will choose the path that will lead to good things for himself and our family. I have more confidence in him than he will ever have in himself. I know this. He knows this.

It's times like this that we have to be especially thankful for what we have but, more importantly, who we have in our lives. Thank you to all of you who have reached out to him tonight, and thank you to those who will in the coming days and weeks. They will certainly not be easy times. If you have a second over the next few days, send some good vibes his way. He needs some lifting up.

Tomorrow, we will head for higher ground. We will physically be at a higher elevation. I hope to find a higher plane mentally as well. This, too, shall pass.

The rain won't stop. Usually, it doesn't bother me at all when it rains. I can count on my fingers the times I've bothered to use an umbrella in my life. I love playing in the rain in the summer, I love jumping in puddles with my kid, and I love cuddling up in bed and listening to the rain outside. It's one of those things that makes me feel alive. I may also be one of the few people in the universe who loves camping in the rain. I could sleep in a tent for days listening to the rain battering the fabric above me. The sound sort of echoes through the tent, and even though there's very little between you and the elements, it feels like you are more secure than anywhere else.

It just so happens that I am going to be camping this weekend. My husband and I and quite a few of our friends are going to this music festival up in the mountains. Before Sunshine was born, we went to the festival twice a year, once in the spring and once in the fall. As much as we swore we would stay faithful to this beloved tradition, life got in the way, and we haven't been in quite some time. We are really, really looking forward to it. Not only do we love this place and the people we will be with, but we also need a few days away from the stresses of our life. We need to stop worrying for a bit and appreciate what we have. This place helps us stay grounded in what really matters. Family, friendship, and feeling a part of something larger than yourself can center you like nothing else on the planet. That's just what the doctor ordered for all of us.

I know I said I love camping in the rain. To stop there would be to give you an entirely inaccurate picture of how I'm feeling right now. Although I love camping in the rain, I hate setting up in the rain. There are few things more miserable than putting up tents when you and all of your gear are soaking wet. Since we are proud members of the Advance Team, we will be setting up quite a few tents, tables and tarps. Inevitably, we will be in a hurry to commence with the drinkin', and the rain will certainly put a damper (pun intended) on that. Plus, everyone's stuff will be soggy. That means there will be no dry refuge, except the campground's gym, and lord knows we may or may not ever make it to the other side of the lake. We're all a bunch of lazy SOBs afterall.

So as I sit here, ticking off lines on my To-Do List, I have all my fingers and toes crossed. I'm hoping to cash in some good karma chips. I'm hoping that no one in our group has behaved badly enough this year to warrant some sort of cosmic punishment. I hope that there will be nothing left in the clouds by the time we make it up that mountain. I don't really even care if it rains all damn weekend. I would just like it to stop from about 2:30pm to 5pm on Thursday. Chicken Little, if you can hold up the sky for that long, I'd really appreciate it. Oh, and, sorry I didn't go see your movie. I was busy with the baby and all.

My house is a pig pin. I've been cleaning since I woke up this morning, and it's still a wreck. You would think since I don't have a J-O-B my house would be clean all the time, but it's not. In fact, I would argue that it's just as messy, if not messier, than it was when I was a full-time working mom. One problem is that all three of us are here all the time. The other problem is that I'm a slob.

It's a good thing that my mother and father-in-law come to visit on a fairly regular basis. My mother-in-law is the Queen of Clean. I mean, you could eat off her floor at any given time on any given day. I've never seen a speck of dust or a cob web in her house, and I've certainly never seen a ring around any of her toilets. It just doesn't happen. She has a huge house, and it's spotless all the time. That means whenever she comes to my house, I think it is absolutely necessary that my house at least resembles one where humans --and not pigs -- live.

It's not that I'm worried that she will go around my house with a white glove or anything. It's not even that I think she's going to judge me for having a messy house. She's probably the most kind-hearted person you'll ever meet, and even though her house would pass the white-glove test, she doesn't expect mine to. It's just that I don't want her cleaning my house while she's here. She loves cleaning, and she can't stand to sit still, so if there's something that needs cleaning, by god it's going to get clean if she's within a hundred yards and not tied down. I don't want her to find anything that needs done except for playing with Sunshine, and that's why my hands are raw right now.

