Passie(ing) Judgement

Disclaimer: I am not a parent to anything with two legs. All statements written here are those of someone who is smart enough to know she is ill-equipped for the challenges of parenting another human being. BUT, is absolutely armed with the knowledge to judge the skill set of others.

Sense of humor and grain of salt required for reading the following post.

There I was in Fresh Market (Year 2010: Week 4: Visit 2) cruising around throwing overpriced pita chips, chicken salad and chutney in my basket - all while shooting their complimentary hazelnut coffee with Hood creamer. Hell, yes. It was a good day...

After I hit the final frontier (the dairy aisle) and loaded up on my $2.00 Greek yogurt, I spotted an older woman making THE most hideous face of disgust. What could it be?

Was her bourbon salmon looking suspect? Out of organic eggs? Did she realize her raspberry pillow cookies were going to be near impossible to peal apart- which will undoubtedly force her to eat two cookies every time? (No, I do not know that from experience. I've just heard that's what happens...)

And then I spotted her - the cause of such a look.

Approximately 3 1/2 feet tall, fleece lined crocks bedecked and bedazzled with those giblets - or whatever they are, butterflies embroidered on her blue jeans with a sparkly matching tee...she looked like a lot of other four or five year old little girls. Painted nails, ring, bracelet and pierced ears - did give her an air of sophistication (or a whiff of tartlet in the making - depending on where you fall down on these things...)

Then I gazed upon the bright blue passie in her mouth. And I was riveted.

My eyes immediately went to her mother, who I was prepared to look like a disaster. Obviously, someone who had stopped fighting the good fight and was just worn out by her minis.

Nope. She was as fresh as the morning dew. With a killer Marc Jacobs bag, might I add.

I was thoroughly perplexed. And extremely curious (read: obsessed) so I just happened to find myself in the same checkout lane. Fancy that!

FYI...Children either love me or want nothing to do with me. I mean I'm not Mrs. Oleson,but I ain't Miss Beadle either.

I'm so glad I wore my big girl Chanel sunnies to the store and KJL enamel bangles, because this little girl recognized a kindred gypsy spirit and immediately removed her passie to chat me up.

Excellent.

Little girl: "I have mani-coor."

Me: "Ohhh! I love your sparkly pink nails. So fun!"

LG: "Look at my ring. It's pink too."

Me: "So fabulous!"

LG: "It's like your ring..."

Before I burst her little bubble with, "No, honey - I had to dig through ten trays of crappy jewelry from an estate to find this bad boy. And had to spoon feed it to my then boyfriend, who proceeded to tell me he wasn't ready to buy a ring - even if it was the perfect ring, a great deal and only in his best interest - AND even if it meant he could sit on it for a few months, maybe a year."

No, baby girl - I had to work hard for this bauble.

LG: "I have a passie."

Me: "Indeed."

Out of the corner of my eye I watched to see if mum flinched. Or got flustered. Nope.

So let me get this straight - you let your little girl have her nails painted, wear jewelry, have pierced ears AND let her rock the passie in public. Just seemed ridiculous.

Let me reiterate, I have ZERO parenting experience but, I can assure you if my mini Mrs. News Readin' understands what a manicure is and acutually has one - her passie is a very distant memory.

It took EVERYTHING in my being to not throw out my dollar's worth of two cents. Something along the lines of, "Big girls have manicures, but usually not passies."

Succint, yet powerful.

LG: "You're pretty."

And with that - I realized that this child was wise beyond her years. Brilliant, even.

Who cares if she takes that passie to college? I took my prom picture. My roommate brought coke. It's all about feeling "at home..." Right?

Yet another shining example of why I am ill-equipped to manage a mini. Sigh.

Stay tuned. More at 11.

xoxo,

Mrs. News Readin'

Dear Audrina : Really Feeling All That Global Warming

Soooo....I'm not dead. Just in hibernation. And might I add - for good reason.

