Man's Best Friend. Woman's Worst Enemy.

I lazily decided to leave the dog out of her crate last night. I had personally witnessed a huge poop session out in the yard an hour or so before going to bed; so, I thought, how much poop can one puppy make? She's been doing good about not messing in her room. I'm safe. Big mistake. Huge mistake. MONUMENTAL mistake, and let me emphasize the MENTAL part because that's what I must have been when I made that decision. In hindsight, of course, I was being truly stupid because I had forgotten about her escapade earlier in the day.

I had let her out to, yes, go poop, and left her loose. (Hey, I'm PMSing. It must be the stupid hormone raging through my system right now, whichever one that might be.) I was keeping a relatively close eye on her. One second in the yard, next second not. I started yelling for her. (Here's where those obedience lessons pay off.) Repeatedly. Finally, she comes with one of those maniacal I-just-found-something-awesome! dog looks on her face, with a string of saliva encircling her snout. I bring her in the house to praise her profusely for coming on the 20th call, and I get this whiff that only one word can perfectly describe. Putrid. I declare she needs to be bathed immediately, which, of course, even though I'm working (you know the you're-working-but-you're-not-really-working-because-you-work-from-home! clause) this task falls to me. Never mind she has just left a cloud of putridness in her wake in the kitchen and it is following her "Pigpen"-like everywhere she goes in the house. No, I'm the one that ultimately wanted the dog, so all these lovely dog tasks fall to me. Dave is the first, of course, to pronounce her a "GREAT DOG," though, when I start fantasizing about a dog-free home. He irritatingly does the same about our child. Whatever.

Now, to be fair, Dave was willing to bathe her. However, first he was going to lock her up in her room with all her bedding and toys for an indeterminate amount of time to "season," evidently, in true procrastinator fashion. (Okay, he was tired from getting home from work at midnight, but still...)

So with the knowledge that our sweet, sweet puppy ate an indeterminate amount of an "unaccustomed diet," I'm thinking after a 10-minute long poop session in the yard that she's pooped out for the night and safe to uncrate??? Yeah. Damn hormones.

Fast forward to this morning, getting ready to microwave my coffee at 7. The microwave is in "her" room. This itself speaks volumes about us as people--that we live in a house with 3 bedrooms, one of which is the dog's.

Now, when I walk into the room, even before I turn on the lights, it's the smell that hits me first; however, I still put my coffee in the microwave and start it. Hey, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm going to need the coffee. I flip on the lights, and there IT is in all its glory, with the perpetrator guiltily looking out from her crate. Oh, now you're in your crate.

Oh the horror! The humanity! The shit on my slippers. Excrement everywhere. It looked like a monkeys' cage. It's like during the night she sat there thinking (and I hear this with an English accent for some reason), "Hmmm. What special surprise can I cook up for Mummy tonight? What lovely display could I put on for her to wake up to? I'm thinking a lovely poop pastoral. A symphony of shit, only for the eyes and nose! A fecal Fantasia! Let's see, I'll use my tail for a brush and start poop painting!"

Now, I know from all the puppy books I've read that dogs never really do these things on purpose. That I'm sure she felt just as bad about it as I did. Yeah. Right. I think I saw a smirk on her little fluffy face as my body was convulsing, gagging back vomit. Let's see how Animal World/National Geographic/Jane Goodall you're feeling when YOU wake up to that. I'm sure if the gorillas had left a little surprise poop party in Jane's tent, she wouldn't have been feeling too generous with the bananas.

I should have taken Vaughn up on trading the dog in for a hermit crab. *sigh* Hey, maybe he's still interested!

Wine Appreciation 101 for 5 year olds

Vaughn is now in his second session of Tae Kwon Do, begrudgingly, with the carrot of Legos being dangled in front of him once again to entice him to behave himself and grin and bear it. These classes are costing me on average about $60 for 6 classes, figuring in the cost of Legos. Oh, but one day he'll say, "Mom, Dad, now that I'm Tae Kwon Do World Champion, I am so grateful to you for insisting that I stick with it, even though I hated every minute of it. I love you." Yeah, well, something like that. We finally forced him to wear the uniform. He looks wicked cute in it, but as he puts it "It embarrasses me." It isn't quite up to his fussy fashion standards. "It looks stupid." Yes, unlike the Spiderman goggle/mask and flipper hands you wear around the playground when you're not even swimming. Tres chic.