Perhaps if I actually cleaned my house on a regular basis I wouldn't have to go through this insane marathon every time my family comes to visit. That would be the logical thing to do. No one has ever accused me of being logical, so there you go. I don't think very many people would be disgusted by the state of my house, but I also don't think anyone would ever walk in and go, "Man, this house is spotless!" There's no danger of that ever happening. I try not to leave dishes in the sink. I try to pick up Sunshine's toys every day. I try to occasionally vacuum and mop the floors. But dusting? Ugh. Cleaning bathrooms? Ugh.

Some people find cleaning therapeutic. Some people can dust, mop, scrub away to their little hearts' content. Me, I find cleaning to be the single most boring activity on the planet. I find nothing at all therapeutic about it. Don't get me wrong. I love having a clean house. I just hate doing what it requires to have one. In fact, if I didn't feel guilty about not contributing a dime to our family's financial future, I'd have a maid. I just can't justify paying someone else to clean my house when I am physically able to do so. I should also technically have the time to clean, but I tend to find a million other ways to fill the day with Sunshine. Those things are much more fun and lead to a much happier kid than cleaning.

So, for the next couple of days, I'm going to have red and flaky hands. I'm going to have a nose full of dust, and I'm going to have time for nothing else. If this is what being a Domestic Diva is all about, I want no part of it.

There's something about football season that makes me want to eat everything in sight. As soon as my NFL Sunday Ticket registered its first snap, I started munching. And munching. And munching. I try to remind myself how it felt to be fat. The eating continues. I try to remind myself just how hard it was to lose the weight that piled on so easily. The eating continues. I try to remind myself I'll have to wear a bikini in January. The eating continues. I'm a remorseless eating machine.

I guess it's a comfort thing. Growing up, football Sundays were some of the best days of our lives. We were the crazy family that all donned Steelers gear and screamed at the television for hours on end. If you stood anywhere outside our house near our property, you could tell how our team was doing without ever turning on the game. We're a family of big mouths. Food was a big part of that Sunday football tradition. We made lots of it every Sunday, and every Sunday, we ate it all. It was always yummy, full of fat and sugar. It fueled our rants and chants and living room replays. My family never worried about the consequences of all that football fuel. We ate with reckless abandon.

Strangely enough, I was a skinny, skinny kid until I moved out of my parents' house. Even though I ate a ton of really bad food nearly every day, I worked it all off and then some. I was as hyper as I was hungry, and it showed. I looked out of place in family pictures, because I was thin. Even though she led the gravy train, my mom always warned me that my eating habits would catch up with me. She said when I turned 25, I'd pay for it. Boys and girls, this is one area where my mom was right.

I turned 25, got married, and got fat. It happened just like that. I'm not sure how, really. It just happened. Soul Mate and I developed our own Sunday football tradition. We ate lots of food, too. We also developed at 3 to 5 night a week beer-drinking tradition. That certainly didn't help my Body Mass Index. But damn, it was fun. That's the thing about most of the stuff that's bad for you: it makes you feel good. I was fat, but man, I was happy.

That is until I realized I was fat. That was a depressing day for the girl who was always skinny. When did I become a fat body, and how? I didn't like the way I looked, but I didn't do anything about it until after Sunshine was born. I didn't want him to grow up with a fat mom or learn bad habits from a mom who couldn't stop eating. That was my motivation, and I did it.

Problem now is that my body thinks it's a bear. I have to eat everything in sight, because it's almost time to hybernate for the winter. If I don't stock up now, I'll starve, right? Cold weather does something crazy to my brain. It flips a switch in my body, and it won't go back to where it was. All I know is that I cannot wear a moo-moo on the beach in January. I think I'm going to do like that yogurt commercial and hang my bikini up on my wall, so I'll see it every day. I might even go hang it from the kitchen door frame. That way, if I choose to eat myself out of house and home, I'll do it knowing the consequences.

Crap. I think I've become a soccer mom before my time. I just don't like it when mean people call Little Johnny names. It's just not nice.

If I lived in Western North Carolina right now, I'd be voting for some frat boy-looking dude named Heath Shuler. Why, you ask? Is it because he looks like the model all-American beer-bonging male? No. I've never been one to go for guys who pay for their friends. Is it because he's a millionaire developer? No. Like I said, I've never been one to go for guys who pay for their friends. Is it because I like what he says he'll do if he wins a seat in the U.S. Congress? No. It's because his opponent's ads are pissing me off.