No, I am not with child. I'm awaiting the arrival of the genetic masterpiece that is Gisele and Tom Brady's baby to arrive. That way - I can see if the old adage of two good looking people always have an unattractive child holds water. If they can't make it happen, then the News Readin' Husband and I have got ZERO shot. But, I digress...

***

In my usual morning cruise around the interwebs, I stumbled upon this image of Audrina Partridge of the Hills (and sundry naughty photo fame.) Oh, and she used to not have an upper lip.



Look at you, muffin! LA girl just doin' a little shopping in NYC. West Coast style in full effect...Fun knit cap and...bare arms?! Really?

Yes, it was mild. 57 degrees. But, 57 degrees in Manhattan is slightly different feeling than 57 degrees in LA. Look around sweetie. Everyone else on the street is hunkered down in some sort of clothing that covers the arms. After all, it is December.

Maybe I'm not giving enough credence to your furry vest.
(BTW - Is that Chewbacca or Scottish Highland Cattle?)




Either way - exotic!

As my mother would say, are you trying to catch your death walking around like the Breath of Spring? Like you, I would fiercely deny any chill. And you are wearing a hat.

Enough silliness. Those sticks for arms could use a leetle insulation. Now run along, and go grab a mini leather jacket somewhere.

You didn't go through all that trouble of inflating that upper lip just to cover chattering teeth!
Give my best to Justin Bobby and co.

Air kisses,

Mrs. NR


We now return to your regularly scheduled program.

"I carried a watermelon..."

If you are unfamiliar with this movie quote, then I recommend you scoot right along to the next post in your google reader queue.

For those reading this who are not communists and recognize the line that Baby utters to Johnny Castle at the after party in Dirty Dancing - we are meant to be friends. (Stick around. I give pretty good birthday gifts.)

"I carried a watermelon..." is exactly what I say when I find myself embarrassed by an item I may have blurted out for usually one of two reasons:

1) I've been over-served by a bartender or myself (more often than not it is by my own hand)
2) My Sweet & Thoughtful pills ran out and the real me shows up...gah. Hate those days.

We recently attended a very lovely 30th birthday party for a dear friend and member of our game night group. The sweet tea vodka flowed and I became a casualty of my own seemingly bottomless highball glass. The good news - I was sweet...not so much thoughtful.

There are five couples in our game night group. It's a well-balanced bunch. We've got a good thing going. No need to fiddle with the recipe. Right? Well, after four drinks this cook headed to the kitchen.

A very cute couple mentioned how they wanted to start their own game night group. I responded quickly - "Pish. We've done all the leg work...just to come to ours next month."

Fast forward an hour later- chatting with another couple, the Williams*, game night was again mentioned. And, I offered up an invitation to next month's gathering.
*Names have been changed to protect the boring and dis-invited.

Later on the nicest woman in our group (Daisy Troop leader, teaches Boot Camp every morning at 5 am, coaches her church's youth basketball league...you get it) asked, "Did I hear you invite the Williams to game night? They are terrible."

Ruh-roh.

So, I can only hope that they indulged in equal parts sweet tea vodka resulting in general alcohol induced memory fuzziness and will not be ringing the doorbell in a few weeks for our Connect Four Tournament.

Yet again - "I carried a watermelon..."

Mr. News Readin' let me know that if we are asked to leave the game night group he will formally protest and petition to retain his membership, but will accept my dismissal based on inappropriate conduct.

Thanks, dear. The support is overwhelming.

Stay tuned. More at 11.

**Edited to add: When I penned this - I had no idea it would coincide with the passing of Patrick Swayze. No one made dancing or the Catskills sexier and inspired millions to "try the lift."

And, we're back.

We experienced significant technical difficulties this past month in the Breaking Newsroom.

Frankly, I felt that rather than put out half-hearted content it would be best to take a breather, a moment to get my act together and regroup.

Oh, and I was busy organizing my dream closet.

*All images courtesy of HalogenLife.

*Sigh* I wish...

Love the Hermès boxes across the top shelves and the steamer trunk dresser.

If I had a Mr. Big - this is the closet he would build me.

