Okay, this is a little disturbing.

Glamour.com has put up a celebri-morph, showing just how skinny Nicole Ritchie, Kate Bosworth and Christina Ricci have gotten in the past few years. The Kate Bosworth one is particularly disturbing, considering she was pretty bony to start.

Is this really the physical ideal that we want to push? Unhealthy and emaciated? I really don't think so.

But even if it is, sorry folks, I'm keeping my overly large post-baby ass. I earned it with every piece of chocolate that I eat to maintain it.

Preparing for company.

"Did you remember to get rice cakes for my Dad?"

"Yes. And his all natural peanut butter and everything else on the list they gave me."

"What about wine?"

"Of course I got the wine. No one survives a family visit without wine. I'm not crazy."

"How many bottles did you buy?"

"Ten. Do you think that's enough?"

"How long are they staying again?"

"Ummm, four days."

"Maybe you should pick up two or three extra bottles just in case."

That's it, I'm moving to France.

Who needs to know what's happening in Iraq, or that more troops have been diverted to Afghanistan, or really, anything else in the world when Anna Nicole Smith left everything to her dead son and Britney may or may not have gone into rehab?

I know I've spouted off about the silliness of headlines in a 24/7 news world but this is ridiculous. Why, with everything else happening in the world, are either of these stories considered the world's top headlines? I watched CNN for forty five minutes and couldn't get away from salacious gossip and cleavage. What the hell is wrong with the world?

Still waiting for an answer on that poop question.

I mean, 6-7 poops in a day,every day, can't be normal, right? If so, I'm sending Munchkin out to be potty-trained.

Dude, you pay big bucks for a publicist.

Tim Hardaway should know better. His interview on a Miami radio show yielded this gem of a soundbyte:

"You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people," he said. "I'm homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."

Umm, yeah. Can't you see that I'm so glad that this dude is considered a role model?

The True Tale of my Valentine's Flowers.

I guess if I'm advertising this as truthful I should admit upfront that no one sent me any Valentine's flowers. It didn't occur to CPT Dick. And normally, I wouldn't think that it would occur to him and wouldn't expect to receive any.

But then yesterday, the doorbell rang and there was a woman standing there struggling with a HUGE bouquet of roses. She handed them to me with an emphatic "Happy Valentine's Day! Somebody really loves you!" I was floored. I thought my husband had either lost his mind or I had a secret admirer with lots of money and good taste.

But as I take the flowers and put them down, the delivery woman starts flipping through her clipboard looking for the spot where I am to sign for the flowers. She is about to hand me the clipboard when she looks down at the clipboard, then at the number on my house, then back at the clipboard, then back at the house.

I'm guessing you are smart enough to figure out what happened next.

As she turned beet red, the delivery woman said, "I'm so sorry, I just brought these to the wrong house." Guess someone doesn't love me very much after all.

Of course, the neighbor, proud recipient of these gorgeous flowers, is not at home. So then I'm asked if I'll keep them for her since it's raining. I take pity on the poor woman, despite her just breaking my itty-bitty Grinch heart on Valentine's Day. I mean, it can't be easy to be out delivering flowers on V-day. I'm guessing it's pretty much akin to the second circle of hell.

So I close the door, put the flowers where the Munchkin can't destroy them, and make my way back to the excitement that is cleaning the kitchen. You know, real Valentine's Day entertainment.

And then the doorbell rings again.

I open the door and there is the same delivery woman holding a bouquet even bigger than the last. And I think someone does love me after all -- she must have just mixed up what bouquet went where! They are even bigger than that other bouquet! I rule! And I raise my arms up to receive this beautiful arrangement of roses, feeling my husband's love for me right down to the tips of my little toes, when she says, "Sorry to bother you again but your other neighbor isn't home either."

Now this is some crazy shit.

Jennifer Mee can't stop hiccuping. Doctors can't figure out why or make it stop. So she keeps hiccuping. Poor thing.

And the seriously crazy part, the longest case of persistent hiccups known lasted for 69 years. I think I would shoot myself. Just listening to Jennifer's hiccups makes me want to pop a valium of my own.

Interesting research.

Some researchers at University of California at Santa Barbara found what they believe to be innate brain guards against incest with a sibling, based on whether or not you saw that sibling cared for by your mother, basically discounting Freud's whole Oedipal complex theories. It's in this week's issue of Nature.

I wish there was more to it than just a series of surveys, though. I'd be curious to see if there is any brain basis for the development of these categories of relationships. Interesting stuff nonetheless.

Zoning out to Kermit.

As I said the other week, I finally broke down and purchased some kid CDs for Munchkin to listen to in the car. And even worse than that, I find myself rocking out to them when the kid isn't even in the car. And let me tell you, the music causes some kind of trippy thoughts. A few examples:

1. Does Bert ever get jealous of how much Ernie sings about Rubber Duckie?
2. Does anyone else think that the "Honk Around the Clock" lyrics sound vaguely kinky?
3. Have any of the human cast of Sesame Street found that their role on the show has hurt their chances of getting other parts? Do they care?
4. I wonder if Miss Piggy singing "I'm Gonna Always Love You" was the start of the female identity crisis?
5. In "Elmo's Song," when Elmo decides to share the song with his friends, who is the "he" they are referring to when they say that "he wrote the music, he wrote the words?"
6. Why do kids like this stuff? And why I am, in my old age, finding it so damn compelling?

I think I may be in need of an intervention.

How many times in single day can one kid poop?

Seriously. Does anyone know the answer? I'm running out of diapers over here.