However, someone should probably explain to her that her argument is flawed. Just because she's not the ONLY whore on the planet doesn't actually make her any LESS of one.

And does she really expect bonus points for keeping her mouth shut? I would think discretion is fundamental to the job desciption, no?

Your 15 minutes were up some time ago, dear. Shhh.

And walked away.

Without the five.

It's SoCal, baby! Beggars CAN be choosers!

Beyond that, I'll just share a few links I posted via Twitter over the past week for those of you who don't "tweet." We'll call it Friday Twitter Roundup. Yee-haw!

Rocket Launch / "This insane photo destroyed a camera lens"

Inflatable Fruitcake / "The fruitcake they'll actually want to get!"

Smirnoff Tea Partay / They may be vanilla, but their labs are chocolate

Cupcake Car / $25K cupcake cars are why God won't let me win the lottery

My Parents Were Awesome / One of the most charming sites I've seen in a while

Bathroom Art / Decorating bathrooms with pixelated classics

Comic Sans!!!! / A sweet story for font nerds

Area Man Passionate Defender Of What He Supposes Constitution To Be / How appropriate that they decided he should be from Escondido

Awesome Mascot Dance / He gets knocked down, but he gets up again!

Esref Armagan Paints the Volvo S60 Concept Car / I've always loved this man--he's proof artistic vision happens in the heart, not the eyes

Enjoy your weekend!

Wanna see his replacement? Husband spent some time measuring last night, and he reports that if he leaves the tailgate open, she'll fit in the bed of his Dodge pickup.

(I'm also selling Blossom, my Suzuki Grand Vitara, but not until after the holidays. With out-of-town guests coming, I'll need the back seat. Heh.)

However. It's been 25 years since I've had a two year old in the house, and I need to prepare.

Safety-wise, I remember how to childproof. But what about everything else? One thing I haven't forgotten is that BABIES NEED TONS OF CRAP.

Her mom will bring a car seat and a couple of her favorite books and her Grinch doll. I'll buy some more books/puzzles/toys, a booster seat, and toddler dishes/silverware/sippy cups.

Beyond that, I'm flailing.

Parents/grandparents, please help. What do you feel are essentials?

Not because I dislike tattoos. I don't. I like them. I actually have one.

But these things--I can't decide whether they make me want to laugh or cry. I mean, I realize there are plenty of regrettable flash-art images one can have permanently applied. But a rose, a heart, a thorny anklet--they're all relatively innocuous. There's something so affected, so pretentious, so laughably supercilious about a teenager INSISTING THAT PEOPLE READ HER.

Seriously. A 17 year old stumbles across some ridiculous bunch of Jonathon Livingston Seagull-style drivel, thinks it is the most profound (sob!) thing (sob!) she's ever (sob!) seen (sob!), and instead of adding it (scribbling) to her Facebook (it) profile or making (all) it into her (over) desktop wallpaper (her) or even a giant mural (Trapper) on her bedroom (Keeper) wall, ferfucksake, she HAS IT PERMANENTLY INCISED INTO HER FLESH.

Do you remember what you considered deep and profound when you were 17? I do. And I am so fucking grateful I'm not going to have to shell out thousands of dollars to have 158 little grey smudges* that used to be the lyrics to Led Zeppelin's No Quarter LASERed off my rib cage.

* Has no one explained to these kids that tattoos bleed/degrade over time?

It'll be a couple of months before I can afford to shell out for Creative Suite, so until then, li'l Elise will just be stuck with her large Texas hair.

For so many reasons, and on so many levels, but primarily because it wouldn't matter how badly I'd misbehaved, if anyone ever trashed my car, I'd make sure they spent at least one night in the hoosgow. Seriously. 

You know what you do to a partner who screws around? You leave him/her. And you find yourself a much better one, and you enjoy the hell out of your new relationship. The cliche really is true: Living Well Is The Best Revenge.

I've only pulled the Psycho Ex routine once in my life. My first husband got physical with me when I was seven months pregnant with our son--I beat him so hard he bled from his eyeballs, and then I packed a bag and booked a flight back to Texas. Before I left for the airport, I put a gash about an eighth of an inch deep down the side of his cream-colored 1963 Split-Window Corvette Coupe. From headlight to taillight. In some places, it went all the way through the metal*.

It's been almost 30 years, and I still feel shitty about it. I always will.

The gouge, of course. Not the beating**.

You never go wrong being the bigger person. And I don't know that you agree, but in my opinion, revenge is never actually all that sweet.

* I ran it down the metal-wrapped corner edge of a pumpkin cart in the parking lot of the Star Market. Oh, if you'd seen the horror on people's faces.

** As far as I'm concerned, if you hit someone, you'd better be prepared to get hit back. And if you hit a woman, you should probably expect some sort of leveler. Like, say, a ring full of keys wrapped around a fist.

Also, my stripper name? Boots Chantilly. Beat that! I dare you!

Last (but not least), this woman makes the cutest cupcakes on the planet. They're so cute I don't think I could eat them.

That is all.