Stay tuned. More at 11. (I promise...)

xoxo,
Mrs. News Readin'

Paging Joy: Your Party Waits in Arrivals

Lately I've had the pleasure (or displeasure) of spending time in airports. Fun destinations aside - airports are usually miserable places.

From the "easy" kiosk check-in which seems to take more time than the good old-fashioned human check-in process to the endless security lines, where measures that have been in place for eight years still take people by surprise - it all is just exasperating.

Note to the lady in Chicago that balked at having her massive aerosol can of hairspray and industrial size bottle of Jean Naté bath splash taken away...they did you a favor. Say thank you and head to the nearest Sephora to regroup.

And let me not fail to mention the oversold, delayed flight scenario that is more the standard than the exception. All in all - flying commercial couldn't be any less pleasant.

Which is probably why most travelers are, generally speaking, grumpy. Reeaaallyyy grumpy. I counted myself as one of those grumpy travelers until I read this piece from Chris Jones for Esquire.

Shared with me by a dear friend, who is a veteran traveler of the skies, it brought tears to my eyes and reminded me that happiness exists just beyond the confines of baggage claim.

I thought it was very share worthy...


Stay tuned. More at 11.

Some houseguests...

...do not stink after three days.

We are into week four of my brother's 13 week stay in Casa de News Readin'. So far - so good.

He has fixed a broken latch on our exterior front door, re-wired some old two-prong outlets and re-caulked our guest shower. Oh, and incredibly he knows how to take out the garbage, wipe down the counters, start dinner (without step-by-step instructions delivered by cell) and replace the paper towels.

On Thursday I came home and he was vacuuming. Without being asked to do so. Seriously.

Maybe he shouldn't be the man in this house to move out in 10 weeks.
Just kidding. (Not really.)


Stay tuned. More at 11.

DIY: Ladyscaping

Attention to any boys who read this blog: this may be a post to skip, as my never ending obsession with ladyscaping is the topic.

Ok? So, run along now - basketball to be watched, wings to devoured, beers to be consumed - and if you can find the time to fit in some mulch spreading or mowing...by all means - contribute to the maintaining of the abode in which you inhabit. (Someone has a touch of holdover resentment from last weekend's lacking outdoor productivity by a certain husband who reads the news.) But, I digress...

As the bearing more than less season approaches, it's timely to launch a new product for the purpose of maintaining - specifically - Your Flower Bed. The genius minds (or their ad agency) at Schick have bestowed upon us ladies this little piece of equipment just in time:


The Schick Quattro for Women Trimstyle Razor & Bikini Trimmer

The apparatus itself doesn't offend me nearly me as much as the ad campaign that is bombarding the female consumer.

Print ads appearing in major magazines feature a lush garden with statuary amidst strategically placed topiaries in the shapes of inverted triangles and landing strips. The television commercial is even more laughable. Women strolling, jogging, meeting up with other women passing by overgrown greenery that transform magically into stripper enviable ladyscapes. Don't believe me? Check out the ridiculousness here:



Seriously, Ad Guy? Really? You sat around your agency war room throwing out ideas to market these bad boys and you came up with shaped shrubs? Are you also the geniuses that developed the Levitra commercial with the man throwing the football through the tire swing or the spurting kitchen faucet? Subtle, reeally subtle.

If you think for a second a man didn't come up with campaign, well - you're kidding yourself. Working in the advertising world has taught me that 9 out of 10 creatives are men and I watch Mad Men. My official backup data. So there.

I'm not some femi-nazi who believes a man created this tool to perpetuate the pressures of society to maintain a tidy Flower Bed. On the contrary, I am a woman who firmly believes in keeping things beach-in-Rio ready (should the occasion arise) for myself. And I appreciate the help.

Just in case my new waxer extraordinaire, Heather, is reading - it will never replace you. Our bond is much stronger. You have gone places no one has ever gone (with the lights on) other than my Lady Bits Doctor, and never once have you asked me to scoot down. Love ya', Girl!