Anyway, this time he's the experienced one in the class for once, with the rest being filled with newbies. Evidently, there are 5 others besides him, 4 of those lemonade aficionados and 1 alky. Allow me to elucidate: The teacher demonstrates the knife cut (I believe it is officially called???), and while the hand is in the extended position, one should be able to place a cup on the palm and then, of course, drink from it. Ummm. Teacher has lemonade in his cup. Vaughn, what do you have? "Ooo, I have lemonade, too," and so follow the rest of the class, until we come to our resident preschool alcoholic in pajamas coming late to class (evidently hungover) yelling enthusiastically, "I have wine!"

I guess he'll hit the hard stuff in kindergarten.

My Crab "Dog"

"Mommy, I've decided what pet we're going to trade for a hermit crab."

"Oh?" This is news to me. Since when did he want a hermit crab?

"Yeah. Rainbow."

Okay. I'll play. Now, in my mommy wisdom I think if he wants to trade a pet, we're going to trade one that actually doesn't run the other direction when it sees him. That'll make him face reality.

"No, if we're going to get rid of a pet, it's going to be the dog."

"Pogisa? Okay."

Darn. Foiled again. Let's keep trying.

"I'll put an add on Craig's list right now. I'm sure there's another little boy who'd just love to have Pogisa."

"Okay! I can't wait to get a hermit crab!"

And the rest of the morning continues with him saying goodbye to the dog. Okay. You want to play that way. I'm going to teach this little ingrate a lesson--Mommystyle. I clandestinely call my cell phone with our home phone.

"Hello? Yes. Yes. She's about 7-8 months old. A really good dog. Uh-huh. Part Lab, part Whippet, part Shitzu. Black. Yes. She's been fixed and has all her shots. Today? Sure. I have to drop my son off at a class, but when I get back, you can pick her up around 1:45. Oh your little boy is going to love her. Really? Oh, his friends are going to be envious! Yep. We have a dog crate, bowls, leashes, the works! Thanks a lot. See you soon. Bye." Give that girl a Grammy!

"Mommy, who was that?"

"Oh, that was someone who's going to come get the dog."

"Today?"

Snap. Oh yeah.

"Yes. Today. When you come home, (dramatic pause) she'll be gone." Okay, ready the violins.

"They have a little boy?"

"Yes, and he's very excited to have a dog. He can't wait to get her."

"Is he coming?"

"Oh yes." Here it comes. Wait for it. Wait for it...

Dripping with disappointment "Ooooooo, why don't I get to see him? Why can't I be here to see the little boy." *in full whine mode*

What?!

"Because that's what works for them. THE DOG WILL BE GONE WHEN YOU GET HOME."

Whimpering, "Well, make sure you show him my room. Okay? And tell him my name."

"Yeah. Whatever." Okay. Did not see that coming. Obviously, I'm going to have to take this further. In the meantime...

"I'm going to miss you, girl, but we're getting a hermit crab! I can't wait to get a hermit crab. Mommy, can I get one or more? I'll keep it in a plastic bag at night in my bed, so it can sleep with me."

A la trouts. Now, I'm starting to get annoyed.

"Vaughn, you can't keep a hermit crab in a plastic bag in your bed."

"Why not?"


"Because it will suffocate and die. You can't sleep with hermit crabs. You can't pet hermit crabs, either."

"You can too! You can hold them and pet them."


"That's not petting. That's...touching. It's different." Blood pressure rising. "They're not a pet!"


"Well, I'd better play with you, girl, because after my class I won't be able to. Awww, girl. We're going to get a hermit crab! I can't wait. Mommy, when can be go to get the crab? After class?"