I know there are people who get paid a crap-load of money to decide when to go negative. I know very few candidates want to be the ones who come out swinging first. But eventually in American politics, someone always does. Sometimes it's justified, and it doesn't bother me. Sometimes, it's just downright dirty.

I don't live in Western North Carolina, so I don't really have a dog in this fight. However, I believe we have too many schmucks in Washington who are there to serve their own interests and the interests of their friends, who in turn, also serve their interests. Some people have been there so long, they don't remember who they're supposed to represent. They simply vote the way the people who paid for their re-election tell them to vote.

Here's why this race in particular has gotten me all fired up. First, the incumbent, Charles Taylor, didn't even bother to comb his effing hair for one of his 32-thousand political ads. He looks like he just crawled out of bed with one of his interns. If you want to represent me, at least pretend like you give a crap. That hair issue, although simply cosmetic, also tells me that he never watched the ad before it aired, and that his staff doesn't even like him. If I were on his team, I would have 86ed the ad simply because my client looked like a 7 year old boy who didn't follow his mommy's orders to comb his hair before he got on the bus.

Second, one of his ads has a dude with a very fake Southern accent on it. I know many people in other parts of the country are under the impression that we're all a bunch of dumb inbreds down here, but I assure you we are not, and it's incredibly insulting when your imitations make us appear so. So, screw you and your dialect coach who told you that you were doing the part of Southern Gentleman correctly. It's even more insulting that a man who wants me to believe he is the very epitomization of Southern Gentleman let that voice represent him on television. Do you really think any of us thinks that guy is really one of your constituents? Come on.

There's also an ad with a granny character that talks about how that mean little Heath Shuler is trying to scare the old folks about Social Security. She says he ought to be ashamed of himself, and if she were related to him, she'd spank his little behind. Well, that's not exactly what she says, but you get the point. Anyway, I'm not a senior citizen, but this ad ticks me off. It treats members of the "Greatest Generation" like they are idiots. Do their ad reps really think that senior citizens trust that everything's cool with Social Security, and that their government will take care of them? All I know is that my grandma lived through the Depression, and she still has money sewn into the lining of every purse, mattress, and quilt she owns. She's certainly not buying the "Trust us. We'll take care of you" promise.

Next, the Republican party is sponsoring an ad that calls Shuler a hypocrite and uses those sinister-looking darkened black and white pictures. Don't even get me started on what kind of message that sends. Hello, doctored O.J. Simpson magazine cover. Anyhoo, the ad talks about how Shuler publicly blasts the oil companies and the pharmaceutical companies but privately owns bagillions of dollars of their stock. Show me one millionaire who doesn't own stock in oil and pharmaceutical companies, and I'll show you a trustfund baby who doesn't give a crap about pissing away his inheritance. The rich often get richer because they know where to put their money (or they pay someone to know). That does not make Shuler a hypocrite. It makes him a businessman.

Taylor and the Republicans are running three times as many ads as Shuler's people. That says to me that they are very scared this frat boy is going to kick the Southern Gentleman's ass. Instead of running three times as many ads on why we should bother to keep Mr. Taylor in office, most of their ads are simply attacking this poor little rich boy. It makes them look like they have nothing of substance to discuss, and it makes them look pathetic. Besides, it makes them seem like bullies. We have enough bullies in Washington right now, but that's another post for another day. If it makes me seem like a pie-in-the-sky soccer mom for thinking that way, so be it.

So right now, I have the laptop delicately balanced on one knee and one chair arm. My dog is squeezed in about a four inch wide space between my ample butt and the other chair arm. Her eyes are darting around the room, and she is rocking my body with her shivers. Why is she shivering? Because there is an inch-long fly buzzing around the room. Yes, my dog is petrified by a fly.

This would not surprise very many people who know Scoop. Most of my friends have less-than-fond feelings about our beloved pet. She has bitten a couple of them, peed on a couple others, and barked incessantly at all the others. Some might call her a yipee dog, because she barks at outside sounds no one else can hear. I once heard her described as "so ugly she's cute." Oh, and she jumps up on everyone. Absolutely everyone. Most people don't really like that.

Now, I have to change my course a bit here, because, right now, she's had some sort of change of heart, and a murderous streak has apparently taken over. She is going to get that fly if it kills her. She is displaying signs of bi-polar disorder at the moment. I should know. It runs in my family. She's meek. She's murderous. She's meek. She's murderous. As always, I don't really know how to handle her.

