Since there are some non-”Twilight” fans out there, I decided to write two blogs this week.  I really had no choice, given the fact that I just survived hosting my first official slumber party this past weekend.  If that’s not something to be thankful for, I don’t know what is.  I think they should give mom’s some kind of T-shirt for making it through one of these things with their sanity in tact.  It’s sort of like making it through an F-5 tornado without a storm shelter.  There were definitely moments when I felt like I had two-by-fours coming at me at 100 mph.

I used to begrudge Kate Gosselin for all of her trips to the spa.  Now I get it.  I only had four girls to contend with, including my own, and it was still like herding kangaroos.  Chore number one was getting three booster seats in the back of my four-door sedan.  To the outside observer, I must have looked like a plumber on a mission, all sprawled out across the back seat trying to locate the appropriate seat belt connector UNDERNEATH all of the car seats.  Any mother who’s done this can appreciate the level of difficulty, not to mention the fact that the girls were all screaming, “We’re not going to fit!” at the tops of their lungs.  I had a flashback of my grandmother who used to say, “Turn down the radio.  I can’t see!”  I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  If you surpass a certain noise level, my brain tends to short circuit as well.

We started out at the bowling alley, which would have been fine, had I not underestimated the time it takes four 8-year-olds to get a ball down a 60-foot lane 10 times in a row.  I made the mistake of paying for two games up front, which left us stranded there munching on cardboard nachos four roughly an hour longer than any of us would have liked.

When we got home, the girls wanted to play and watch a movie.  One soldier was down by 10 p.m., but the other three were still partying like Paris Hilton at the strike of midnight.  That’s when I sent my husband upstairs to throw down the gauntlet.  “If you guys don’t hush and go to sleep we’re going to have to separate you!”  Wow!  I hadn’t heard that one used in a while.  All in all, I’d say it was a huge success.  I realized this right about the time my daughter said, “This is the best sleepover EVER!”  They find a way to get you every time, don’t they?

On a separate note, my sister-in-law (God love her) let her 4-year-old boy pick out his own gift.  Wahla… my personal “Do Not Buy This For Your Child” list just expanded.  The new addition is Pixos!  Unless you’ve banned television in your house, you’ve probably seen these.  According to the commercial, all you have to do is fill up your pen with the special beads, follow the template and out comes a stunning creation.  What they fail to mention in the 30-second bit is that you’ll need the patience of Job and possibly a degree from MIT to figure out how to get the pen loaded and working correctly.  Guess who’s doing this part.  (Hint:  It’s not your kid.)

With Thanksgiving less than 24 hours away, I wanted to end things on a positive note about the things I’m most thankful for. Above and beyond surviving the slumber party, I’m thankful to be blessed with a child who teaches me something new every single day.  I’m thankful for my parents.  Lord knows, I never appreciated the challenge involved with trying to mold another person until I was actually hired to do the job myself.  I’m thankful for my long list of girlfriends who keep me laughing until my stomach hurts, prop me up when I do something stupid, and even make sitting through a bad movie fun.  I’m thankful for my husband who sees my flaws through a telephoto lens and sticks around anyway.  I’m thankful that Channel 4 saw something in me that no one else did, and revived a television career that was, by all accounts, dead.  Most of all, I thank God for making all of the above possible.

Happy Thanksgiving!  Don’t forget to count your blessings.

Not since Tommy “Gunn” turned on Sylvester Stallone in Rocky V have I been as disappointed in a movie as I was in “New Moon.”  Four days after the fact … I’m still catatonic.  Looking back, I should have known we were in trouble before the lights in the theater even went down.

Like a good Twi-hard fan, I invited a posse of my girlfriends to go with me on opening night.  In order to secure the tickets, we bought them online… three weeks ago, no less!  Most of us showed up a half hour early to make sure we got to sit together. We had intended to save seats for the few stragglers who couldn’t make it early, but that plan was quickly thwarted.  This is easily my most bizarre movie experience ever.  The overly empowered “ticket taker” manning the door very matter-of-factly informed us that saving seats was against theater policy.  As if that weren’t strange enough, she went on to tell us that anyone caught violating the edict would be dealt with by the Sumner County Sheriff’s Department.  Seriously?

I would have challenged her had I not been so afraid, but she seemed sort of like the soup Nazi on Seinfeld: “No ‘New Moon’ for you!”  Like it or not … she held all the cards, and I knew it.  It was clear that unless I wanted to risk being hauled off to the pokey, I should probably just find a seat and plant myself in it before things got ugly.  I was so scared to move that I didn’t even get my usual tub of lard-laced popcorn.

As I sat there with too much time on my hands, trying desperately to behave, I couldn’t help but wonder, is this why our jails are so overcrowded?  Are we granting early release to drug dealers and petty thieves to accommodate all these renegades out there saving seats for their friends at the movies?  It seems like such a low-level offense.  I would have thought the Sumner County Sheriff’s Department had better things to do than extricate grown women from tween flicks, but I wasn’t about to test them on such an important night.

Now I know there will be MANY out there who take issue with my assessment of the film, and that’s OK!  This is my opinion and my opinion ONLY.  Stephanie Meyer is not soliciting my advice on this via speed dial.  No changes will occur as a result of this blog.  The movie … was a bust!  I have to give the director credit for following the book, but otherwise … the scenes seemed flat, drawn out, and boring.

How you make Edward Cullen ugly is beyond me, but I’m telling you … they did it.  He looked like he hadn’t had a morsel of wild game since Twilight, and his skin reminded me of the Christmas my daughter got her hands on some baby powder and decided to douse her entire body in it.  Add to that some bright red lipstick, and you have a modern-day Count Dracula on your hands sans the slicked back hair.  Any way you look at it … he was not hot!  When you put him next to the new-and-improved Jacob Black (aka: the werewolf), Edward looked downright scrawny.