And so it continues. Meanwhile my blood is reaching the boiling point thinking how cavalierly my son is ready to trade in an animal we've had for all of 5 months, spent hundreds of dollars on, tons of time, and cleaned up millions of messes, all for a damn crustacean. I wrack my brain on ways I could arrange for the dog to temporarily disappear so the reality hits him when he comes back from his class, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pay more money on doggy daycare so Vaughn can learn a valuable lesson, and it's for this simple reason: I know in my heart that the only reaction I'd get after going through all my machinations is the minute Vaughn sees the dog gone the first words out of his mouth are going to be:

"Can we go get the hermit crab now?"

One point Vaughn. Zero for Mommy. I don't understand it. It always worked for the Bradys.

Fine Finned Friends

For Father's Day, Dave planned with his brother to take Vaughn fishing for the first time.

Now, it was some frustrated fisherman's bright inspiration to create these things called trout farms where little impatient kiddies could get their first taste of "real" fishing. The fish are practically jumping out of the water and landing in the boat, they are so easy to catch.

I remember the days when I'd go with my brothers, riding for hours in the backseat of a Bug on long windy roads, only to spend more hours "enjoying nature," waiting for the minutest of tugs on the line and then (only after it was pitch black. My brother is truly an optimist) to go home empty handed, with the exception of the multitude of mosquito bites as mementos of my Grand Fishing Adventure. *sigh* Those were the days.

Anyway, Vaughn was all excited about bringing the little trophies home to live because, you see, he was going to bring them back alive! None of this distasteful violent business of bashing in little fishie heads. No. He generously was volunteering to bring home these little orphan trouts to live in our 10-gallon fish tank, company for the goldfish. Thankfully, it is against state law to leave the fish farm with live catch (thank you State of Oregon!), but the fish farm does the distasteful business of executing the little buggers for you. They were also willing to clean, gut and behead them (Yes! Yes! So Mommies everywhere don't have to do this. Bless you.), but Dave decided it was a good compromise to leave the tail and head on for a more realistic effect. Since Vaughn couldn't bring them home alive, at least they'd look alive, except for the unblinking eyes that constantly stare at you accusingly--"Murderer!"

So it was that a very proud Vaughn came home after 15 minutes (okay that's an exaggeration, but not much) of fishing with 5 little trout in a gallon size Ziplock bag. Oh, they looked tasty. Little did I know that the trout saga had only begun. While I was planning recipes for these fresh juicy farmed fish, Vaughn was going to get his entertainment's worth out of these little guys. Fishing was only the beginning. We managed to initially wrest them out of his grubby little hands and deposit them in the freezer for frying the next day. However, not 20 minutes later, Vaughn is swinging them around, fish faces pressed tightly against the plastic, eyes bulging, telling me goodbye as he heads out to eat with Daddy and other assorted Hogues.

"Daddy said I can take them with me to the restaurant to show everybody!"

Say what?

"He did, did he?" Okay, this is the digital age. We could take a picture. This parenting thing would be so much easier if there were just one of us, and I'm volunteering to concede my role.

My mind is conjuring up images of half-frozen fish, basting in the warm sun in the van for untold hours while little microscopic anaerobes are multiplying at the rate of a hundred horny rabbits. So much for the fish feast.

"Okay. Whatever."

The next day...

"Where are my fish? I want to say good morning to them."

"They're in the freezer, but... Oh, forget it." Dave had still been holding out hope that the fish were still edible, so they had returned to their rightful place in the freezer. When it comes to food, that man is willing to literally risk his life.

Vaughn takes out what is now a great big fish ice cube. Oh, that's a problem.

"I want to hold one." Again?

"Well, they would have to be thawed out first."

"How do you do that?"

"You leave them out of the freezer and wait." I say this with clenched fists, eyes squeezed tight, teeth grinding, hoping against hope that this isn't that important and he'll decide to go torture the dog instead.

"Okay!" he chirps, and away he goes, spending the rest of the morning gallivanting around the house with the poor beleaguered fishcicle, happily showing it to the goldfish, the cats, the dog, waving his new found finned friends tauntingly in front of the animals' hungry eyes. Later adventures planned for the scaly chums were a "swim" in his kiddie pool (to speed the thawing process), followed by a good mud mask and consequent washing off in the bathroom sink. Vaughn was busying himself with all this fish recreation while I was outside, distracted with planting. I didn't fully realize what he was up to until I saw him happily trotting in and out of the house, conspicuously with fish in hand.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm washing the fish off. They're dirty. See? Look! They came apart."