She's nearly eight years old, and she still craps on my carpet. It's not just an occasional slip either. It's a fairly regular occurance. It fills me with rage not just because of the crap, but because I have fluffy carpet, and she likes to smear it in. I just don't understand why she keeps doing it. I let her out a thousand times a day. I'm pretty sure she does it on purpose. She used to be the baby in the house until Sunshine came along. She used to get walks every night and baths every week. Now, she gets very little pampering, and I think she's being a bitch about it. She's punishing us for reproducing a human baby to take her place.

She gets under my skin like nobody else, but the thing is that I love this damn dog. She sleeps curled up with me every night. When I'm away from home, or she is at the kennel for some reason, I'm lost without her. She was diagnosed with melanoma earlier this year, and my husband and I were a wreck. She is our first child. We were lucky to catch the cancer early enough, and she is going to be fine, but for a few days there, we were really scared. I know there will come a time when she won't be with us, but it's not something I'm prepared to deal with. I think I'll be more depressed about losing her than some of my extended family.

I can't imagine my life without our little puppy. People who know me might not have expected that I would have grown up to have any animals in my life at all. My mom killed almost all of my childhood pets. Seriously. She did. My first pet was a bird named Petey. I was a toddler at the time. There are a million pictures of this bird sitting on my head, sitting on my walker, eating crackers right out of my hand. Apparently, this bird and I were buds. We lived in Ohio at the time, and one night my mom hung the bird's cage outside, so it could get some air. We woke up the next morning and Petey was a popsicle. Spring in Ohio can be unpredictable.

Next was a hamster. I don't remember it's name, but I remember that it ran around and around on its little exercise wheel all night. I lost a lot of sleep because of this little furry creature, but I loved it nonetheless. Anyway, my mom bought me this hamster book that said they like to be outside. So, what did my mom do? She put its cage outside so it could get some air. However, she was worried about the neighborhood cats, so she put it somewhere high up. She called me over to see the hamster, running around in circles in its cage. "Look, kid," my mom said. "He likes it!" Knowing that my hamster was happily lapping his living quarters, I went outside to throw mudpies at the neighborhood brats. A short time later, I heard my mom calling me from the front door. When I got to the apartment, I noticed she was crying. So, she told me the hamster went to the Great Big Wheel in the Sky. Her attempts to save the hamster from the cats actually led to its peril. She put it on top of the grill. No, the grill wasn't on, but it may as well have been. There was aluminum foil on it. The reason the hamster was running in circles was because it was frying from the inside out. One frozen pet. One fried.

Then came my evil Scratching Kitty. SK was an outside cat, but he came home every night. He was truely the devil who left his marks on my arms every day. I probably looked like a "cutter," but I was nothing of the sort. The cat was evil, but I loved it anyway, because it was my pet. One day I came home from school to find Scratching Kitty's dead body on the walkway in front of my house. A bunch of my friends were with me, and the evil boys kicked it and poked at it to make sure it was dead. I called my mom crying. I told her Scratching Kitty was dead. Silence on the other end. Then, my mom admitted to me that she felt a little bump when she backed her big ass Lincoln Towncar out of the driveway, but she looked around and didn't see anything, so she drove her tank on to work. One frozen. One fried. One squashed.

Then came Thatcher. He was a beautiful, and I mean beautiful, border collie. We all loved this dog. Even though we all loved this dog, my mom refused to allow it into the house. So that meant Thatcher spent most of his life fenced in the backyard. We lived in Mississippi at the time. It was damn hot. I was a teenager by this time. Even though I loved the dog, I had quite a little social life, so I wasn't around much. My brother and sister are significantly younger than me, so they weren't responsible enough to care for the dog. He rarely got any exercise, and I'm sure there were days he went without food or water. Despite our neglect, or perhaps because of it, Thatcher greeted us with wagging tongue and tail every time we saw him. That is the beauty of dogs. They are such loving creatures. They exude unconditional love like no humans ever can. Well, you know how this is going to end. I was home one afternoon and heard a horrible sound coming from the backyard. Something happened to Thatcher. He died. I don't know what it was that killed him. Could have been anything really. I blame the whole family for this one. He didn't deserve to die. One frozen. One fried. One squashed. One fatally neglected.