Will I fall victim to the wily ways of Schick's advertising brilliance? Perhaps. Compared to the scouring pad/sanding system these jokers are touting - it certainly seems like the better home maintenance option.


Stay tuned. More at 11.

And we're back. With a Mommy Mafia Update.

The Breaking News Team required a brief hiatus following some red wine fueled deep thoughts, a Homestead weekend with of our very favorite bloggers (and friends), as well as a sad event that we will get around to talking about - but not in this post.

After my introspective moment (bordering on pathetic pity party), which was very well attended by some new friends to this blog - thankyouverymuch - I needed a little bit o' the good times. And it just so happens that I had a weekend jaunt to the Grande Dame of resorts, the Homestead, planned with Sippycups and Happy Homemaker for the following weekend. What good fortune!

To make the weekend even more fabulous - I was an (invited) interloper to their Cocktail Club gathering at Sippycups lovely home. Her margaritas weren't too shabby, either. Good Lawd. Needless to say, we got a late start to the Homestead the next day.

All images courtesy of The Homestead, Hot Springs, Virginia.

Aside from the brief Shining moment walking through the Grand Hall - the three of us giggled, consumed prosecco & Pom and brie in our room until dinner. Chateaubriand and bananas foster tableside in the 1766 Grille? Oh. Hell. Yes.



In our alcohol infused fuzziness, Sippycups declared that my life plan re-think was due to the lack of minis in my life. Read: I've got too much time on my hands. Ohhh...good idea - minis, said the pumped with prosecco Mrs. News Readin'.

Not so fast, Sippycups. I'm on to you.

And it proves - yet, again - that the Mommy Mafia is an impressive network that knows no geographical boundaries. But, does have excellent taste in resorts, food and fun stuff for their friends.

Loved every minute with you Ladies...Thank you.
More at 11.

Anthropologie: I love you. I love you not.

Does anyone else have a love/hate relationship with Anthropologie?

Seven years ago, I went through a "If it's not from Anthro I don't want to know it..." phase. Even my bedding was from them. Their clothes and accessories made me feel like a keen-eyed, sophisticated, bohemian. And poor. Because it goes without saying that for all its gossamer tank, adorable skirt and embellished sweater gorgeousness, Anthropologie is well...es-pensive.

Are ya' with me on this?

I'm fairly confident I'm on their watch list of habitual returners. Without fail, I'll buy two items and return at least one due to buyer's remorse. Most recently it was a grey blouse that in the husband's most astute observation, "looked like a bunch of napkins" for $178. Thank you, TimGunn.

But, with one skim of a catalog - I am instantly transported back to that pre-Mrs. young woman, who fantasized of skipping across Moorish rooftops in Morocco with tousled Edwardian hair and a $198 skirt from Moth with a $88 mis-matched striped tank from elevens. *sigh*

Then I remember that I do not weigh 90 lbs and would like a damn clown in such an ensemble and if I'm going to don a $200 out-and-about outfit - Morocco ain't the destination. (Been there on our honeymoon - can you say cesspool?...do not bring it up to Mr. NR...it's a sore subject.)

Imagine my shock when I spied this bathing suit, actually picked up the phone and ordered it without any hesitation. Usually a purchase from them includes online deliberations for two-three weeks with multiple phone consults with the BFF, Hilary. And buying a bathing suit - no less!

Had the flame from all those years ago been re-ignited???

Buri Checkered Bikini

It's a little Betty Page-esque, and I'm hoping that's what it will morph this "I've been downing grande hazelnut lattes all winter" body into miraculously. High hopes, no?

If not, here's Plan B:

The Lorelei Halter in Black

Definitely will not be mistaken for picnic buffet table and lends an air of "mystery" with that mid-section ruching.

So I wait with bated breath - hoping that this impetuous purchase of a bathing suit, made while snow falls outside and my treadmill lays idle, will not leave me once again hating Anthropologie (and higher on the habitual returner watch list.)


Stay tuned.
More at 11.

Major Airlines: Take Note

In reading all of the accounts of yesterday's horrific landing of US Air Flight 1549 from LaGuardia to Charlotte - I hope major airlines gleaned an important detail.

