The Grammar Bitch Waits For A Birth, Irons Her Hair And Dishes Dirt.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
First of all: I'm still pregnant. Today I'm going on the fetal monitor and there's a chance the Coochie Doc will decide to induce, but I'm thinking not. Julia seems happy in there. Stay tuned.

A big topic of conversation of late has been Daylight Saving Time and how they want to extend it. Me, I'm dead set against it; Halloween should feel like Halloween. We don't get much in the way of change of seasons out this way, but I can always count on the evenings to turn dark and chilly right at Halloween, courtesy of the time change and what passes in this area for the arrival of autumn. But that is not what really troubles me. What really troubles me is this: DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME, people. One saving. As in We are saving daylight. Not Daylight SavingS Time. Okay? Please. Both Howard Stern and my daughter Erika have cut me deeply in the past 24 hours by making that blunder. You can't imagine how much it hurts to hear it. Thank you.

Meanwhile, I must give a shout-out to the Farouk Chi ceramic straightening iron, which brings you the smooth Jennifer Aniston hair (okay, Jennifer Aniston if she suddenly aged 15 years, wore a pound less makeup, and was tired and immensely pregnant) you see above. Straightening one's hair is all the rage in Southern California; fully half the women in my office pay $500 a treatment, at three-month intervals, to achieve this look. In the Crumpacker household, we don't hold with such foolishness. If I were to announce to Ben one day that I intended to go plunk down $700 for a straightening, color and cut, which I would then have to go do all over again in 90 days' time, he would reply You WHAT? Have you gone stupid all of a sudden? And he would be right.

In fact, I'm the last girl to follow fashion trends; or if not exactly the last, I don't suffer foolishness willingly. But my husband has a fetish, you see. Last time I had a color and cut, the stylist talked me into trying the straightening iron for a lark, since my hair is curly, and I thought Ben would keel over backward when I came home. You look like Emma Peel, he said, referring to the plucky British heroine of the '60s spy series The Avengers. Ben has had a gigantic boner for that girl for 40 years; in fact, she probably inspired his first boner. So what could I do? I'm not so much given over to Mommyhood that I won't recognize something that will get me laid for certain, and pounce on it.

Speaking of which, Ben and I have worked out, once and for all and absolutely for certain, what went on with the Brad Pitt/Jennifer Aniston thing (as long as we're talking about Jennifer's hair, and about sex). It's this: Jennifer has a bit of a stick up her ass, don't you think? We get a bitch vibe from her, a subtle attitude of Eww, that's icky. We figure that she was probably a bit of a principessa and didn't much like to do sexual things, especially those which might muss her hair or produce gooiness. Meaning, most of the fun stuff.

So Brad goes off to make this movie, and along comes Angelina. Now, all you have to do is look at that girl, and you know it: She does everything. She'll yowl and scratch and draw blood and bark like a dog. Hell, we figure she'll stick her tongue in the Dark Place, and that's just for a warm-up. What's a guy to do? The poor man just went out of his mind, is all. And now he follows her around the globe like a puppy dog while she adopts Ethiopian orphans and he comes down with meningitis, not complaining a whit, because that girl? She knows tricks. It's the oldest story in the book. Rachel may have dressed up like Princess Leia for Ross, but I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that she never got on all fours and howled at the moon. No contest there.

Got it? Good. And now I'm off to write a brief and go hang out on the fetal monitor. Ben will replace the battery in the digital camera, which had the bad grace to die last night and which I unabashedly guilt-tripped him into replacing TODAY (Okay, fine. We'll just have no photos of our new baby, then). And maybe? Eventually I will have a baby.