It is at this point I realize he has successfully thawed the fish, and I seriously contemplate whether or not I should divulge this information to Dave before refreezing them. After all, he started this ride.

"You took those fish inside?"

"Yeah." Now, at this point the fish are starting to smell, well, fishy--that overpowering odor you get when passing the "iced" seafood section of your local discount grocery store.

I run in to see a lone trout laying, soaking on the bathroom sink counter. You can virtually see those little squiggly lines in cartoons wafting up from its bloated little body.

"Okay. No more fish in the house! They stay out here. FOREVER!"

Based on the look on Vaughn's face that followed, you would think I had just told him I don't love him, I've never loved him, and I'm dropping him off at the nearest foster home.

"But...*gulp*...how...*hiccup*...will...*tears*..they...*more tears*...get...*snort*...clean?" Now we're in full-on-heart-wrenching bawling mode. "They need to be clean!"

Now, I'm not sure when my son developed this obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness, but this is the first time it's manifested itself, believe me.

In the end, the fish were cleaned, with the hose--outside. They then found their final resting place in the freezer, where they are to this day until enough time has passed that I can safely dispose of them without the topic rearing its stinky little fish head.

Mommy Dearest Disorder (MDD)

I think I've figured out what Angelina Jolie does with this adoption thing. Most people go to a country and they want to bring a souvenir back to their homeland to remember their lovely trip and to also have something cultural in their home that signifies that they are world travelers, wandering the globe, picking up knickknacks here and there. Only with Angie, this little cultural souvenir happens to be human, a sort of baby bauble to bring home to Papa.

"Surprise! Look what I brought back from Taiwan as a memento from the movie I filmed there. You're a grandpa! Again."

I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't have a serious problem emerging here, besides the anorexia. (Speaking of that, Barbara Walters interviewed Paris in jail. Her quote from Paris was she was not screaming and crying, but she wasn't eating or sleeping, so pretty close to the way she was living her life before she went in, sans the booze. Oooooo. Might we be able to see her coccyx through the front of her dress now?. Well, at least something good will have come out of her ordeal.)

Back to skeletal Angie, she's looking remarkably articulated and energetic for a lab specimen, and in great spirits. Must be the speed she is on that helps her feel no need to eat and yet gives her tons of endless energy for her compulsive shopping for orphans. In normal charitable circles that means going out and buying shoes, coats, and other essentials the foster homes run low on. Nope, none of that prosaic shopping for Angie. That's way too vulgar for the socially aware Jolie. She lines the little kiddies up like Julie Andrews in Sound of Music. "Now, let's see we have a white one here, 2 yellow ones here, and 1 black one here. No, no. This is ALL wrong. Something is missing. It seems off balance somehow. You. Yes, you, Tax? No, oh right, Pax, move over here next to the incredibly gorgeous white baby girl. Yes. That's it. HHmmmmmm. I think I have it...We need another white baby. I'll bring one back with me after my trip from doing that movie in the Czech Republic."

I definitely think she suffers from an new emerging disorder in Hollywood that they will have a special place for in rehab in about 10 years. They'll call it the Joan Crawford Ward, a.k.a., Mommy Dearest Wing.

I noticed in the bradgeline latest outing promoting a movie Angie has starred in about Daniel Pearl (that should be interesting) that Angie was a shining, smiling bag of skin held together with very taut, sinuous muscles while Brad looked distracted to say the least. I'd seen this in other photos and put it off as just wanting some private time, but this was an official publicity promotion of her new movie that she starred in and he produced, one would think there would be a little more enthusiasm displayed.


"So, Brad, does Angie have anything special planned for you on Father's Day?"

Disgruntled and distracted Brad, "What?"

"Are you going to be doing anything special on Father's Day?"

A bleary-eyed, hassled, and disheveled Brad looks at the TV camera while nervously rubbing the back of his neck and says, "Nope. Just gettin' up with my kids. That's enough." Indeed. Evidently, he's had a lot of practice over the last few months while Angie was filming the movie. This was largely part of his "producer" duties. "He's a good boss...uh, and a GREAT dad!"