I swore from that day on that if I ever had another pet that I would treat it like a member of my family. That I would love it like I would love a child. So when my then-fiancee and I adopted a dog from the Humane Society, I kept that promise. Scoop has been our daughter ever since. Since I had an actual offspring, I haven't been as doting on my dear "daughter" as I used to be. My fuse is a little shorter with her. Somehow, my brain tells me that she should know better since she is older than my son. I sometimes forget that she is actually a dog, and she can be a bitch if she wants to.

I'm very proud of my cousin right now. She is doing what I would like to do. Instead of simply sending money or sitting in front of the TV and crying about what she sees, she got into her car and headed south. She and her husband were thinking about going to Cabo San Lucas for their vacation. Instead, they are spending the week helping to rebuild New Orleans.

If you think everything's back to normal more than a year after hurricane Katrina ravaged the Gulf Coast, you are very much mistaken. It's easy to be deceived when you see the Superdome on TV every Sunday. Sure, the Superdome looks fabulous, maybe even better than ever, but the rest of the Louisiana and Mississippi coasts haven't recovered as quickly.

I spent a week in Mississippi after the hurricane hit. I was three hours from the coast, in Jackson. I was helping our sister station stay on the air to provide people with vital information. My parents live in Jackson. I lived there for several years. Even though it did not suffer a direct hit, Jackson was a wreck. Most people did not have power. You try living in Mississippi in late August and early September and see how you fare. I think there is some validity to the theory that heat makes people crazy. Tempers were flaring everywhere. We didn't have water at the station for most of the time I was there. Most people couldn't get gas in their cars, because either the pumps needed electricity to operate, or they had run dry. It took days to get any gas onto trucks and into the area.

Jackson got the bulk of the evacuees from the coast who had the means to leave on their own. You saw the horror that happened to the people who couldn't get out and the many ways our governments failed to help them. The people who did get out were just as miserable in many ways. They lived with overwhelming fear. What was happening to the things they left behind? Did their families and friends get out? Would they have enough gas to get somewhere safe? Would they have enough money to live off for a while? Where would they sleep? How would they eat? Would they fall victim to the desperation of others while trying to survive themselves? Would they come to know the kindness of strangers? Would their cell phones ever work again? Would they ever get any answers? I talked to these people for days after the storm, and the fear in their voices was palpable. I wanted to take them all into my parents' home and have a little faith in humanity, but that's not in my nature. I helped in every way I could without putting my own family at any risk.

We told some horrible stories in those days following the hurricane. I was rocked to the core about an elderly person who was evacuated from New Orleans. He and dozens of other people from a nursing home were taken to a church camp in Jackson. The camp didn't have any power or water or food, and the evacuee who survived the storm died of dehydration in a place he was supposed to be safe. One of my colleagues who was a reporter/anchor for our New Orleans station couldn't find his granddaughter. He continued to work as he and his wife desperately searched for this little girl they were raising. She was six and was evacuated, but they had no idea where she was. I wanted to throw up just thinking about how scared they must be and how scared she must be, not knowing if they'd ever find her. We all cried when the found her in Pascagoula. It was one of the miracle happy endings. There weren't enough like that to keep us going all the time.

Every time I started to get tired or overwhelmed or emotionally shot, I looked at my colleagues from New Orleans, who were working just as hard as I was. While I was simply visiting this nightmare, they were actually living it. Most of them had lost everything. Many of them had missing loved ones or pets. They were all living out of suitcases that contained the only things they were able to leave home with. They were staying in hotels in a strange city, but they kept on trucking. They rarely shed a tear. Maybe they were all cried out. I don't know. I was staying in my parents' air conditioned house, and I knew I had a home back in South Carolina. These people were truly soldiers. Even today, I am moved by their strength.

My son had just turned one when the hurricane hit, and we packed up and headed south. I actually packed a bag full of food and water, because we didn't know what we were going to encounter when we got there. I was stunned by what I saw. Thankfully, My Little Sunshine was blissfully oblivious to what was going on around him. He was enjoying the company of his grandparents. I could work without worry, knowing he was taken care of. I knew when I was working, I was helping this disaster area, because I was providing people with information. Telling people where to go for help. What to do if they wanted to help. A few days into it, we were able to start flying over the coast, showing people what was left. A few more days after that, we were able to get back into the area and show people images from the ground.

