Got an email from my mommy this morning. It had this quote from Sheri Dew in it:

“Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning, the devil says, ‘Oh Crap, She’s up!'”

I’m painting it on my bathroom mirror.

Last night I finally got around to watching last week’s previously taped season premiere of Glee, the new dramedie on Fox.

Let me just say, nothing in the world makes me happier than an entire program devoted to the life and times of a high school show choir. Truly, if only more kids would realize how much fun performance is this world would be a better place. I was sure this show was going to uplift and inspire kids everywhere to get involved in their local programs.

Then I watched the show.

I’m sorry, but there is something inherently wrong with a show that spins teenage abstinence as evil. The nasty popular girls have a Celibacy Club. Personally, I think Celibacy Clubs in high schools are a great idea, especially when they’re backed by the cute cheerleaders. Kids who willingly commit themselves to an STD-free lifestyle? Yeah, baby.

But do you think the Celibacy Club is portrayed as a good thing? Of course not. In fact, the nice, unpopular star of the show joins the club just long enough to bear her soul about the ridiculousness of celibacy as opposed to the higher, and more desirable practice called “safe sex”.

She tops her speech off by blurting out what might be the biggest lie television has ever told. In a moment of courageous clarity, she informs the entire club that, “Girls want sex just as bad as guys do!”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I’m sorry…

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Right. Because teenage girls think about sex 50 times an hour. Yeah, when they wear short skirts and tight tops, they’re thinking, “Boy, I hope all the boys picture me naked today!”

This is something my husband and I have argued about for years. He doesn’t believe me that girls don’t always intentionally turn guys on. He thinks any girl who wears revealing clothing knows exactly what all the boys are thinking about her.

Allow me to set something straight here. While there are well-versed girls out there who do try to catch the wrong kind of eye, there are plenty of other young girls who are just plain dumb. Seriously.

I can remember this cute little plaid skirt I wore in high school. As far as the boys were concerned, my thoughts didn’t go further than, “I hope so-and-so thinks I look cute today…” I didn’t even know boys had thoughts that went beyond kissing, because mine certainly didn’t.*

The show topped itself off with the newly formed Glee Club performing the most lewd, offensive sexual number I have ever seen on television. Done by high schoolers.

How much worse can it get?

*This is what happens when you decide to focus on your education.

Today I honor our country in the aftermath of 9/11. Click here to read this week’s article. (In spite of the very strange title that I can’t quite figure out…)

I have done it. I have successfully pulled off the biggest scam any parent has worked since Santa Clause was born.

So my son wants to play the piano. Harrison is six, and he’s so serious about this that for the past four months he’s been adding to his nightly prayers this phrase: “And please help me be a really good piano player.”

(For the record, every mother hopes that her children will utter prayers like this at some point.)

Piano lessons wouldn’t be a problem if Dave Ramsey hadn’t invaded our life and budget so completely that, sitting here, there’s not a penny left to my coin purse until Friday. It’s a difficult predicament, this whole cut back on everything. It’s especially difficult when cutting back affects our kids.

And the thing is, learning the piano is critical to a persons educational happiness, and catching this kid right now, when he’s begging for it, is even more important. And I am not without options.

(Just between us, I actually do know how to play the piano, just not publicly. I would be happy to stand in front of thousands and belt out “Tomorrow!”, just don’t ask me to play the piano in primary. Because it terrifies me.)

Unfortunately, as all parents know, teaching your own kid piano is next to impossible. Oh, it might start out okay, but before long they realize it’s just another place for you to boss them around, and in too many cases it ends up being an argumentative headache that isn’t worth the effort.

Enter Miss Peabody.

Miss Peabody is Harrison’s new piano teacher. She came over last night after his brother and sister were asleep. I hear that Harrison was rather astonished when he opened the door and finally met her face to face (he had heard so much about her). Apparently, she talks “really funny”, and as his father put him to bed he said, “I kind of think Miss Peabody is my mom, but I’m not sure.”

When he saw me this morning he was even more confused because I obviously had such a strong alibi for my wherabouts last night. And come on, it’s not like I’d ever lie to him or anything. Cause parents don’t do that kind of stuff.

And I spoke to Miss Peabody. She said he was extremely well-behaved and enthusiastic, and she thinks he’s without a doubt the most brilliant student she’s ever taught.

Go figure.

Apparently, Hugh Jackman is the best thing that ever happened to my blog.

Here, let me remind you.