Ah, the joys of being a father. Hey Brad, can you ever have enough kids? Angie doesn't think so!

One last complaint about Hollywood mothers in general. This is how high they have now raised the bar for woman and gone into a territory they never should have entered. We hausfraus should have had this territory locked up:

First, it wasn't enough to not gain any more than 40 pounds with your pregnancy, then you had to wear sprayed on clothing to emphasize that it's ALL BABY! I was okay with that. I gained a reasonable amount during my pregnancy, unfortunately the majority of it all Ben&Jerry's and donuts. But no. That wasn't enough. Then we were required to come sprinting out of the delivery room 2 minutes after having plopped out our bundle of joy wearing the size 2 we wore before we even dreamed of getting pregnant. Now you have to wear sprayed on clothing that shows right up until you delivery that sweet little baby bump and nothing else. Your thighs and arms are still the size of sticks. Your butt still has it's lovely lifted rounded pertness, but your boobs have gained 2-3 cups and they're deliciously plump. Evidently all the fat in the body has miraculous self-contained itself to your boobs. When it's all over and your posing for your celebrity photos with baby, you have the luscious-still-breastfeeding boobs, but they look like they've been pasted on the body of some donated university cadaver.

Note: I understand Angie has been grieving her mother's death and that "I just finished breastfeeding and am having trouble getting my nutrition back on track." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't your nutrition have been on track while you were breastfeeding? And, I don't know about you, but while I was breastfeeding I was eating for two. That's where my troubles began. I had a voracious appetite and no matter what I did, couldn't seem to lose that lovely extra fat insurance that your body stores for the baby in just about every other area but your breasts.

Here's a tip Ang, eat lots of Ben and Jerry's and you should have no trouble getting your figure back. Carrots and celery just doesn't pack on the pounds like you'd think.

The 80s Are Back!!!

My 15?-year-old niece at her high school "retro" 80s party. Oh my God. I cannot believe I have reached an age when my teen years are "coming back." Depressing. The only thing more depressing is the fashion from that era coming back and the idea that it's worth reviving.

I'm not sure what is more pathetic--that I dressed that hideously when I was 15 or now in my 30s I am once again buying leggings and flashdance tops, but I'll be damned if you'll see me with a sideways ponytail. However, in the off chance you do, just slap my head and call me silly.

PERSONAL

Okay, I just did something really stupid. I was so pleased with my previous post that I brilliantly thought I would share it with family and friends. So what did I do? I cut and paste it into an e-mail and sent it out in a group mailing. Cut and paste. Yep. The old C&P.

The beloved cut and paste, by friend, has betrayed me. As I'm passing this information along to Dave and forcing him to read a print out of my group e-mail, including to my parents, he says,

"You put this on your blog?"

"Yeah, but nobody reads my blog and I needed a bigger platform for my brilliant and scathing exposition (today's word of the day) on the latest Paris Hilton update, so I decided the best way to share it was to e-mail it."

"You didn't want to just send them a link to your blog?"

"Noooo. I don't want any of my family and friends reading my blog, especially if I'm going to get personal." (Duh.)

"Well, you know it's bound to reach them sometime."

"Ha! Possible but not probable." (I'm incredibly eloquent today. It's that time of the month.)

It suddenly dawns on me that the title in the body of the e-mail I sent out (Rich Bitch Syndrome) is the damn hyperlink to my blog, not just pretty green font. Great. Unfortunately, there is no way to correct this predicament without freezing my blog so essentially no one can read it but me, and as much as I enjoy onanism (yeah, that's right, you lazy butt. Yesterday's word of the day. Look it up, and I'm referring to the first definition, not the second. God, no, not the second. I mean, what would be the fun in that? Anyway, I digress...) it's much more fun with spectators and preferably strangers *heh, heh, heh* (yeah creepy, I know, and yet I still write it knowing my mom quite possibly could be reading this. Ugh! What's wrong with me?!)