What moved me to further action, though, was the sight of these children the same age or younger than my son. Hundreds of innocent kids were living in the Mississippi Coliseum. Their parents were lucky enough to get them all out alive with very few of their belongings. They didn't have enough diapers and formula to last for weeks, let alone months. Few stores were even open to buy these things, evevn if they had enough cash to buy them. Many of the ATMs weren't working, even if you had any money in your bank account anyway. I couldn't sleep thinking about these people and about how lucky I was to have my own kid safe and sound.

When a store finally opened up in our area, and I had a few hours off work, my mom and I sprung into action. I didn't have a lot of money, but I knew I had enough to fill two carts full of diapers, wipes, bottles, pacifiers, formula and baby food. It was only a few hundred dollars worth, and I knew in my head that it wouldn't go far, but I couldn't stand the thought of not doing anything. I couldn't stand the thought that I might have to reuse dirty diapers, because I simply had no other option. I know that it wasn't much, but it was all I could do at the time.

Over the past year, I have continued to be outraged by what I am seeing on the coast and how pitifully our government has handled it. I am disgusted that in this nation of wealth, we have people who are still suffering. Our government has seen fit to pass a law banning online gambling, but it can't do a better job of helping its own people? It makes me want to puke. I have given money to charities that are helping these evacuees, and I've gotten up on my soapbox and ranted, but I haven't done much else. That's what makes my cousin and me different.

She was so upset by what she saw after hurricane Katrina, that she had to take time off work. New Orleans is one of her favorite cities in the world. She, like me, comes from a modest background. She, like me, went to college to build a better life for herself. She, like me, is civic-minded and has often volunteered to help others less fortunate. Unlike me, though, she couldn't sit on her butt and rant. She did a lot of research. She decided to contact the New Orleans Habitat for Humanity branch, and she found her calling.

Right now, she and her husband are probably pulling into New Orleans. Instead of lounging in sunny Cabo San Lucas, they will be working their butts off building people new homes. Their contribution won't help everyone who needs it, but for the people who will soon have a home again, they are giving the world. If more people thought like my cousin, we could rebuild the coast without the help of the government. The work is not finished. Not even close. We cannot forget those people, and we cannot forget who failed to help them in their greatest time of need. It could be any of us at any moment. My cousin inspires me, and if there's anyone out there reading this, I hope she inspires you, too.

We had a great day. It was cool and breezy this afternoon, which made it a perfect day for the pumpkin patch! My Little Sunshine glowed like the orange fruit in that field. He was so happy. He rolled around in the dirt and picked out his own pumpkins. Those are the moments I live for.

Sometimes I'm ashamed of myself for being such a negative person. Most of the time, my life verges on perfect, and I spend a lot of time of every day focusing on the very bad what-ifs. Instead of living in the moment and enjoying my blessings, I think about the million ways it could all go to crap. I don't know why I do this or how to make myself stop doing it. It's just part of who I am.

Right now, some friends of ours from college have something very serious to worry about. They just had a baby, and during a time they should be creating bonds within their recently expanded family, they found out their older son has a brain tumor. He had brain surgery yesterday and survived, but the doctors weren't able to get out the entire tumor. Part of it is still in his brain, threatening his life every minute. The doctors believe it is cancerous, and the little boy will have to undergo chemo and radiation. The thing about brain injuries is that you often have to risk a person's life in order to save it. We know that well.

Nearly three years ago, Soul Mate's dad suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. He had to have three brain surgeries, any one of which could have killed him. We had to decide each time whether we wanted to gamble with his life by authorizing another surgery, or if we wanted to choose a course that would certainly end in death at some uncertain time in the future. In his case, we knew what he wanted us to do, even though he couldn't tell us. He was a 56 year old man who had very specific opinions about life and death, and he made sure we all knew what those were, long before we ever dreamed of being in this terrible situation. We knew that he would want us to do whatever it took to give him a life in which he would not have to depend on other people to supply his basic needs, even if it meant he would die trying to achieve that goal. We were lucky. For whatever reason, our patriarch pulled through all three surgeries and six months of rehab. He's now living a normal life, but our definition of normal is slightly different. The only thing removing the aneursym did was cause minor personality changes. Frankly, those changes could actually have added years to his life, because the damage to his frontal lobe made him more laid back and a little less "Type-A." We were very blessed.