I hear that Nichole Kidman was disapointed in Australia and, in fact, wished that she a Hot Hugh had never filmed the movie. I’m sorry, but has she seen this picture? Can anyone honestly tell me (with the exception of my darling husband) that the world is not a better place because of it? (Jason has not seen this movie yet. For some reason, he keeps dragging his feet about it.)

Here’s the thing about Hugh Jackman. According to my blog, at least fifty fans google this man every single day. How do I know this? Because they all land on this post. Amazing that some rinky dink post I wrote once that was nothing more than an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets has become my shining star of journalism.

For the record, my husband seems to tolerate Hugh’s place in my life. This is probably due to the fact that Jason is the most non-jealous individual that has ever walked the face of the earth. I think he would farm me out on date night during football season without blinking an eye.

In fact, we went out on Friday and I saw an old man in the restaurant sitting with a much younger woman. It gave me an idea for some quick cash.

“Honey,” I say, “I should hire myself out as a dinner companion for sad old men. Just think of how much fun I could be!”

He looked at me for a moment, shrugged, and said, “As long as you don’t kiss any of them, it’s fine with me.” Right. Kissing strange men for money.

And right then and there I realized that prostitution is probably a dangerous and slippery slope. “What? You thought you were paying me for that? But I’m just here for stimulating conversation!” Let’s just say I’ll not be persuing a career in escort services.

Writing this week’s column left salt water all over my keyboard. If you’ve ever been or hope to be a parent, you’ll probably understand why.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

I hate myself for admitting this, and I’m banking on the fact that Jason avoids my blog like the diaper pail, and therefore will not bother to check this post. But I have to come clean here.

I am jealous of college football.

There, I said it. This time of year, I feel like he’s kind of having an affair on me all the time. I know that his lips and schedule both tell me that we’re his first priority, but college football is written on his heart–right above my name.

And who can argue it? They’ve been together way  longer than we have. Their relationship has been going strong for 26 years. I can’t compete. (Although, technically I am the younger woman, and therefore more attractive. Technically.)

Then there’s the fact that college football demands nothing from him, never nags him, and doesn’t complain that his late hours have “thrown off the schedule”. They just keep right on truckin’, week after week after week. Until basketball starts.

It’s funny, but we’ll be having conversations about important issues, like the budget, and he’ll get this glazed over look in his eye. These are key moments for me, times when I know that he’s internally working on the line-up for the next Big Game, and therefore will agree to anything. It almost makes it all worth it.

And let’s be honest, I enjoy watching sports with him. My jealousy has nothing to do with the game itself, it has to do with my high-maintenance personality (bless my clingy heart). Besides, he keeps reminding me how lucky I am, that it could be so much worse. Hey, he could like sports and hunting and video games. Lucky for me he’s not a triple threat (and I tip my headband to those of you who are thusly tied).

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs to snuggle up to him. (And I’m fixing my lipstick first.)

So the other day, in an attempt to avoid washing or looking at my windows, I sat down to the lap top and pulled up facebook. I stared at it for a moment, unsure of my intentions (other than professional procrastination), then decided to Find a Friend.

It only took me about 45 seconds to come up with someone I haven’t looked for yet, so I typed in her name. 64 hits. I start skimming through them and finally see a tight mug shot that looks like her. I click on it. Yep, same bones, same coloring, same teeth. Perhaps the years haven’t been so nice to her skin, but all in all, it’s definitely her.

So I friend her (don’t you love how facebook has made that a verb?). She accepts. And tonight, I finally got around to glancing at her webpage.

When finding an old acquaintance on facebook, there’s a standard procedure that must be followed. Step one, head straight for the info tab to see what juicy details they’ve got posted. She has next to nothing up, which is surprising since she’s kind of an open gal.

Step two, photos. Gotta love the photos.

And there she is. All of her. In her bikini. On the beach.

That first bikini photo kind of caught me off guard, since she’s most certainly a modest girl. And wow, she’s really let herself go. Man, that is one tiny bikini, how did she get into that…

Wait a second. My friend doesn’t carry her weight there, no way would she ever be shaped like that, I don’t care how many midnight Taco Bell runs she might make. Suddenly I’m flipping through her increasingly alarming photos for a close up, just to be sure…

Yeah. So not my friend. Not even ten hard years of child bearing could do that to my girlfriend’s face or figure. This chicka is an easy 20 years ahead of us.

SO WHY DID SHE ACCEPT ME AS A FRIEND??? And can I defriend her?

Quick, check out this week’s column before it’s too late!