The experience of age.


The pilot, Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger of Danville, Calif has 40 years of varied flight experience. An Air Force Academy grad, who flew F-4 fighter planes, he has 29 years of flying time with US Airways. In addition, he is an airline safety expert who has consulted with NASA and other organizations.

It's not uncommon in today's poorly managed airline industry for pilots with the experience (and salary) of Captain Sullenbeger to be forced into early retirement and faced with evaporated hard-earned pensions.

I for one, am willing to sacrifice warm Diet Coke and pretzels and pony up an extra $25 for the likes of Captain Sullenberger to remain employed and enjoy a rewarding pension upon retirement. A seasoned pilot who can land a damn Airbus on a river, surrounded by one of the world's most densely populated major metropolitan areas is worth his weight in gold. Or American dollars.

So put him on the luggage scale and let me know - along with the countless other pilots who have the knowledge and experience to keep us alive in times of crisis in the air.

They are payed to know what to do when things go horribly wrong - not to make sure we make our connection in Cincinnati in enough time to hit the Cinnabon. There is no greater example of this than yesterday's incredible outcome.

Blessings to Captain Sullenberger and I only hope my next flight is in the back of a plane handled by someone as equally poised and knowledgeable.

We now return to your regularly scheduled program.

En Route: The Apocalypse

Every time I feel like we are making strides towards bettering America (Scrubs getting picked up by ABC) something else presents that makes me say, "Oh, well. Better get a mani/pedi before I have to reconcile my poor decisions with a higher power."

I experienced that moment when I caught a promo of this new show on WE:

Little Miss Perfect

About the Show: "Little Miss Perfect is a journey into the world of children's pageants. Each episode follows two families as they practice and primp—all leading up to the stress and joy of competing for the title Little Miss Perfect. Featuring Michael Galanes, national pageant director for more than 10 years."

Nauseated yet? It gets worse. The premiere episode sounds like a real nail biter - a hairsprayed to the hilt, more makeup than a South Beach trannie - nail biter.**

(Nothing but normal here...)

"Brandi Jean has just come off a big win, but this 9-year-old beauty queen already has her sights on the next crown. At age 8, Ashley is a pageant veteran and the reigning Little Miss Citrus. In this episode, the girls will face off on a crowded Orlando stage. Pageant mom Jean is hoping a Marilyn Monroe-inspired number will help Brandi "wow" the judges, while pageant mom Tina decides that Ashley should go "big" and creates a brand new routine with only 3 days left before the pageant–leading to late nights and last-minute stress The $1,000 prize is up for grabs and the pressure’s on... Who will win the coveted title of Little Miss Perfect?"


What could be worse than pitting two elementary-aged girls against eachother to the tune of "It's Raining Men"? It can't get worse...can it?

Yes, dear reader. It can get much worse.


Meet the Pageant Director, Michael Galanes. From his bio page:

"Michael is a graduate of Providence College, Providence, RI and quickly moved to Orlando, Fla. to work with whom else, but princesses at Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom! Michael performed as a face character in parades and shows throughout the park. He worked as a model throughout the world with Pro Model Management in Athens, Greece. No stranger to beauty, Michael served as a state director for Miss Vermont USA/Teen USA, NBC/Donald Trump Productions."

What the hell is a "face character"?? And model. Storied career. Oh, and I'm going to go on record saying that Mr. Galanes is very much a stranger to beauty.

Sadly, I wish I could say I were a stranger to this sign of the approaching Apocalypse.
It premieres February 18 at 10 pm.


**Before you send me a bunch of hate mail about how pageants provide excellent scholarship opportunities and inspire strength and confidence in girls and young women - just save it. It's your child and you can manage your role as parent as you see fit. But, this is my blog and I can wax sanctimonious, as I see fit.

Doppelgänger Alert: Barbara and Barry

It's Friday, so I'm going to keep it light.

Last night I had a nightmare that Barry Manilow was going to perform at my Game Night gathering. (For Mr. News Readin' this would have been a dream...I'm convinced he wishes my name were Mandy.)