Just a few months ago, we lost a very good friend to a brain tumor. We met him at work more than seven years ago and quickly became friends. We watched him struggle through life as a single guy, and then we watched him get married and begin to build a life with a wonderful girl we all really like. Nearly three years after their wedding, he passed out in the middle of the night and never woke up. He survived a brain surgery as well, but his brain bled over the course of the next 24 hours, and his young wife (not even 30) had to decide whether to take him off life support. She donated his organs, and seven people got a new chance at life because of his death.

I still think about him every day. I think of all the big and small ways he affected our lives, and I am thankful for the time I was able to call him a friend. I would have rather known him for a short time than not at all, but I would prefer he was still around. He could have done a lot of good in the world. I just don't understand why he had to go. I don't think I ever will. There are so many bad people in the world. I don't get why they get to carry on with their lives, making the world worse by the minute, when people like our friend die way too soon.

Many people use religion to make sense of terrible things like this, but their explanations just don't work for me. God needed him in heaven, people say. If heaven is supposed to be some Utopia, where people live in happiness for all eternity, then why does God need him there? What about the people who needed him here? What about his wife who has to go to bed every night and wake up every morning alone? What about his friends who loved the way he told stories and loved to hear him go on a rant about something totally random? What about all the strangers he reached out to help in so many ways? What about his mother who had to bury her only son? I just don't understand.

I also don't understand why our friends from college are going through this terrible struggle now. They are some of the most fantastic people you'll ever meet. They are kind and hardworking, and they love their family. Their little boy was just starting to figure out what this life has to offer, and now he has to fight to keep it. His parents brought him into the world with so much hope for his future, and now they can only pray for tomorrow. There's no time or energy to focus on anything but keeping their baby alive, and that is something no parent should ever have to do.

I love my little boy so much, and I can't bare the thought that I would not have him in my life every day as long as I live. He brings me so much joy that it hurts. I never want to see him in pain. I never want to see him sad. I never want to see him struggle. I know our friends feel the same way about their little boy. Why is it that they, of all the people in the world, have to fight this fight? And because they are fighting this fight, does this spare some other family in the cosmic universe from enduring the same hell? I doubt it. I just don't understand. Why, why, why? Sometimes, life just ain't fair.

I've been known to make bold statements. I've also been known to make bold statements and then have to eat my words. I have a big mouth, and sometimes I speak before I think. This sometimes happens on matters of importance, and I end up feeling really bad for not being able to control my mouth. But most recently, one of my bold statements was no big deal, really. It's just funny now.

My husband has been coveting his friends' TiVos for a long time now. I told my husband that as long as I had anything to do with it, we would never get one. Since My Little Sunshine was born, I've become more and more anti-TV. It's not a moral thing. It's just that I see I stark difference in him when he watches TV. He becomes a bit of a zombie for a little while, and then he gets off-the-charts crazy. It's just not a constructive way to spend the day, especially since I stay home with him. Keep in mind that I was a TV kid. The tube was always on in our house. If we were home, it was on. I also made my living in TV for many years. So this turnabout is kinda funny.

Anyway, my TiVo protests carried more weight when I was also bringing money into this house. Now that Soul Mate is the one bringing in the dough, I don't feel justified in protesting every purchase I disagree with. I made my case. I told him my reasons for not wanting a TiVo. I simply do not want (or need) another excuse to sit on the couch and watch TV. I already have to fight with myself to keep off the 50 pounds I worked very hard to lose. I don't need another five or six hours of TV a week to keep my from being active.

My protests aside, my husband got some deal from DirecTV where we got their version of TiVo really cheaply. We've had it for a week now, and, I'm going to say it: I WAS WRONG. There you go. You read it here. I publicly admitted I am not right about everything under the sun.

I love the DVR. Love it. I've recorded one episode of all of Sunshine's favorite shows, so now when I need him to chill for 30 minutes so I can cook dinner, hello, Wiggles! Also, Soul Mate and I don't have to flip to see if we watch Dancing with the Stars or the World Series of Poker coverage. We just record one and watch them both. Another big plus is that I don't have to watch the same freaking commercials over and over again. I'm probably getting fatter by the second, but at least I'm not getting brainwashed by corporate America, right?

Yet another reason why you should never say never.

