Okay, I have to admit that I am neither a reader of Playboy nor US Magazine and the extent of my sports knowledge is limited to what I can hear Randy the perfekt husband screaming at the downstairs TV while I’m upstairs trying to ignore him.

So it will come as no surprise to you that I have almost no idea who KENDRA WILKINSON is (apparently a former Playboy centerfold) nor that she recently had a baby with some guy named HANK BASSETT who plays some position on some pro football team (apparently the Indianapolis Colts) .  

Anyway, it has come to my attention thanks to MAMMAKAZE Erin (who curiously is uber-irritated by the same irritants as I)  that this former playmate and her pregnancy have been an ongoing source of news and cover stories for US Magazine.

And now that I have read their recent article, I have to say, I’m really annoyed with this surgically enhanced blow up doll’s woman’s comments about her post-pregnancy body and life:

“I had my friends over, and it was bad timing,” Kendra, 24, tells Us. “They were really hot and had really nice bodies,” she says of her visitors, which included former Girls Next Door costar Holly Madison and Playboy model Tiffany Fallon.

“I was just hoping Hank didn’t look at them! Having a different body was such a culture shock. I’m so used to being hot and fit.” Although “it wasn’t that extreme,” the reality star says, “I did go through some depression.”

Wow. I can’t even begin to tell you in how many ways I DON’T relate to this woman. First of all, I have never been featured naked before men with staples in my belly. Well, unless you include the time on the operating table right after my C-Section.

But is she kidding me?! Having a baby is a CULTURE SHOCK?!  A CULTURE SHOCK! Why? Post-partum did she become like that guy in District 9 who suddenly started turning into one of the aliens - so she found herself shedding her exoskeleton and craving cat food ?

Uh, Kendra. Newflash. According to Wikipedia:

Culture shock refers to the anxiety and feelings (of surprise, disorientation, uncertainty, confusion, etc.) felt when people have to operate within a different and unknown culture such as one may encounter in a foreign country. It grows out of the difficulties in assimilating the new culture, causing difficulty in knowing what is appropriate and what is not. This is often combined with a dislike for or even disgust (moral or aesthetical) with certain aspects of the new or different culture.

Oh wait.

Uh, now that I re-read that… Maybe Kendra isn’t so far off. Because really, when you think about it, being a new mom is well, like turning into an alien life form. Your body morphs and develops a mind of it’s own. I mean, your breasts shoot milk at the sound of a human cry! 

And truly, it’s a whole culture all unto itself, complete with its own language (binkie, plugged ducts, colostrum) and bizarro customs (hooking breasts up to machines, crying at toilet paper commercials, obessively poking sleeping infants to make sure they’re still breathing). 

And any new mom with an ounce of honesty will tell you that during those first few weeks… it’s not so fun. In fact, there is a lot of resentment. A lot of “what the heck did I do with my life and do I know any adoption attorneys?”

Of course it gets better… usually around the time that the baby starts sleeping through the night (which, admit it, they would do a whole LOT sooner if you didn’t keep poking them awake because they scare the bejeezus out of you with all those SIDS pamphlets at the hospital).

But even after a routine is established and the family resumes a regular sleep cycle. Things are still different. You’re a mom now and the world you knew is gone. But you’re in a new world. A new culture, one could even say.  Because everything is different and let’s face it you’re different too.

And like anyone who comes from a different culture, you seek out those people who are like you. In this case, lactating, hormone-driven, obsessive worriers with whom you can relate and can relate right back at you.  And I gotta say, my mommy friends, they’re a pretty cool bunch.

And while I’m still not convinced this Kendra woman knew what she was saying when she said she suffered “culture shock” after having her baby,  I think she may be on to something.  Albeit inadvertently.

Kendra, if you read this - which you likely won’t because you don’t know who the heck I am either - I predict that unless Holly and Tiffany and Bambi (or whatever those playmate’s names are) have babies soon, you will find those friendships fading away. Because suddenly tales of wild weekends at TAO in Vegas will hold less interest for you than the first time your baby rolled over or said “Mamma”.

Kendra. Welcome to my world culture.

CORRECTION: Thanks to my guy readers (Kevin and Ken) I have been informed that Kendra WAS NOT a centerfold but merely one of Hef’s many girlfriends. Turns out, while I never had the tight, hot bod, I DO have that whole “staples in my naked belly thing on her”. Take THAT, Kendra.

Okay. Technically, I can’t miss something I wasn’t alive for when it was at its fashion peak. But frankly, I didn’t need to be born in the 40s to know that deep down in my bones, I miss that little fashion item known as THE BED JACKET.  