For some strange reason, I kept calling him Barbara. Finally fed up, he screamed, "I'm not Barbara Walters!!"

What?!

Barry stormed out in all his merlot-colored velvet sportcoat glory, without signing my coveted CopaCabana t-shirt. Bastard. (True story - I attended another school's prom at the Copa. Jealous? Thought so.)

I woke up thinking - "I have got to stop eating Thai food so close to bedtime."
The second thought was, "Barry and Barbara? So, that's how they got him on the View."





What say you?

Mr. NR was totally offended, as he loves Barry and despises Barbara.


More at 11.

A letter to Mr. & Mrs. Wentz

Dear Ashlee and Pete,

Congratulations on the arrival of your baby boy, Bronx Mowgli!


I realize that as artists, creativity and expression are integral to your very being. However, is the naming of your first born really the best way to channel your artistic inspiration?

Perhaps I'm making a hasty call. As a New yorker, I should be bursting with pride...

Maybe Pete is related to Jonas Bronck, the Dutch sea captain, for whom the Bronx is named. Maybe Ashlee is a descendant of Siwanoy Indians and has a deep connection to her ancestral lands. Maybe you felt it was your duty as Americans to cast light on our nation's poorest Congressional District - the 16th.

Or maybe you just forgot that you're child had to attend the third grade and having C-list celebrity parents just wasn't enough baggage.

Seriously. Have either of you ever been to the Bronx? (Yankee Stadium excluded.)

The borough hasn't seen this much celebrity endorsement since Jenny was On the 6 and claimed her from the Block roots.


I expect Adolfo Carrión Jr., Bronx borough president, will be contacting you shortly to see how the borough can capitalize on this fragment of spotlight.

Perhaps, young Bronx will get a key to Co-op City? It's lovely this time of year.

Either way, go ahead and enroll that kid in martial arts. He'll need it.

If there is a next time, let's really use that nine months to weigh our options and think it through.

And no, Staten Island is not an option.

Warmest regards,

Mrs. News Readin'

W.W.B.W.E

What would Brian Williams eat?

If you believe his interview in Parade this past weekend, he eats Arby's, Cinnabon and Cracker Barrel. And other sundry Food Court anchors...Wok-n-Roll perhaps?


Yikes. Embarrassing. Whoever his publicist is should be dismissed. Stat.

We all know how much the News Readin's love a little BW. But, are we really supposed to believe that fair Brian frequents the Food Court or better...Arby's? (Note to non-Northerners...there isn't a Cracker Barrel, Waffle House or Arby's in Manhattan.)

Brian inhabits a rather swanky pad at a very tony address in New York. His neighborhood restaurant is Le Cirque. That's not an exaggeration. Le Cirque is located on the ground floor of BW's building. You can read all about it being "better than having an Applebee's in the lobby," according to Brian, here.

Let me guess, you're favorite meal at Waffle House is waffles.

Briiiaaannn...the answer is grilled cheese and hash browns - smothered and covered. And Arby's over Chick Fil A?! Blasphemous.

So, let's recap B-Dub. Comparing Cinnabon to crack is bad for business- yours and theirs. (I agree with the comparison...just sayin') Posing with pizza on the cover of Parade reeks of phony.

Stick to rockin' the purple power tie, going heavy on the self tanner, humorous banter on late night talk shows and being a good news reader. Although, if you keep up the pr missteps that chair might be empty sooner rather than later.

And that's good for the News Readin's business. Hmm...err...keep up the good work B-Dub.

Mrs. News Readin'

Campaign trail ends in a cabbage patch

This is old news- but I just heard about the Obama/Biden and McCain/Palin Cabbage Patch dolls that were auctioned off on eBay, to benefit Marine Toys for Tots program.

Presidential Candidate Cabbage Patch Kids? Is that what kids are asking Santa for this Christmas?

Probably not. These things only appeal to weird adults, who probably have an impressive Beanie Baby collection. But I digress...

