Okay, shocked that no one is shocked that we spent $13 to buy HBO,

and that the whole world kept from me how GREAT "Big Love" is. Wow! Love my TV.

I have the gift of gab, that's for sure

Remind me to tell you later about how we, you know, BOUGHT HBO. I know. Sue us.

I have another wedding to attend this weekend, one of three so far this year. This is the scariest one to not bring a present to, because the bride and I haven't talked that much in the past year -- probably starting with when she met whoever this guy is she's marrying.

When she got in touch with me, I told her what we were doing this year and sent her a link to this blog, and she wrote back, "You are the cutest thing ever" and then promptly sent me an invitation to her shower. I do not think she read the blog.

Anyway, I am going to her wedding, because she is my friend and I know how I felt when people didn't attend MY wedding. And I will enclose the card I have been enclosing, wishing them the best of luck and promising to send a gift on January 1.

But here is my question: when did gifts stop becoming gifts and start becoming obligations? I thought gifts were little surprises that one could CHOOSE to give or not. That is what made them special. But for instance, with weddings, a gift is your price of admission. I will feed you so you bring a nice gift. I mean, you wouldn't dream of going to a wedding and not giving a gift.

I do not like this. I have several friends who are just not birthday people. It is not their thing, they don't remember and they don't send gifts. And I don't care! They are good friends otherwise. Isn't solid, dependable friendship more important than someone remembering to put a scented candle in the mail on your birthday?

Anyway, I am in my robe with wet hair and I should have left for work four minutes ago. So I will end on that note. Your thoughts, please.

Thoreau and Tony Soprano. And also my Uncle Leo.

Well, I certainly appreciate everyone giving me their two cents re my hair. If you had REALLY given me two cents each, perhaps I could afford the haircut. But as it is, I have to tell you that even though the majority of you said "Get your dang hair cut," I think it was Shannon who affected me most, with her Thoreau quote.

Did you all read the Thoreau quote (it's the 10th comment)? It is deep, dawg. I'll bet Thoreau said "dawg" quite a bit.

Shannon and our good friend Henry D. are correct. I do not NEED the haircut. I already have a husband and a job. I can go around looking slightly ridiculous. It will not kill me. So, no haircut yet.

In other news, we actually got to go out last night. My Uncle Leo is in town, and he was kind enough to take us to a play. If you did not just click on the link, you did not read about how my Uncle Leo (and yes, that is his name. I did not steal it from Seinfeld. I am the only person in America who did not find that show very funny.) grew up in Michigan to English-speaking parents, and yet because he is 1/448th Mexican, feels the need to become Speedy Gonzales whenever a Spanish word is used. This amuses me to no end, and luckily for me, he forgets that this amuses me, so he does it nearly every time I see him. Last night I got to hear him say, "taquito" like this: "thakeeeeetho!" and also "Hhhhhhwwwakamolaay!" for guacamole.

I mean, I am tickled about being part French Canadian, but I do not turn into Jacques Cousteau when I say "crepe."

Anyway, it was good of him to take us out, and even though I generally hate the theater, it was a good play. And extremely exciting to be anywhere.

Speaking of being anywhere, I will tell you about our latest obsession. We do not have HBO, but thanks to Netflix and my mother, we have seen every episode of the Sopranos. It is a riveting show, and tomorrow is the series finale.

Well. To say that Marvin and I are distracted by this would be an understatement. We are Fatal Attraction obsessed. Calvin Klein is going to make a new perfume just for us: Pathetic Obsession. We would pretty much do anything short of spending money to see it. First we hoped and prayed that one of our friends would have a Sopranos-watching party [crickets chirping]. Then we thought about cheating and checking into a cheap motel for the night just to get HBO, but of course we can't.

Tonight during our walk, we started thinking about those gas stations that have TV screens at the pump. Maybe tomorrow night we could fill our tanks real slow. Then we walked past this weird place in our neighborhood that sells walk-up water and inexplicably lets you watch TV during the six seconds you are filling your bottle (see photo). Do you think there's any chance they will show HBO tomorrow night? If so, boy. Will we be waterlogged.

Nest in the yard, nest on my head.

Well, yeah. That's pretty much how I feel 24 hours a day, too. "Got any food up in here?"

So, I ran out of my face wash. I guess it's soap for me from here on out. Oh, am I getting vastly unattractive.

Also, I know I never complain about my hair, but I really think it is getting ridiculous and that I need to get it cut. It is looking precisely like a Christmas tree.

For those of you who have never seen me, let me try to describe it. Okay. It is at this point just past shoulder length and getting wider instead of longer, and it is wave-wave-wavy. It has even been described as curly by some hairdressers, but they always say weird things.

Did you ever watch that beauty makeover show on that girl channel? What is it? Is it Lifetime, Television for Depressives? Whichever channel has A Baby Story, then A Wedding Story, then A Divorce Story all day long during weekday television. Is it The Learning Channel? Oh, this is going to bother me. When I used to freelance I would watch these dumb shows during lunch and I would always cry.

Seriously, do you know anyone who digresses more than me? What I was trying to say is one of those shows was like A Makeover Story, or the You Used to be Ugly Story or the We Used Your Face to Make Gorilla Cookies Story, and in that show hairdressers would always say they wanted to cut the woman's hair to add "movement" and what they ended up doing was exactly the opposite. They would always cut it in this matronly way which didn't move at ALL. So this is why I do not trust hairdressers who describe me as "curly haired." I say I am wavy.

Hi! (I was being wavy.)

