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Welcome MSNBC.com Readers

...just how Desperate are you?

wisteriaing at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

Driving Home

It's nine hours from my new home to the old one, and perhaps it spoke to driving exhaustion that this time I didn't start crying until we drove past the new Reds stadium-- lights on, letters alongside the side wall full blaze.

"Looks like there's a game going on," said Josh The Pilot.

I blew my nose. "Yeah, we do that here."

on the road at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Bachelor Party

Here's the great thing about The Bachelor: You can not watch an entire season, tune in only for the finale, and still come away totally caught up and with the great, great need to shower. Skank-o-Vision will never let you down.

I was in my office battling a mighty e-Stack last night (direct student quote: "In teh book the author, talks about many things which have been recorded in the long history of time") and needed the intellectual lift The Bachelor would provide as the kiddies failed, failed, failed.

One of the final two contestants was an actress, and the other was--are you ready? are you ready for this?--a pharmaceutical sales representative, which is apparently the Official Industry of The Bachelor. There have been enough pharmaceutical sales representatives on this show to sink a RiteAid, and I want to see it bust out a mortician or a lumberjack. Once. Just once.

The Bachelor, who has a British accent, which makes him automatically intelligent, chose the actress and her roots over the suitcase of Zoloft. The girl he dumped was wearing a dress which somehow simultaneously consisted of ninety billion yards of material and yet totally exposed her downstairs lady parts. She and The Bachelor took a mega-dreamy stroll by the sea, one of her arms draped in his, the other clamping her dress together so as not to provide America's first pixellated Final Rose Ceremony. It was, truly, every little girl's dream.

She knew what was coming the second he took her hands and said, "Thank you!" Because... yeah. And she was on track to one of the classiest exits the show has ever seen, simply providing the requisite tearing up and downcast eyes, and she practically had one foot in the Limo of Despondency, and then... "She was the falsest person here! And to think that I was up against her..." Oh, ohhhhhh! So close. Claws back into the bags of complimentary Paxil pens and Avodart clipboards, dearie.

The winner, sponsored by peroxide, and her dress, which was also determined to announce to the world whether or not her bikini waxer missed a spot, rolled up. It was, just as the promos promised, the Most. Romantic. Proposal. EVER.

"Monkey," he said, "will you marry me?"

I went downstairs to talk to my husband. He was watching cars go in a circle and mash into each other.

"Thank you for not referring to me as a primate prone to rubella infections when you proposed, " I said.

"Okay," he said.

It was the Most. Romantic. Evening of Grading. Ever.

will you take this bag of thorns at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com


Eight Steps

Max is the cousin of Jim The Small Child Nephew's and Will The Baby Nephew. He has arthrogryposis, a deformity of the joints which forces his body into odd, painful angles.

When he was conceived and the syndrome discovered, the doctors told his mother to end the pregnancy. His father said, "I will carry that kid around on my back for the rest of my life if I have to."

When he was born, his hands and feet were clubbed and a recessed jaw left him unable to suck from a bottle. The experts decided that perhaps he might be able to walk one day. Maybe.

When he was a year old, his mother died. He dragged himself across the floor by the arms to get where he was going.

When he was one and a half years old, he had serious surgery which left him in tiny casts. He rolled to get where he was going.

When he was two, the physical therapist added heavy braces to his legs. He clung to furniture to get where he was going.

Yesterday, the braces cast aside, he walked eight steps across the middle of his grandparents' living room to get where he was going.

May this help you tired moms out there get you where you're going. Happy Mother's Day.


The Air Up There

One of the major benefits of living in the DC area is the ability to at-will go stand next to a massive scale model of the space shuttle at the National Air and Space Museum.

It makes me feel skinny.

Standing next to C3PO, not so much. Very low body fat on the 3ster.

You will also notice that I'm seen with a different male of the species in each photograph. That's how life rolls at the NASM. Swingin' crowd.

For instance, this was this biggest clot of people I saw all day. What was the attraction? A bit of moon rock, perhaps? Vintage Mercury ware? The command module of Apollo 11?

...Or... Seinfeld's puffy shirt, on loan from the under-renovation American History Museum.

Well then. Let us repair to the gift shop! Surely there's some seriously space-minded material in there.

...or...not. If anyone ever sees an actual astronaut holding this in a non-ironic fashion, please contact me immediately.

FINE. I'll just go to the children's section. Doubtless studious, wide-eyed children are sitting quietly as the space program is presented in a respectful, forward-thinking manner.





...the parents, at least, can't be counted upon. Because I know that's the first thing l always think when confronted by a large vat of glass: "Wouldn't it be great to hurl Will The Baby Nephew in here! Small children and tiny breakable objects are always a magic mix!"


your tax dollars at work at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com