Palin, complete with glasses and sausage legs stuffed into little black pumps, seemed to draw the most bidding action. And why not? She comes with a $150,000 wardrobe - according to all the anonymous wardrobe spies. (Take that Barbie.) Seems like a good deal at nearly $10,000.


Do you think she has a typical Cabbage Patch middle name, like Esmeralda, Ertha or Ailene?

The President-elect Obama doll, was a close second - with over $3,000 in bids.




Cue the Debbie Downer music...poor McCain and Biden, seemed definitely less cuddly. Biden didn't even fetch $1,000.

Back in the day, I would have given every sticker in my prized album for a Cabbage Patch Kid.
Not sure if I would have wanted this Sarah...she may have wanted to use my Koosa for a rug or worse - chili.



We now return to your regularly scheduled program.

The end of an era

This day was inevitable.
I've been dreading it for months.



Martha, I'm not renewing my subscription.
Stop that - there's nothing you could have done...It's not you, it's me.

We've had some great times...the brined turkey and gingerbread cake that were the shining moments of the first Thanksgiving dinner I cooked...introducing me to the beauty of chrysanthemums...


...the most adorable 4th of July decorations...


...and the inspiration to throw on my wellies, a large brimmed straw hat and head out to snip roses. (So what if they weren't my roses?)

But to reach the peaks, one must travel through the valleys. The long arduous valleys.

My own nuptial madness fueled by your Weddings magazine...the failure of Blueprint...and your borderline insulting - simpletons cooking manual aka Everyday Food - to name a few.

I wasn't even sure how to pronounce quince - let alone find a quince or quinces (?) in Western Nebraska. Glitter Easter eggs? Great idea in theory - but I sparkled like Dorothy's slippers until Flag Day. And surely my Labor Day luncheon would have been pedestrian, since my family doesn't own a vineyard in Northern California complete with an 18th C. farmhouse table and Scandinavian chairs crafted by sailors.

I know it all comes from a good place - full of good things.
But, with each passing month, Living has become a glossy reminder of what I am not achieving in my home and moreover, in my life. There's enough of that type of content in my own internal publication to go around...without paying $12.95 a year.

Should the day arrive, when I no longer care about streamlining my domestic operation and really want to pursue growing the perfect lacecap hybrid hydrangea or feign waspiness at an Olympic level, I will know where to turn.

For now, I will be ripping up my renewal notice and moving on to find homemaking inspiration among mortals.

We'll always have your website.

Take care,

Mrs. News Readin'

Doppelgänger Alert

This is the cover of Britney's new album:



Is it me, or is someone looking a little Heidi Montag-esque?



Not a girl, not yet a woman - or human looking for that matter.
Resembling something closer to a plastic...No?

Just an observation.

We now return to Vote '08 Election Hangover coverage.

Halloween Tricks & Tramps

Less than 12 hours until perfectly normal, successful women trade in all traces of decency and slut-it-up in the name of everyone's favorite pagan holdover, Halloween!

You go girl. Way to set the women's movement back 15 years - all for three hours of glory in a naughty nurse costume.

The first year we lived in the City in Two States, we attended a Junior League Halloween fête at the country club. I thought this would be a fun, festive event where drinks would be enjoyed while an 80's cover band entertained the crowd. Being new to town, I imagined this would a pretty tame party.

Instead we encountered Playboy bunnies, french maids, skanky Pocahontas's (one being the league president), naughty nurses galore and hundreds of jello shots.

And as the jello shots disappeared, boobs appeared. We saw more asses than Yankee Stadium in late October.

These women had children and sent out super cute Whitney English Christmas cards. Attorneys, teachers and drug reps (well, no one was surprised about the drug reps...) hanging out of cheap costumes and keeping careful watch for open flames.

And we wag our fingers at Britney...puh-lease.

In honor of those who want to use Halloween as the excuse to singlehandedly bring sexy back, here are Mrs. News Readin's top picks for Tricks & Tramps:

Take two of these and call me in the morning.

You're going to need a sweater.

No concealed weapons here.

