I want my MTV

You know, there is something really wonderful about MTV. Just when you think good TV is over for the summer and all the season finales have occured, you get little gems like The Hills, a Laguna Beach two-day marathon, and, on its sister station, the wedding between our next top model, and a former Brady.

Yes, I am a product of the 80s and 90s and have an unnatural love of all things Real World, I admit it. In fact, I may have a problem. It's true, I did watch that crappy show about the former O-Towner, Ashley Parker Angel and have indulged in season after season of Road Rules-Real World challenges. I will even go so far as to say I have watched nearly every episode of Making the Band.

I've seen countless cat fights, akward reunions, horrific hookups and could probably win any game show category, so long as it references a show on music television. And, just when we think we've sunk too low, that it's time for us to move on (after all, folks, we are nearing 30), they reel us back in by Rocking the Vote and taking a stand for things that are "real."

They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a program. But if watching MTV is bad, I don't wanna be good.

In Which I am a Gardner

I have been a farmer as of late. My crop? Zinnias. I'm a bit obsessed with them, have a huge love of cut flowers and have begun searching the internet for obscure varieties. I'm fairly certain this is the white-trash version of orchid growing.

However, rain or shine, I've been tromping out to the back 40 (read: garden) to check on my tiny little seeds to see how they are doing. Yesterday, success! They have popped up and I am feeling quite proud.

Perhaps this is my biological clock ticking, but I have a sudden urge to nest and see thing grow. To whit, I've been planting like a dervish and redoing a series of dining room chairs found for $5 each during a recent trip to Purdue salvage.

I'm sure my grandmother would say the only thing I really need is a good man to cook for. What I really need, though, is a good man to cook for me and carry the mulch.

Parents just don't understand

I just returned from my brother's soccer game. Which was interrupted, first by an injured player and then by a set of dads from the game going on behind us.

Apparently, these three middle aged men who look like their most recent athletic event was the remote Control Challenge, are experts in the game of football, or soccer, as we crazy Americans call it. They must have been because they certainly had opinions on every aspect of the game, who should be doing what, how number 15 was inappropriately shoving and what the ref should do with certain unmentionable parts of his anatomy.

Note to self, when I become a parent, if I should ever become a part, I will not act like I know everything about a sport that I really know nothing about.

Move Over Lifetime, ABC Family is Kicking Your A%&

Well, it was a wonderful, deliciously boring rainy cold weekend filled with inordinate amounts of naps, wearing fat pants and, yes, cheesy chick TV. Friend Jeanne introduced me to "Lucky 7," perhaps the best made-for-TV movie ever (well, second best, She Cried No with Candace Cameron and Zach from Saved by the Bell has the first place in my heart).

In case you were unaware, this little gem is stars Kimberly Williams and Dr. McDreamy himself, Patrick Dempsey. In a crazy twist, she meets the perfect guy (or so we think!), but is unable to commit because he is not Number 7 (which has been predetermined by her deceased mom). So, naturally, she decides to make McDreamy number 6...but...wait for it...he turns out to be 7 after all. I know, it's just too much for you to wrap your head around.

I hate to say it, but Lifetime has just lost a loyal viewer. I believe I will be turning to ABC Family for my rainy-day fixes. No more Victoria Principal or Kellie Martin. Well, let's not be rash. They will just be second on the list.

ET Phone Home

There's been a bit of a disaster in my technological world lately. A few weeks ago, during my un-exciting trip to Boulder, I dropped my cell phone. Now, I've dropped my phone numerous times in parking lots, in meetings, even in the middle of the street once, but apparently the hard floor of the Denver airport sent my little Motorola V180 over the edge.

The hinge in the flipper is broken on one side, so it tends to disengage, cause an unnatural separation between the top and the bottom with a tiny wire umbilical cord remaining to hold the two halves together. So, talking on the phone now takes two hands, a large amount of dexterity and a degree of patience I just don't have.

Upgrade, you say. Well, here is the really sad part. I'm not due to renew my contract until November 5th. So I'm left to either A. suffer with the Siamese twin phone B. pay 5 million dollars for a new phone (or $100 for the Firefly with four buttons) or C. Gamble on a phone via EBay. Regardless, I feel like somehow I've been screwed by the system. My lifeline has been damaged and I'm so despondent about the whole thing that I just keep using the sad little phone and am somehow hoping that it will fix itself.

Sniff.

Things that make you go Hmmm...

• Life Immitating Art Immitating Life:
  La Lohan is "acting" in a new movie where she has to make out indiscriminately with guys in order to retain her good life. Wow. Call the Academy.
• TomKat(e)
  Apparently, Katie Holmes will now be called Kate because, and I quote from Mr. Crazy himself, "she is a child-bearing woman now."
• Drowned Alive?
  While I think this whole David Blaine mania is beyond weird, what bugs me most is the title. It would be a bit redundant (nay, impossible) to drown someone dead. And, really, isn't the whole point for him not to drown?

Barf.

The title of today's post is a bit literal-minded as I have spent considerable time today cleaning up after my sick little brother (11) and the, uh, bi-product of said sickness. Apparently it is coming on fast because the carpet, couch, pillow, blanket, chair and generally everything else in the house has served as a receptacle...that is, everything except the toilet.

So I am Queen of Spot Shot carpet cleaner and have gone through an entire bottle in an attempt to ensure no one will accidentally sit down on a wet spot and discover they have been soiled with stomach acid. It is all bringing back memories of the year April Peel vomited all over her desk in the third grade and the distinct smell of that sawdust stuff the janitors used to clean it up.

Perhaps I should get a jumpsuit with my name on it. That would be classy.