Now, I know I have told you before that I go to John Freida Salon, which is fancy. So listen. I currently have enough in my checking account to pay for a trip to the fancy hairdresser. I say, if I manage to keep that amount in my account all week, then I can go. Since I obviously do not spend anywhere, all this means is that I have to eat as though I were back in college. Without the 58,000 bottles of Heineken.

What say you? And don't tell me to just get it cut somewhere cheap. I have made this error. I end up looking like those makeover women with "movement." About as much movement as Lot's Wife.

Please advise.

Free to be Cute and Tweet

Okay, first of all, to my Aunt Mary, Omelet is NOT disgusting. He is just a little featherless, that's all. I'll bet you weren't so cute at two hours old, either.

And to anyone who is worried sick, there seem to be three baby birds in the nest now, and we think we still see the fourth egg underneath them. And they are starting to grow feathers. Aunt Mary. You are very looks-ist, anyone ever tell you that?

It's hard to look in there and/or take more pictures, cause that nest is a flurry of action, with the mom and the dad going back and forth with food. They're schlepping pizzas and Brach's chocolate stars and Orange Crush; you'd be amazed.

I like it that the mom AND the dad are getting involved in the child rearing. Very '70s of them. Very Free to be You and Me. Perhaps later they'll all sit in a circle in the nest and share their feelings. Am I giving away a little too much about how I was raised?

So. My bank statement. To move on to a subject that actually addresses this blog. It used to be, back when I spent money and all, that my bank statement was several pages long. Usually I didn't really look at it. Just made sure there was still money in there, and then I shredded it.

For the past five months, that statement is one page long. It shows deposits from work, transfers to savings, and purchases for gas, grass and ass. (Okay, my Michigan is showing. Am I the only person who remembers people saying "Gas, grass or ass. Nobody rides for free"? Oh, no. What if I was the only person anyone ever SAID this to?) Gas, food and migraine pills, is what I was GOING to say before I started listening to Led Zeppelin and hanging my goat high.

So, it's been exciting to have my bank statement be so simple. Makes me feel all smug. But you know what I discovered yesterday? I discovered that I managed to spend SEVENTY-ONE dollars this month at Try-Not-Ta, the restaurant in my building!! Oh, I knew I had wandered down there once or twice, had me a little snicky-snack, but SEVENTY-ONE DOLLARS worth of snicky-snacking?! If I did that every month, that'd be $852 a year spent in that stupid place. And the food isn't even that good!

So I thought I had better admit it to you, dear reader. Man. Man alive. Man Polly, quit crying. I have got to stop that behavior now.

I will leave you with that promise and one final query:

Must we hear about EVERY hour that Paris Hilton is spending in jail? Really. I know that she ate bread yesterday. Who CARES? Why do I have to know this? Today on my Google home page, which is full of hard-hitting sites like People.com, I read, "Paris had a Good First Night in Jail" and then later "Paris gets a Visit from her Therapist in Jail." Now SERIOUSLY. At this point, I am more well-versed about Paris than Pepe Le Pew. Now THAT, Aunt Mary, is what is disgusting.

Your Omelet's ready!

I know he looks like a pterodactyl. I will keep you posted on when the rest are born.

Marvin Gardens says he looks like my side of the family.

You lingered over the coffee pot, now you can Eclipse it. Well. You could if you were allowed to buy Eclipse gum.

You know what we did this weekend? We didn't buy anything, that's what we did. Actually, I spent 27 dollars and something to provide food for a barbecue we had with some friends. But that is all, and that is allowed. I had an "I want to buy Eclipse gum" temptation in the checkout line, but I resisted.

For our cookout, we had to put the grill on the side of the house, in the driveway, so as not to disturb Angelina Towhee and her four eggs. We also had to not eat on the back porch for the same reason. So, I spread a blanket on the dining room floor, and we all picnicked there. Our friends brought their wiener dogs, at my request (certainly not at the request of our three cats, who were less than pleased and very puffy all night), and I am pleased to report that the dogs were told to lie down when we ate, and they DID. The just LAY there (lied there?), looking hungry. Wishing another cat would walk by.

When we started this year, I really was not what you'd call a cook. I remember moving out of an apartment once, and they tried to charge me for cleaning the oven and I had a fit. "I never once even opened that oven!" I told the landlord proudly.

But now, five months later, cooking is relatively easy. I have less of that everyone-will-be-here-in-20-minutes-and-I-am-naked-with-wet-hair-trying-to-cook-everything panic.

I knew I was getting old some years back when it dawned on me that I was way more concerned with how my house looked than how I looked before I had a party. Back when I was 25, I spent three and a half hours in the bathroom, grooming myself, and six minutes opening a box of wine and putting chips in a bowl. Now I spend three hours on food, flowers, dishes, cleanliness of the house and general ambiance, and 14 seconds slapping on mascara and putting my hair in pigtails.

And for those of you getting fat and hosting a party? Get a cute apron! I have my grandmother's sort of 1960s-looking apron, and I wear it over some boring ensemble, and it sparks the outfit right up! Plus, it hides a myriad of abdominal flaws!

I do have to report that I made deviled eggs, right there in the kitchen, which is maybe seven feet from where the birds' nest is. I felt terribly guilty during the whole boiling, mashing, mixing with mayo procedure. I did insist that we did not grill chicken, even though the grill had been moved. I know I am being weird about the bird nest.

At any rate, Marvin Gardens is off at band practice, and I may, sadly, do a little work. I have been doing some freelancing to make up for the fact that I made Marvin quit his job. He had an interview last week, by the way, and two more in the weeks to come. He needs to find something quickly, because when these eggs hatch, I am totally going on unpaid maternity leave, over here.