Be afraid . . . be very afraid.

I just watched the first half of the American rip-off of the brilliant UK sitcom, The Office.
Same jokes. Same basic characters. And yet, not nearly as funny.
The American Dawn was a melba (which is sorority lingo for boring, as in Melba Toast), and the American Tim was doing a really weird impression of the real Tim, right down to his facial tics.
Since the only other television show left on our Tivo list is today’s Teletubbies episode, I guess I’m off to bed.

I hate this season, I really do. All of the teams suck. And I don’t know how much longer I can stand watching Rob and Amber . . . they’re just so . . . so . . . despicable. When they not only came in first, but then won a trip to London, my favorite place in the world . . . it was like a knife through my heart.
Line of the night does go to Rob, though:
“It was like I was born with a lucky horse shoe shoved up my ass.”
One can only hope, Rob. One can only hope . . .
Update: Teevee.org sums it up nicely:
You know, there’s nothing in the rules of The Amazing Race that says you can’t bribe people to withhold information from other contestants or con people you’re pretending to be aligned with into giving you money. There’s certainly not a rule that you shouldn’t act like a smug, preening jackass every time a camera is pointed in your general direction. But there’s nothing that says I’ve got to pretend you belong in the Good Guy Club either.
Above and beyond that, do Rob and Amber really need to be on television anymore? They have their $1 million. They have their 15 minutes of fame. Let someone else have a turn. If we keep letting the Rob and Ambers, the Ryan and Tristas, the fucking Ruperts appear on our television sets, we will never be rid of them.
Or to put it another way, to root for Rob and Amber to win The Amazing Race is like rooting for Bill Gates to find a satchel full of money, like hoping that the vain, stuck-up captain of the football team gets laid this weekend, like cheering for the tank to run over that kid in Tiananmen Square. They have the ethics of geckos with their tales caught and represent everything rotten and foul about modern life — excessive pride in worthless achievements, the inability to distinguish notoriety from accomplishment, the abiding belief that the ends justify how crappy you treat your fellow human beings.

George and I watched Ladyhawke last night, a movie I haven’t seen in years and years. The movie was just as great I remembered, but the soundtrack was like something from a bad 1970′s porno.
Not that I’d know from personal experience, since I’ve never actually seen a 1970′s porno. But you know what I mean.

Yesterday George and I spent the afternoon drafting our wills, living wills and living trusts. Which meant we got to have all sorts of fun conversations, like, “If I’m in a coma, and the doctors don’t think I’ll come out of it, do you think I should refuse CPR?” and “Should we give our parents the power to sell our house if we’re too incapacitated to make those decisions for ourselves?” and “Honey, if you’re pregnant, you want the terms of your living will suspended so the doctors will keep you alive long enough to deliver the baby, right?”
I thought we should forge ahead and do our taxes next, but I think this too much for George, as he buried his head in his hands and wept softly at my suggestion. I don’t know why . . . nothing says fun like death and taxes. Add some chips and dip, and we could have called it a par-tay.

What’s the name of that song?
Heh. Just try to get THAT song out of your head.
Can you tell I’ve been locked up in the house all day with a grouchy toddler who has the Rainy Day Blues? I’m climbing the walls, just waiting until that golden moment when George walks in the door and I can do something totally crazy, like . . . I don’t know . . . actually go to the bathroom ALL BY MYSELF.
Speaking of which, before you have kids it’s hard to ever imagine a point in your life when you’ll have someone camped out on your lap when you’re using the toilet. That’s one of the things that the Mommy Sisterhood sort of neglects to tell you.
So let’s do a poll . . . who’s more annoying: Barnie or Elmo?

I just don’t feel like seeing the picture of that pedophile loving lunatic at the top of my site any more.

One of Michael Jackson’s supporters.

Note the sign. And the sequined glove.

What a freakin’ nutjob.

ETA: EWWWWWWWW . . . I didn’t even notice the creepy t-shirt before!

I was actually sort of bummed to see the girl team eliminated. When they stopped the kissy-kissy stuff, they were actually pretty spunky.
And could Rob be any more full of himself? If it’s not bad enough that he’s lying and cheating his way through the Race, he doesn’t shut up about how brilliant he thinks he is. What a tool.

Not only did I give Sam boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner, I gave him the cut-rate Wal-mart version. And I served it to him with . . . wait for it . . . canned peas. Although I did make the mac n’ cheese with organic milk, so that ought to be worth something.
And this after I’ve used disposable diapers, have never co-slept and weaned Sam when he was 14 months old.
If you don’t hear from me for awhile, it’s because the hippy-dippy Mother Superior crowd has lynched me and locked me up in Bad Mommy jail. They’re already after my ass because I did sleep training with Sam . . . the canned peas are just going to push them over the edge.