About this time of year I begin contemplating the nutritional content of the upholstery in my car. Not that I would eat it myself, I’m trying to watch my sodium intake and this is Michigan, after all.

    Daddy-daughter dances with a five year old boils down to a bunch of 30-ish dudes making small-talk while their overdressed progeny weave in snaking, screaming lines through their legs and gymnasium lunchtables. If it weren’t for the watered down wedding music and watered down pink lemonade I would think that it had as much substance as skim milk. As it is I’m going for turpentine.
    Sam had fun introducing me to her long list of interchangably adorable fellow five-year-olds. And that’s all that really matters. That and peppermint cake. Pictures to be uploaded as soon as they are available.

    My kitten has only one testicle. Parodoxically, my veterinarian tells me this will quite possibly double the cost of getting him castrated. The doctor goes on to say that he thinks the other testicle is up in there somewhere, but for some reason Sisco’s landing gear hasn’t completely dropped. I personally think they are sortof combined into one uber-ball, as the one he has is monstrous–nay! Pendulous!
    We’ve taken to calling him “The Uni-Baller.” I tried “Cycrotch,” but it didn’t stick.

    I hate: 30-something white chicks with personal-trainer sculpted bodies and expensive hair-dos driving massive luxury-branded SUVs while talking on their tiny, tiny cell-phones and ignoring their back-seat load of kids who slowly vegetate beneath a ceiling-mounted, built-in DVD player spewing Sponge-Bob all over the highway.
    I’ve seen enough instances of this abomination that I feel we need a new derogatory term specific to the phenomenon. Like “chav,” but more targeted toward pampered women with big SUVs, tiny cell phones and neglected children basking in the glow of the aforementioned factory-installed DVD player.
    You got any ideas?