What the heck’s a bed jacket, you ask? If you’ve ever seen a Rita Hayworth movie where she lounges in the boudoir or taken a gander at an episode of I LOVE LUCY…you’d be familiar with THE BED JACKET. It’s a lovely and practical little jacket a lady wears over her nightgown.     Ah, the 40s. That should have been my era. Big bands, bed jackets, peignors, decolletage.  Everything about it seemed so….glamorous.  Well, except that women only washed their hair once a week because it was such time consuming an ordeal. Good for getting out of social obligations, not so good in the hygiene department. But I digress.

ANYWAY….the REASON I miss the bed jacket is that, like a lot of women, my temperature does not radiate an even 98.7 degrees throughout my body. No, much like a tri tip, there are parts of me that get cooked first, or better, than other parts.

For example, pretty much from my belly through my ankles, I’m comfortable. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a metabolism thing or maybe it’s the  padding that seems to have settled in as a result of my weekly wine and appetizer habit. (Why is that? Why not the breasts where I need it? Damn you nature!).

Whatever. The point is, when I go to bed, the mid to lower half of my body is comfortable and longs to wear a silky nightie. However, my arms, shoulders, barely there breasts and feet… FREEZING COLD! Now, I can wear my silky nightie and throw on a pair of socks and have done with that part of it.

But my upper body?

I admit it.  I sometimes crawl into bed with my robe. But after a while it gets too hot and too cumbersome for comfort and I end up ripping it off. And then, you guessed it, my upper body plummets to arctic temps again.  

Not so much of a problem after I go to sleep, as I can pile on the blankets or siphon off Randy the Perfekt husband’s body heat (I had that written into the marriage vows).  But prior to that, while propped up on my pillow reading the blarney in FITNESS magazine which features only gravity-defying 20 year old butts on the cover or watching the latest episode of THE GOOD WIFE (how can she forgive him?! Has she NO self respect?!) I am just downright chilly.  

And there you have the reason behind my longing for the return of the bed jacket. Yeah, I know there are “versions” of it still around. But you have to hunt them down (they’re not in Target’s lingerie department) and they lack the class of the bed jackets of the past.

Okay. Okay. I admit it. If I’m really honest with myself, there might be a little of the longing for the glamour of a bygone era. When songs had lyrics like “When I want rain, I get sunny weather. I’m just as blue as the sky.” Or “You go to my head, like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew. And I find the very mention of you, like the kicker in a julep or two.”

Sigh. I guess I’ll have to settle for a Snuggie and a Starbucks.  

Rita Hayworth sans a bed jacket. But isn’t she just gorgeous?

If you’re a reader of this website, you know that I’m am very outspoken when it comes to abuse of any kind perpetrated against a child. NOT ACCEPTABLE. AT ALL. EVER.

I feel the same way about animals. While most folks think of a pet as their companion or even like a child, there are those who also believe they are property to be done with as they see fit. But really, some things are just wrong.

Like people who dye their pets in funky patterns for their own amusement. And admit it, it’s for your own amusement folks, because your cat does not need nor does it want this. It serves no purpose in their lives nor does it help in their survival. You are doing it simply because you think it’s cool. And also probably because your kids are past the age where you can dress them up in whatever silly get-up makes you happy so you’re taking it out on your pet.

While I can appreciate the artistry (that butterfly face - MEOW!) and the humor (that one with the Chaplin on its rear is a crack-up) I must be judgmental here and put you cat dyers in the same category as the folks out there who do POODLE DOODLES (see older post) . Bad owner. BAAAAD! (Thanks Bruce for sending these in).

As legend has it, every February a little groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil peeks his little furry head out of his hole and determines if spring is coming early or if we get another 6 weeks of winter.

Now I don’t exactly recall HOW he tells this. It’s to do with his shadow. But I can never keep straight if the appearance of his shadow means early spring or more winter.  In any case, it doesn’t matter. Because that little rodent is almost always WRONG!

Know what’s not wrong? My toes. More specifically, my shaved toes.

Uh-huh. You read that right. The first day after a long winter that my furry toes feel the need to emerge from the deep recesses of my close-toed shoes and I shave them to make them presentable to the world is the true harbinger that spring is just around the corner.  And I’ll tell you why…(after I explain how I am half-Italian and, yes, have a few dark sproutlings here and there which I cannot help and if you’re of the tow-headed ilk thus rendering your body hair practically invisible, well, la-dee-dah and goodie for you!) 

Anyway… I am a very sensitive creature, highly in tune to my surroundings. Randy the perfekt husband calls me a “delicate flower” (not necessarily in the loving way that the selection of words might imply - but that’s for another post about sarcasm in marriage and how to blow it off). 

I have mentioned before on this very website how I am able to detect the slightest shift of the sun and the most subtle changes in sound quality that signal the onset of Fall. Even while other people are still in their bikinis and board shorts, I’m getting out the sweaters and Uggs. And I’m always right.