Anyway, to any family or friends that may have meandered their way over here through the hyperlink in the e-mail:

STOP. STOP NOW! FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP. There is nothing to see here. Nothing interesting at all. Just close the window, delete this link, and pretend you never saw it. Back away slowly from the computer and just walk away, NOW. If you love me, if you truly, truly love me, you WILL do this.

Rich Bitch Syndrome

A few things:

First: Poverty does not cause people to commit acts of crime. Lack of values does.

Second: Entitlement is not just for the underprivileged.

Paris Hilton Is Ordered Back to Jail
By MARIA NEWMAN
Published: June 8, 2007
A judge today ordered a tearful (oh boo-hoo! I feel for ya, Par, I really, really do.) Paris Hilton back to jail, reversing a decision by the Los Angeles County sheriff to release her and keep her under house arrest after she had served only five days of a 45-day sentence.

Okay, first of all, by what authority does the Los Angeles sheriff override a prosecutor and a judge's sentencing? I read an article earlier today when Paris was first released quoting some yahoo in the Los Angeles "judicial system" stating that cutting sentences short like this and releasing people early was not unique to Paris. Because of overcrowding, the county jail released people all the time.

Really?! Because if that's so, why not bypass the court system all together. Let's just take a page from the mental health/medical system. Here's the scenario:

Cops intervene in a rape/robbery/assault/what have you. They call the admitting desk at the local county jail and ask if there are any current spaces open. The admitting desk clerk states that currently there is a 30-day-plus wait. The cops page a triage legal assistant from the DA's office. (There would be several of these available on an on-call basis.) Several hours later, the triage legal assistant arrives and interviews the perps (yeah, I'm down like that with legal lingo). They take into consideration the following in their evaluation:

1. How serious were the perps in executing their plan and did they succeed?

2. Were there any obvious victims, i.e., someone dead or seriously maimed?

3. Was it planned in advance?

4. Were they under the influence of an unnatural substance, something beyond Red Bull.

5. Do they have a record? (or maybe that isn't really relevant)

6. Are they poor/rich/celebrity/fat/minority/etc. (This would count in the perps favor.)

7. Was their mother/father/brother/aunt/uncle/sibling/priest/rabbi/pastor mean to them or molest them in any way, shape or form? In Paris's case, this could include her parents denying her a convertible until the age of 12.

8. Are they really sorry, or at least say they are, and/or do they accept the Lord Jesus/Allah/Krishna/Joseph Smith/or some facsimile of a religion (Al Gorism counts)?

After having input this information into a handy-dandy computerized sentence evaluator on their Blackberry, an estimated sentence is calculated by the software. If the sentence is estimated to be twice the amount of the wait time, then the cops can then proceed to the nearest county jail and then they can go through the traditional judicial system.

Unless, of course, you're a celebrity, in which case all of the above is moot.

Superior Court Judge Michael T. Sauer said that Ms. Hilton will have to serve the entire sentence he had handed down last month for repeatedly violating the terms of her probation on alcohol-related reckless driving charges stemming from an incident last year. (What a novel idea. Serving your entire sentence! Wow. What will they think of next?)

As Ms. Hilton was led away to await her trip back to jail (I wonder if they'll do a cavity search. There's no telling what she might have up her ass), she turned to her parents and said, "It’s not right!" (You're damn right it's not right. It's not right that you're back in court after having only served 5 days of your sentence. It's not right that your parents are so rich and influential that they can buy off anyone that crosses you, including the judicial system. It's not right that someone like you has come to believe your own press--that you're special and the usual nasty legal implications of actions don't apply to you.) The Associated Press reported.

The hearing had been delayed for more than an hour after Ms. Hilton and her lawyers insisted that she be allowed to talk to the judge by telephone, instead of appearing in person. (Indeed? Why bother making a trip to the court, when I'm only going to end up back here at home, right? Waste of gas. I'm environmentally conscious that way. I just hope I can be an inspiration for young people everywhere.) The judge would not allow it, and ordered a sheriff’s deputy to drive to Ms. Hilton’s mansion in the Hollywood Hills, where she was handcuffed and brought in. (Oh, to be the proverbial fly...)

