Dancing With The Stars: Five nods and at least one big no

1. Apolo Anton Ohhhh-yes. Skinny? Yes. Slightly cheesey? Yes. Over-soul patched? Yes. Axel Rosed out on the headband? Of course. Making it to the finals? Indeed.

2. Joey Fatone. Yeah, you picked up a coupla steps from cross-steppin' wit JT way back. You worked it out. Now dial down the frat dick* routine a bit and you'll be aiight.

3. Ian Ziering. You've got the smile of fifth grade boy threatened by his mother to finally take a school photo she can send to grandma (only with whiter teeth). And didn't you cheat on your hottie-boombalottie supermodel wife (oh wait, that was Mario Lopez last  season...or maybe Mario gave Ian the hook up at the club meeting)? But you swiveled those hips like you're gunning for the gold in that "onesie", baby. Or at least like you're gunning for my former hairdresser's station at Red Door.**

4. Laila, you may have swayed the odds pre-show in Vegas but I think you've fallen back a bit to the boys. Not to worry, though, 'cause grrrrrrrl, you made that glammy gown look bad-ass!

5. P-Double, you've been on my husband's Top Five since that Cars video with the fly. I secretly love that you referred to yourself as Bullwinkle, a likeable mix with your stunning skin, swan neck and endearing overbite. I can't help but (totally embarassing daytime admission in 3...2...1) love Leeza, but I don't think she's much competition for you with all those drooling former frat dicks (see "Joey Fatone") dialing in right now. I've purposely chosen not to mention the H-word just because of absolute boredom. Already.

Now for the DWTS buh-bye:

Shandi and  Brian, puhhhhlease. Did you really squeal when that one kooky judge said you were like a living Barbie and Ken, as if that was prize enough? And enough about your collective underage hotness. Just bow and smile politely when you are kicked off this week, knowing full well you have a date already planned to see the (eeeee!) Pussycat Dolls and then break every freaking Donald Trump and a chaperone rule in the Miss USA book with a disappointingly short "first dance" in Brian's Mustang.

John Ratzenberger, don't think you've got the luck of the Springer on your side. And when you do go, my strange friend, I will be happy to relive the night you chatted my friends and I up in a bar near Rush Street. What makes me laugh is that I am pretty sure Edyta rolls her eyes at your lines, too.

*Some of my best friends are frat dicks...so shut up. Bruce is totally a former reformed frat dick and has given me full and free consent to use this term to the fullest of its lovely connotations. 

**I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'.

Photo credit: abclocal.go.com

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How to cure the flu in one glorious moment

I'm beginning to think the flu shot is a big governmental hoax. I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist (normally, in a non-Bush administration) and would blame this on the possibility of a watered down vaccination if we'd all had our shots together. But we didn't. And this weekend marked Bruce's third round of flu this year and my near-second (which practically counts since I still technically have a refill left on my appendectomy scripts). 

Maybe our flu shots were fully-loaded and germy toddler snot is just way more powerful than any prevention method manufactured in a lab over years and years and gazillions of research dollars.  It just so happens that Bruce was Parent of the Day at co-op on Thursday and came down with the nastiness on Friday. It wasn't a huge shock, what with that one kid who constantly gives our family the sickness sneezing all over the place and with Bruce's immune system of a pre-teen girl in medieval times. Then again, maybe the co-op's getting some crazy pharmaceutical funding or something and is at the root of all this illness that has me following Bruce  with rubber gloves (watch it) and bleach in a spray bottle.

Thank goodness for some points of light this weekend that diverted our attention from the fact that no, Daddy cannot come out of the bedroom his urpy-feverish-sicky smell haze for a delightful afternoon of Play-Doh and pretending to be Bob and Wendy who are building a new barn for Farmer Pickles (which sounds far more Rated R than it actually is) and the gulps of (*shudder*) Milk of Magnesia, vitamin C and ibuprofen in triplicate I had to take just to keep my body from toppling over the edge into full-blown fludom with Bruce.

The very best moment of our weekend landed right down the block on St. Patrick's Day.

I can't even believe this, but Lil E got to ride in an excavator! A real one, an operating one, a big, giant yellow excavator that we've been admiring for a week, at work in our neighborhood.

If you are/have/know a child who is as obsessed with vehicles as Lil E is (and the club of these two-year-olds is fast-growing), you'll understand what a HUGE deal this is. We took a walk to check out the big hole where the lovely old house was demolished to make room for an evil starter-castle, and were waved inside the gate to get a closer look. The dump truck driver hoisted Lil E up to see the excavator scooping dirt into his rig. Then, in this surreal moment of glory, the excavator guy waved us over and invited Lil E for a spin. There, behind the glass, I watched my boy go silent as the man showed him how to shift the levers to lower and raise the digger full of dirt. For several amazing minutes, I jumped up and down and waved at Lil E, taking many mental pictures and expressing all the complete glee that my boy holding in with a serious look of concentration and shyness.

After he was lowered down to the dump truck driver and then to me and we waved good-bye to our new friends and the construction site, I chattered on about going home to wake up Daddy to tell him. Lil E was pretty quiet and then half-way down the block said, "Oh no! I forgot to dump the dirt into the dump truck!"

He wasn't just riding along with the excavator driver. He was the excavator driver.

Whatever was or wasn't in our flu shots, we are getting good at being sick around here and seem to have our own formula for getting better. Tonight, Bruce actually ate a belated dinner of corned beef and cabbage with the rest of us at a family dinner at my parents' house. And we hunkered down on the couch together, singing silly songs designed to make a small child laugh hysterically and tickled when Lil E begged, "Tickle me some more, pleaaaaaaase!" And of course, we talked about the excavator adventure.

"Guess what?" my dad asked my boy, "YOU drove an excavator! How cool is that?! Give me a high five!"

And Lil E marched over to give a proud high-five, quietly beaming, dimples saying it all.

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Mama works during commercial breaks

I did some major mama multi-tasking last night, working on two deadlines simultaneously while watching American Idol all the way through to Jimmy Kimmel's monologue.  Even though he wasn't phenomenal, I was unsurprised but a little bummed that mini-Lenny got the AI boot.

Seriously, what is up with all the Sanjaya support, people? There is a high school theater instructor itchy to cast the boy in a musical version of David Copperfield somewhere in Middle America. And Sanjaya would totally work it out on that stage. But this one? Not so much.

Since my attention was divvied up all over the place and since the CW's schedule was off because of the zzzzzzzz Bulls, I missed out on America's Next Top Model make-over epi.  I am sure it will be on a bunch of times before next week but until then, the Chicagoist's AI/ANTM update did me fine.

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