Well, these talents are evident even as winter turns to spring, but in a slightly different way. Because a day comes where something deep within me stirs. Actually the feeling comes from deep within my fleece-lined shoes. The ones that, along with thick wool socks, have covered my feet daily throughout the winter months. The stirring is a longing- a longing from my toes to be freed from enclosure, from a dormancy and darkness that are akin to hibernation. And so, I step into the shower. And after I shave my armpits and legs, I move, for the first time in months, to my toes. 

Now, as I have no built-in bench in my shower nor the ability to lean against one wall while propping my leg up against the other wall because the shower is too big -  this is no small feat (no pun intended). But I do it. Because, good grooming is essential and my feet say it’s time. Time to break out the sandals, to slip on the flip flops, to let my toes hang out baby!

And so I run my Lady Bic across the tops of my toes and deftly remove the two or three barely noticable (except to me and that woman I can’t understand at the the nail place) hairs from the tops of my big toes. And my toes are ready to announce to the world that spring is here! Well, if they could talk they would. (Actually, if they could talk they’d probably bitch about how disgusting the ground is - but they can’t have it all, can they? Freedom AND hygiene both. No siree.)

My point is… My toes have NEVER BEEN WRONG. Once I begin the shaving, I don’t stop again until fall when nature’s cycle begins yet again.

It’s lovely actually, when you think of it. Nature’s little toe cycle. So pure. So real. Sheryl Crow should write a song about it. I mean, I’d fork over the 99 cents to download it off iTunes.

FYI. For you Southern Californians, spring is here as of three days ago. For those of you still buried beneath of blanket of snow, hang in there, according to my toes, spring is just around the corner. You’re welcome.

Well, I have to say I was totally touched by how all-out the adults got into character and the spirit of the Harry Potter Books.  Thank you guys. You are wonderful, wonderful friends. You made the day extra magical and I love you all.

Following are some pictures. Other than Julia, I am not posting pictures of the other children (although there were 25 in attendance). This is for privacy reasons. Cuz believe it or not, not everyone is driven to plaster photos of their private lives across the internet.  Go figure.

What is Hogwarts without the professors?

My bro John as Severus Snape. Me as Prof. Sybil Trelawney. Randy the perfekt husband as Sirius Black (post Azkaban). Jennie as Professor Delores Umbridge. Jennie’s mom Sue as Mrs. Molly Weasley.  Mark H. as Hagrid. Zadrina E. as Prof. Minerva McGonagall. Notice the screen in the b.g. for the movie and Scene-It.

Cheri W. as Luna Lovegood. Cathy H. as Prof. Quirrell. Umbridge. Wayne W. as Albus Dumbeldore. McGonagall. Hagrid.

Randy the perfekt Husband as Sirius Black. Me as Prof. Trelawney. And B-Day girl Julia as Hermione Granger.

Hermione and Severus Snape

Blowing out the candles on age 7. Bringing in age 8. Where did the time go?

Two more days until the Harry Potter party. And now my main concern is if I have enough stuff to do to keep all those kids occupied for 2 1/2 hours.

We have things planned, natch. We’ll start with a banquet feast that includes mini tacos (Julia’s not into treacle) and the Harry Potter theme as background music. Then the presentation of the wands. Then there’s Silly Divinations during which I, dressed as Trelawney, will be reading the future of each of the kids. Julia and I had a ball coming up with the most ridiculous futures. They’re printed on parchment in Harry Potter font. Then a game of Pass the Basilisk, ala hot potato. When the music stops, whoever has the Basilisk is petrified and OUT! A game of Harry Potter Scene It projected on the castle wall - the kids will divide up in 4 teams and we’ll make sure each team has a Potter expert, as not all kids are as well versed in Potter as a certain handful I know.

Finally,  there’s the Yule Ball Petrificus Totalus Dance. Snape (my brother John in costume and character) will oversee this. It’s like a freeze dance, only when the music stops, he will pertify them and those still moving will be out. The kids LOVE the freeze dance and we do a thematically appropriate version at every party.

I will have a cauldron of prizes and we always make sure that every kid wins a prize.

We might throw in a dementor attack or two. Just to give us an excuse to eat chocolate. Not that I need any.

Here are some more homemade decorations. I’m doing the actual decorating tomorrow and will post photos of the finished product then.

Every Grand Hall must have house flags. I’m hanging 4 over each of 4 tables representing each of the Houses of Hogwarts.  And also the Hogwarts Crest which will hang at the front of the Hall (aka my garage).  Made with felt and photos of the crests.

We also did an Ollivanders sign to hang up over the basket of wands. Just for ambiance.

More in coming days. Wish me luck!