As Ms. Hilton was driven back to court, her trip followed by news helicopters, she cried in the back seat of the police cruiser. When she entered the courtroom, where her parents were also waiting, she broke down and sobbed. (Again, boohoo. Wow, contrast this with her press announcement after the award show. What happened to the brave face, Par? Hmmmmm?? No deal waiting in the wings? )

Sheriff Lee Baca set off a furor in legal circles and beyond when his office announced on Thursday that Ms. Hilton would be allowed out of jail and instead put under house arrest because of an unspecified “medical condition.” (I have inside information that she has a serious case of Rich Bitch Syndrome "RBS". Highly contagious among millionairesses--more serious the bigger the bank account. Can be terminal when net worth reaches the billions. There is currently no known cure. Once infected, there is no antidote. Unfortunately for Paris, her case was genetic. She can't help it. She was born into it. It could have been prevented if her parents had taken the appropriate measures soon enough, but as in most genetic cases, it is often too late once it is diagnosed. Her case was further complicated by inexplicable celebrity. Tsk, tsk.)

The city attorney whose office prosecuted her case, Rocky Delgadillo, said it was a case of preferential treatment for a celebrity. (Ya think?) He asked the judge to order Ms. Hilton back to jail and asked the sheriff’s department to show why it should not be held in contempt of court for letting her go in the first place. (Well, that ought to be good. Do you think a precipitous 6-digit rise in the sheriff's bank account is sufficient reason? And, no, there is no decimal, only comma. Beautiful, beautiful comma. It's like winning the jail lottery!)

“We cannot tolerate a two-tiered jail system where the rich and powerful receive special treatment,” Mr. Delgadillo said after learning of the release. (Here, here. Bully, bully. *clearing of throat*)

Officials had said Ms. Hilton, a hotel heiress and cable television star, (about time you should have to pay to see "Simple Life." Hey, Paris, look up! You could do a sequel sans Nicole. "Simple Prison Life." See--you can do this! After all, prison is just "a simple life," right? Just pretend there are cameras, muck it up, and play dumb or be dumb or whatever that dumb thing is that you do) would probably spend only about 23 days behind bars because of automatic credits for good behavior (Ah yes, the well known good-behavior-automatic credits, riiiigghhtttt), but prosecutors had not expected her to serve only five days. (Huh. Fancy that.)

Najee Ali, a community activist in South Los Angeles who heads Project Islamic Hope, said he was disappointed in the sheriff’s decision. (Disappointed? I'm disappointed when my dog barfs on my shoes. This? This was not disappointment.)

“It’s shocking that we’re living in a star struck judicial system,” he said. “Sheriff Baca caved in to the star power, the celebrity and wealth of the Hilton family. What happened is unprecedented. (OJ Simpson anyone?)

“There are hundreds and perhaps thousands of inmates in Los Angeles County jails who have much more serious illnesses like AIDs, heart problems and they have never been released to go home.” (Oh, you silly, innocent immigrant. You don't understand. Nothing is as serious as RBS--Nothing.)

The county supervisor, Don Knabe, told The Associated Press: “What transpired here is outrageous.” He said he received more than 400 angry e-mails and hundreds more phone calls from around the country. Ms. Hilton’s return home gives the impression of “celebrity justice being handed out,” he said. (I just don't see how you can make that conclusion based on the facts.)

City attorney spokesman Nick Velasquez said earlier Thursday that the office had been “inundated with calls and emails from people,” with “100 percent of them” angry (What? 100 percent? Not 99.9 or 99.98 or 99.999?) about Hilton’s release.

Mr. Delgadillo said that no one had shown that Ms. Hilton suffered from any malady that could not be treated while she was serving her sentence. “Los Angeles County Jail medical facilities are well-equipped to deal with medical situations involving inmates,” he added. (You don't understand!!!! This is RBS we're talking about. You don't have the capacity to treat this kind of malady! You just don't!!!! You just don't! You...just.. don't... *sob*)

Meanwhile, sheriff’s department spokesman Steve Whitmore told KNBC-TV that the contempt accusation “appears to be another Rocky Delgadillo press stunt.” (Yea. Obviously. What a bozo suggestion you should be held in contempt. Please.)

“We’ve examined documents (passport) and will respond accordingly in court,” he said. (Yeah, court--as in the court-yard of my hotel in a beautiful tropical area with a fun name like...Tahiti!)

