Just how cheap am I? Find out in my blog over at the Literary Chicks.

Think you’ve had a shitty day? James Frey’s was even worse.
The AP story opines that, “Frey’s career will likely never recover.” Yeah, well. Frey’s book is currently number five on Amazon’s bestseller list. Something tells me he’ll pull through just fine.

Food poisoning. Yes, that’s right: food poisoning.
Just pick up a little salmonella poisoning, and throw up for twelve hours straight. Spend another twelve hours lying prone in bed, unable to move, let alone eat.
Very effective strategy . . . although not for the faint-hearted.

Check out my weekly blog over at Literary Chicks, where I tell all about my brush with one of Satan’s minions.

So I was quite smugly feeling like a Mother Superior for baking homemade carrot muffins for Sam’s playgroup this morning.
Yeah, well. That lasted right up until the moment when one of the little boys took a bite, then promptly spit the half-chewed muffin back into his hand.
“Gross,” he said. “I don’t like this.”
Jesus. Everyone’s a critic.

Speaking of diet pitfalls, it seems that there’s always something around to tempt me.

Last month, it was Starbucks Peppermint Mocha Lattes. Have you tried one of these? It’s like heaven in a cup. So if anyone ever starts complaining about how Starbucks is taking over the world, the homogenization of America, blah, blah, blah, all you have to say is, “Starbucks Peppermint Mocha Lattes,” and that should shut them up. If they have a soul.

(By the way, while Peppermint Mocha Lattes are a holiday item, you can still get one off-season by asking your barrista to add a shot of peppermint to a Mocha Latte. Warning: they’re very addictive. And not inexpensive.)

My newest temptation is the Hershey’s Peanut Butter Kiss. I hadn’t even heard of those suckers until last night, when I saw a commercial for them.

“Oh. My. God. Hershey kisses with peanut butter in the middle,” I marveled.

“I’ve had one. They’re really good,” George said.

“When did you have one?” I demanded. “Where? Why didn’t you get one for me?”

Twenty minutes later, George returned from Walgreens with a bag of the new Kisses, which are indeed so good, I made him stash them in the trunk of his car, so that I won’t go on a mad Kiss binge in the middle of the day.

I’m feeling very Martha-esque today. I’m the snack mom for Sam’s play group tomorrow, so I just whipped up a batch of carrot muffins for the tots. Yum!
Note to self: having freshly baked muffins in the house when you have to lose 5 pounds in 10 days is counterproductive.

In less than two weeks, I’m going to a ball. Yup, a real ball, just like Cinderella (minus the royals, and the evil stepsisters, and the fairy godmother, and the pumpkin-turning-into-a-carriage trick).
But, like Cinderella, I need a dress. And since no one is bippity-boppity-booing one up for me, I’ve been shopping.
A lot.
Last week, I ordered three dresses from Bluefly.com. The dresses looked pretty on the skinny headless mannequin in the photos, but then everything looks good on her. I have no idea if they’ll fit me, or even if they’ll arrive in time for the ball.
So, this weekend my mom and I made the pilgrimage down to that holiest of holy places — Bloomingdales — where I purchased two more dresses. These dresses — one a short, tight strapless lacy number, the other an eggplant/brown halter dress with a swooping bejeweled neckline — both looked great in the store. But then I tried them on at home, and . . . not so great.
Now the little lace one — which I swear fit in the store — won’t zip up. And, yes, I did buy it in a size smaller than what I’m currently wearing, in the off chance that I’ll be able to do in less than two weeks, what I have not done in the past two-and-a-half years: lose all of my baby weight. (Or at least five pounds of it . . . that and some tummy-sucking Bridget Jones panties should allow me to shoehorn myself into the dress.)
And the halter dress, which looked so flattering when I tried it on at the store, was anything but when I got it home.
“It just doesn’t do anything for you,” George said. “Especially the way it falls on your, um, hips.”
Clearly, that dress now needs to be burned. Or returned. Or both.
I’m hoping that one of the dresses I bought online will work, but if they don’t, I’m in trouble. In fact, there’s a very definite possibility I’ll have five dresses, and nothing to wear . . .
For all her bitching and moaning, Cinderella didn’t have that problem. Plus she had singing mice who did her housework for her.

“Don’t hang out with the parents of little girls,” our pediatrician advised. “They’ll make you think that your little boy is stupid.”
Wise advice. Because while little boys are wonderful, it’s true that little girls are usually more verbally advanced.
For example, yesterday I took Sam to the park. There was a little girl, Emma, there with her dad. Emma was only a few months older than Sam, and yet . . . she sounded a whole lot different.
“Daddy, I want to go higher,” she told her father, as he pushed her on the swing. “But not too high. Just high enough.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “She has a great vocabulary.”
“Yes,” Emma’s dad said proudly. “She was an early talker. Although . . . she talks a lot. All day long. She doesn’t really ever stop.” He sounded a bit weary. “Is Sam talking?”
“Um. No. Not that much,” I said. “But he can climb up onto the kitchen table and grab onto the overhead pendant light. I’ve found him swinging there, like a little blonde monkey.”
“Daddy, what kind of a bird is that? Is it a crane?” Emma asked, pointing at the elegant bird that was flying over the intracoastal waterway.
“Bird!” Sam said excitedly. “Bird! Cloud! Bird!”
I did a mental eye-roll.
“He said ‘bird,’” Emma’s dad said, throwing me a bone.
“Moon! Train!” Sam said happily, as I pushed him on the swing. This might have been more impressive if there were any moons or trains in sight. But, in fact, there were not. Sam is just obsessed with moons and trains.
“What did he say?” Emma’s dad asked.
“Erm, nothing,” I said. “Did I mention that Sam knows his alphabet? The entire alphabet?”

I’m doing my best Carole King impression over at Literary Chicks today. Find out how I feel about prep schools, Scotsmen and the chances of my ever again appearing in public in a bikini.