My mother and I took Sam to the beach today. En route, we saw this mailbox:

“Is it just me, or does it look like the smaller manatee is performing fellatio on the larger manatee?” I asked.

“Ack! Do you think that’s what it’s supposed to be?” my mom asked.

“No. It’s probably supposed to be a mother and baby. But it just looks a little . . . off.”

“Maybe it’s just the angle we’re approaching it from,” she said.

“Is it fellating or fellatiating?” I pondered.

“I don’t know. Look it up in the dictionary,” replies my mother, the English teacher.

So I did: it’s fellate, or fellating. As I learned from Schoolhouse Rock, knowledge is power.

Living in Florida, I don’t know if 100+ temperatures for three straight months qualifies as a heat wave — here they just call it “weather” — but here goes nothing.
Top Five Things I Like About Hot Weather
(1) Paddling in the pool. Not piddling . . . paddling.
(2) G&T’s. With extra lime.
(3) Ice cream isn’t an indulgence, it’s a necessity (also one of the few things I liked about pregnancy).
(4) If I had a boat, I could go boating.
(5) I can sing, “We’re having a heat wave . . . a tropical heat wave,” without being ironic.
Top Five Things I Hate About Hot Weather
(1) Walking from Target to my car nearly causes me to pass out from heat exhaustion.
(2) Our monthly power bill is roughly equal to the annual budget of a small industrialized country.
(3) The tacky, gummy sensation of sunscreen residue.
(4) Trying to explain to a toddler determined on backyard water fun that he can not hose down mommy, because mommies can melt just like the Wicked Witch from the West.
(5) Heat rash.

I’m the proud owner of a new Ipod. I feel so hip.
Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing those jeans that show off your ass crack and sporting a butterfly tattoo on my lower back.
Then again, maybe not.

I just got carded at the liquor store.
Me: Who, me? Really? Thank you! You just made my day.
Clerk: Um, I still need to see your ID.
Me: How old do you think I look?
Clerk: We card everyone under 40.
Me: Oh. Well. That’s somewhat less flattering.

OK, I don’t know anything sports — basketball or otherwise — but if you ask me, the Harlem Globe Trotters circa 1978 could kick some serious NBA ass.
What chance would Michael Jordan or any other quote-serious-unquote professional player have against a guy who can run the full court while twirling a ball over his head, dribble the ball between your legs making you look like an idiot, and then nail a basket from the half-court line?
Zero chance.

I’ve always liked the word swell.
Swell.
It’s a good word. It’s sassy and optimistic, yet has a certain vintage charm.
Why don’t we use it anymore? In a culture where we’re obsessed with recapturing the past, where we swill martinis and swing dance (or, at least, admire the Gap commercials where they use swing dancers) and snap up the vintage push button phones that Pottery Barn sells, why aren’t we also embracing the language of a bygone era?
Such as:
That’s swell.
Or:

I think you’re swell, kid.
See? It’s a good word. Better than cheesy, which my generation is credited with for bringing into general usage. Better than bitchin’. Better than gnarly.
Swell.
Try it out. You’ll like it.

Sam and I are back from a nice visit to Syracuse. The grandparents spoiled him, I managed to go four straight days without doing any work, we saw lions and elephants at the zoo. All good stuff.
But I do have a special message for the man who was sitting in front of me on the Charlotte to Syracuse leg of our flight: When you’re the one who jostles my kid awake from his nap, don’t glare at me when he spends the rest of the flight screaming. You’re just lucky I didn’t make you hold him.

Top Five Things I Hate About Airplane Travel:
(1) Lying awake the night before, wondering if the fact that I’m nervous is a sign that the plane is going to crash;
(2) Having to hold a frustrated, squirming toddler in my arms for three hours while everyone glares at me;
(3) The odor of farts being recycled through the cabin;
(4) That my pens always burst;
(5) That there are no changing tables in the plane bathroom, and yet the flight attendants yell at you if you change your kid on your lap. Even if it’s just a completely inoffensive tinkle diaper.
Top Five Things I Like About Airplane Travel:
(1) Nothing;
(2) Nothing;
(3) Nothing;
(4) Nothing;
(5) Those little bottles of wine.

Top Five Things I Like About Suburban Living:
(1) Hanging out in the back yard (when it’s not 100 degrees out, that is);
(2) Cool outdoor patio sets like this one that I’ve had my eye on;
(3) Gardens full bougainvillea and plumbago and other pretty, pretty flowers;
(4) Friendly neighbors;
(5) The Dunkin Donuts Drive-Through.
Top Five Things I Hate About Suburban Living:
(1) Crotchety, sourpuss neighbors who make disparaging comments about the state of your lawn and/or refuse to do the friendly wave thing when you pass by one another;
(2) The assholes who let their dogs roam free and/or shit on your lawn;
(3) Lawnwork, especially having to clean up dog shit;
(4) Basketball hoops (Did Hemingway have to write with the constant thunk-thunk-thunk of the neighberhood pick-up game? No, he did not.);
(5) Latenight fireworks. Especially those set off by drunken idiots, and that go on for so long you’re forced to dispatch the police.

Top Five Things I Would Like To (But Will Not) Be Doing This Weekend:
(1) Have dinner at Arthur’s Dockside Restaurant, where they have amazing crabcakes and a pretty view of the water;
(2) Find a mint condition vintage Arco Floor Lamp at the local thrift store;
(3) Spend Sunday afternoon wandering around the Norton Museum in West Palm;
(4) Take sunset photographs of Sam at the beach;
(5) Watch the baby turtles hatch and run to the ocean.
Top Five Things I Will Actually Be Doing This Weekend:
(1) Paint our bedroom;
(2) Wait in line at the Home Depot;
(3) Yardwork;
(4) Go to the library, where I will attempt to get my library card out of hock;
(5) Watch Bride and Prejudice, which — for reaons I don’t fully understand — I’d put at the top of my Netflix Queue.