I've discovered what might be the coolest thing about being a parent: seeing the world through a child's eyes. Everything's new to them, and their view of the universe has not been tainted by experience, education or cynicism. My view has been tainted by all of those, and it's a real bummer to get bogged down in all that sucks about the world. It's easy to do when you work in the news business. Most of what you produce every day is about who killed whom, who wronged whom, or who beat whom for what. The only outsiders you have contact with are the trashiest of the trashy. A good friend of mine, who happens to be a very talented news person, says only trashy people go on television news. We extended that to only idiots call the television station to complain about everything under the sun. It's amazing the kind of personal stuff that some people will spew to complete strangers. Often, they actually think spewing off their arrest records will make them seem bigger in your eyes. I just don't get it. Point is, after 14 years in that business, I started to think the world was populated solely with people like that, and it makes you very bitter.

I still think we live in a world of idiots, but I'm starting to soften a little. I credit My Little Sunshine with changing my world view. I love nothing more than to watch him watch butterflies or bees or birds with complete wonder. I can see the wheels turning in his little head. It's like the more he tries to figure out how they do what they do, the cooler he thinks it is. As I watch him, the cooler I think everything is. Right now, he loves to look at the moon and the stars. The other night while we were driving, he would scream, "Where did it go?" every time we rounded a corner and the moon left his line of sight. He thought the moon was playing peek-a-boo with him. Every time he would see it again, he would scream, "Wow!" And every time he screamed, a smiled a little wider. It's wonderful to rediscover the wonder.

I just finished a gourmet lunch of baked french fries and ketchup. It was healthy, nutritious, and oh-so-satisfying. I feel like crap when I eat like that, but sometimes I just can't help it. I had a starving (yeah, right) kid, a husband who had just gone to sleep after 16 hours of overnight work, and no time to go to the grocery store or run out and pick something up. When My Little Sunshine is hungry, he must eat immediately. I know this because I've lived with myself for the past 31 years. Something terrible happens to my body and mind when I'm really hungry. My husband can "forget" to eat for two days straight and not feel any different than if Oprah's personal chef had made him six perfectly balanced meals spaced equally apart throughout the day. Unfortunately, our kid took after me in that department. So, you make do. You work with what you have. What I had was a bag of frozen french fries and four frozen chicken nuggets. It was more imperative that Sunshine eat, so he got the nuggets, some fries and some peaches. He was satisfied. I was not.

I feel really bad about myself for days when I eat like that. I spent the past year removing a lot of junk from my trunk and trying to make some significant lifestyle changes. I want to give my kid the best start in life that I can, and eating right and exercising are life lessons I want him to learn. I didn't know how to do that until I was 30. I want him to be able to do that when he's three. I know fries and nuggets aren't the way to teach him that lesson, but I was doing the best I could today.

I have to work really hard to have a healthy body. If you look at the women in my family, I didn't start out with the best genes. I would say a lot of the obesity in my family is due to lifestyle, but most of the women in my family get fat in the same places around the same age. A lot of them have sincerely tried to lose weight, but they have failed miserably. One of my aunts is a nurse practioner, and she started a serious diet and exercise program several years ago. She lost a lot of weight and she's healthier for sure, but she'll probably never be a size six again. I've exercised nearly every day for the past year, and I'm flirting with a six, but it's been a serious struggle. I have friends who eat whatever they want and never exercise and stay a perfect size six or smaller. That just ain't fair.

My struggle with weight is made slightly more difficult by my husband's genetic makeup. He's about six feet tall and weighs about 165 on average. Let's just say when I gave birth to Sunshine two years ago, I weighed more than that and I'm only five-two. I've lost 50 pounds since then, and I now actually weigh what it says on my driver's license. Seriously. I mean, it might have been a little white lie for the past two years, but it was my goal, and I got there. The problem is staying there.

My husband can eat terribly and never exercise and maintain his svelt appearance. If I eat freaking french fries for lunch or skip exercising for a day, the junk starts to creep back into the trunk. Just that fast. I try to eat exactly half of what he eats and make it a point to get off the couch. I still have to fight. He sits in his chair with his laptop on his lap (because that's where you put a laptop) and never gains an ounce. You might think that he would be skinny but still unhealthy with his lifestyle. I've thought it myself. He's not. He's healthy as a horse. And skinny. I hope for Sunshine's sake that he gets that from his daddy.