But even within the sheriff’s department, others disagreed. (*sigh* Some people will just not listen to reason.) Steve Remige, president of the Association of Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriffs, told KNBC that the system definitely worked in Ms. Hilton’s favor. (Wow. It's just amazing how they always manage to come up with the obvious.)

“It appears that in Los Angeles County, if you are a wealthy individual or famous individual, that you are getting preferential treatment in the county jail system, in the county criminal system,” Remige said. (Yes. It appears. We've never seen anything quite like this before in Los Angeles. It is truly an anomaly.)

The news about Ms. Hilton dominated news coverage today. At CNN, the news was breaking during the cable news network’s daily CNN International news hour. The Paris story led the show after one commercial break, coming even before updates on the G8 Summit and Italy’s Rendition Trial.

“It’s the kind of day where we’ll always have Paris,” Stephen Frazier, one of the anchors, said, trying for a wry delivery.

I don't generally make a habit of commenting on or paying (much) attention to celebrities and their naughty escapades, but this just goes beyond your common celebrity gossip. There are just so many things wrong with this story I can't begin to comment. Suffice it to say, I am disgusted with our justice system in general and this was just one more straw.

Inspiration

I started getting that weird inner restless feeling lately and realized it's been quite some time since I've read something other than a how-to or self-improvement book. So I just got from the libary what is turning out to be a lovely book. I don't know if it'll end up on my recommended list, but it is witty enough that I find it inspiring and a good chuckle. "We're Just Like You--Only Prettier." Written from a "Southern Belle's" perspective, they're little essays of just observing the eccentrities of Southern life and life in general. It's only made me laugh out loud once, but I'm only on the third essay.

I do have one little criticism, though, and it isn't unique to this book but an observation of my own. Why must Democrats/Liberals/Leftists always end up in one way or another bashing those they don't agree with? I'm getting to the point of feeling that if it's a left-leaning person writing a food review, I expect them to somehow politisize it and use it as an opportunity to slam a Republican/Christian/Bush. "The beet tartar was divine, and I devoured it as if it were a Bush-loving Christian Republican slathered in honey, bound and dropped on a fire ant hill, savoring each writhing and shrieking bite until the end." You get the general idea. I have always found it fascinating that my liberal leaning friends can send e-mails and make comments that are basically insulting my intelligence and questioning my moral integrity, yet they still want to hang out with me. I'm a dumb slimy snake but make good company, evidently.

I, on the other hand, am acutely aware of who my liberal friends are and purposely stay away from any topic remotely close to politics, although that's a real challenge because it seems that everything is somehow connected to politics, even tampons.

"Are those fair trade tampons?"

"Um, I'm not sure, let me pull it out and check, k?"

I'm also amused by the fact that these incredibly judgmental people are so "tolerant." That's quite a balancing act. Bush is the Devil and should die a slow painful death, but Sadam had a bad childhood, and we must understand where he's coming from and what made him do what he did, cause we know down deep he's a really good person. He was a baby once, just like you. Bush, on the other hand, is the Devil's spawn--pure and simple. Ah yes, let us not forget that they are also not concrete like those idiot Republicans. Nothing is ever just black and white. Life is just too complex. It's all various shades of gray. However, Bush is evil and must die. That is not gray.

Phantom Voices

One interesting thing I've discovered about parenting is this weird phenomenon of hearing echos of your child calling for you. I wonder if that lasts for as long as you are a parent (or for that matter, even after. Maybe it's worse when you lose a child)? It used to be, obviously, phantom cries. Actually, earlier than that, in the first year or so, it was phantom kicks. Yeah, very odd. I would actually feel him kicking inside me, even though I was looking right at him very much on the outside of me.

Later it was the phantom cries, usually late at night, of course, when you are just starting to relax and you're almost positive he's finally asleep, which, as it turns out, he is.

Now, it's him calling out "Mommy." I just heard it this morning. It's 6 in the morning and I was pretty sure he was asleep, and yet, there it was, very faintly, sleepily, "Mommy is that you?" I checked on him, and low and behold, fast asleep. Weird.