Pirate wench...because the kids are totally into Pirates of the Caribbean.

Does Raggedy Andy know you're out dressed like that?

Mr. News Readin' wanted to know which one I'm wearing to a Halloween party Saturday night:



Sexy pilgrim. 'Cause that's how I roll. Chaste.


Edited to Note:
It has been suggested that I am coming across prudish - which I'm not. All I'm saying is if you're asking me where I go to church on Sundays and how volunteering, carpooling and running marathons are putting the squeeze on gourmet meal-making BUT are dressed like I should be stuffing dollar bills in your pants (if you're even wearing pants...) there is something seriously wrong.

Facebook: Making friends you never wanted

Let me preface this all by saying, I'm all for a good time suck during the work day. And Facebook, takes the the time suck to a whole new level. Yay.

However, Facebook is not all happy, swell meadows of wasted time.

There are the moment-to-moment updates (Kelly is tired today. Really? Me too. Grab a Diet Coke and move it along. No one cares if you are sleepy...), supporting a lackluster cause (Save Pushing Daisies 2008-2009) and the worst...forced friendships via the virtual class reunion.

I understand the need for people to feel liked by having 343 friends. But here's the deal...I'll be your friend - but keep it simple. Confirm or decline. Got it?

We'll both benefit number-wise and who knows maybe I'll be able to reconnect with my high school boyfriend - (who is definitely still listening to the Pearl Jam song, Black pining for me) - because he's friends with your college roommate.

That is how Facebook is supposed to work.

Here's what it's not for...actually trying to become friends with someone. Yes, I am talking to you random same college as myself attendee - not to mention opposing sorority member.

"Hey how are you? What have you been doing for the last 9 years?"

1. I'm fine. Really, really well. My mood took a dip when I thought I was going to actually have to write you back, but I've rebounded nicely from that little downturn.

2. Nine years? Way to rub in the fact that my Bids Day shirt is old enough to be a 5th grader and wearing lacrosse shorts makes me a slob - no longer sporty and cute. (BTW- hell yes, I'm still sporty and cute. The uniform has morphed slightly.)

3. We had four years to be friends. And as my parents stated when they dropped me off in August of my freshmen year, "If you don't do it in four years, it's no longer our problem." Followed by, "Call and let us know when graduation is, because that's when we'll be back." (Love you, Mom & Dad.)

At this point in my life I'm looking to unload a few friends, certainly not take on stragglers.

Do I look like Angelina Jolie?
Didn't think so.

So, in as much as I enjoy getting friend requests and the occasional profile photo update notification (why are people obsessed with putting partial face pics up?! We know what you look like - no need to get all artsy...) please don't try and forge a legitimate friendship with me through the equivalent of bumping into each other at the name tag table.

Thanks.
Mrs. News Readin'

We now return to our regularly scheduled program.

Not so much...

The Food Network ranks pretty high on mindless tv watching for me. Except when Rachael Ray is on...then Food Network becomes the most hated channel among the 851 we get. (Comcast, you kick ass!)

Rachael Ray drives me insane. The voice, the Oprah love fest, the talk show, the books, the Maxim spread, the Yum-o. All of it makes me want to cook 25 minute meals every night of the week out of pure scorn.

At a wedding a few years ago, we sat at a random table to enjoy the bride and groom's offerings from the mashed potato bar and their signature cocktail. (Say it with me...martini...you threw in some juice. Way to be original.) An older couple at the table started whispering back and forth and throwing their eyes my way. Did I have bacon bits on my face?

The wife leaned in, "Has anyone ever told you look like Rachael Ray?"

The husband chimed in, "You even sound like her!"

Oh, the rage. It was boiling over and Mr. News Readin' could see it and braced for a less than sweet response...through clenched teeth, "No, no one has ever told me that."

I am not Rachael Ray's doppelganger. We both have brown hair and brown eyes - that's it. AND my chest is double hers. (Like that's a difficult feat.)

Sooo...when I stumbled across this little nugget - well, you can imagine my reaction.

It wasn't one of despair.