I was a little thrown off by some of the special effects, too.  A lot of people panned the werewolves.  I actually liked that part.  What drove me nuts were the visions of Edward that kept cropping up whenever Bella went rogue.  It seemed like the same special effects Conan O’Brien uses in his “In the year 2000” skit.  All I could think was, “Beat it dude! We’re trying to watch Jacob.”

I think I’ve learned a valuable lesson from all of this: Never read a book and expect the movie to live up to your expectations.  No director is going to execute the scenes exactly the way you had them mapped out in your head, but let’s hope between now and “Eclipse” the director finds a way to steam up the scenes between Edward and Bella.  If not, I’m not sure we’ll be seeing a part four.  Best acting award definitely goes to Taylor Lautner.  Keep it up, man-boy!  You have a bright future ahead of you.

Having been in the news business for 15 years now, there’s one thing I’ve grown accustomed to: criticism.  I won’t lie –  sometimes it’s hard to withstand.  You have to have really thick skin, but let’s face it … not everyone is going to agree with everything I say on television every night.  If they did, that would probably be really bad news for the station because it would mean my parents are the only people watching.  Statistically, if you get more than 10 people in a room … they’re going to disagree about something.

Back in the old days, most of the jabs were delivered via voice mail.  Whenever a show ended, I would always cringe to see my light on, not knowing what was about to greet me on the other end of my password.  One night, I got a message from this lady who said, and I quote, “I am so sick and tired of you talking about how cold or hot you are every night.  I invite you into my house every night at 6:30, and it insults me that you’re always complaining about the temperature in my living room.” Thank goodness she didn’t leave a return number. How would I have even begun to explain that I’m not actually “IN” her living room?  I’ll tell you one thing … I stopped talking about the temps in the studio.

About 10 years ago, when everyone started getting their own computer, the “constructive criticism” evolved into e-mails.  Some of them are insults. Others are from loyal viewers who sincerely want to offer their advice, and then there are those that are just downright bizarre.  A couple of months ago, I shared some of my viewer e-mail with you.  Everyone seemed entertained by them, so I thought I would roll out some of my latest jewels for your reading pleasure.  I’ve omitted the names, but if you sent this … you know who you are.

Jennifer… Your hair read yellow on camera, I think its time to reinvent yourself. Hair looks really damaged, pretty face bad hair.  I know you can afford a good stylist!  For me I rather watch channel 2 so I don’t have to look at your hair, sorry!!

I guess the cat’s out of the bag.  I highlight my hair!
This next one is in reference to the night I called Dan a cheapskate on-air … something he clearly is NOT.  We were joking about some new restaurant opening up.

Ms. Johnson, I use to think you were an opinionated loud mouth, but after your remark to Dan tonight I have decided you are simply a rude loud mouth who ALWAYS has to have the last word.  I am not impressed.

So … maybe she had a point.  I toned it down a little after that one.  Growing up, I always got an “S” in conduct along with the words “Talks Excessively” in the teacher comment section.  Maybe it’s time to shut up!

This next one was from a very nice man in Old Hickory who I actually struck up a friendship with after he sent the e-mail.  Take a look.

Whoever is advising you on your makeup is not helping you… it is not working in too many ways… you are really attractive and you deserve guidance from someone who will help you’re look, not make it look like they are selling eye liner and lip liner only.

The e-mail came in mid-show.  All I could think was … “I look like Tammy Faye Baker!”  I wiped half of it off for the last part of the show.  Some nights, I’m still not so sure I’m slapping the stuff on right.  It’s hard to fire your make-up artist when you’re doing it yourself.

This next one was from a woman who seemed like she wanted to rip out my jugular.

PULLLEESE STOP making such inane remarks on every subject on which you report; you are driving me so crazy I plan to stop listening to your newscasts if you don’t stop the unnecessary comments!!!

After reading it I couldn’t help but wonder, “Am I becoming Ron Burgandy reincarnate?  Stay classy, Nashville. (wink, wink)  I hope not!  I think I just get carried away sometimes because I’m from here.  It feels like I’m just talking to my friends and family, and I forget … we’re actually on-air!

Now I think we can all agree that this next one dances right up to the line of inappropriate without actually crossing it.  For whatever reason, I still found it amusing.

Jennifer… What shoe size do you wear?

To which I reply: “Why do you ask?”

Just curious. A friend of mine bet me that you wear a 9 to 10 and I went with a 7.5 to 8.5 and the only way to really answer that is to ask you. LOL

Wow!  What else is there to say?  In closing … here’s one last juicy morsel from a scientist who eloquently explained to me why it’s important for NASA to track things like tool bags that are floating out in space.

In your report of a space tool bag falling back to Earth, You mentioned that they actually tracked this tool bag. As in disbelief, and then you scoffed your tax dollars at work. Well it is EXTREMLY important to track that tool bag. They track not only that toolbag, but thousands of other things as small as a screw just floating in space. The reason for this is they are traveling at extreme velocities. Bullets travel at their fastest speeds of 2500 miles per hour. Debris in space travel at speeds exceeding 17,000 miles per hour. If they did not track these debris, they would not know where they were. They do track them so they can avoid them. If a tool bag slammed into the space shuttle or space station going at 17000 miles per hour, it would be disastrous.

FINALLY!  One of my inane comments actually yielded an explanation!  Have a great week, and … “Stay classy.”

It’s hard to believe that with Thanksgiving just a little more than two weeks away, our “turkey on the hill” is still engaging in a Mexican standoff with everyone who dares to pull in or out of the driveway here at the station.  In fact, he has apparently expanded his territory to include the street.  Last week, I got caught in a traffic jam two days in a row while he stood in the middle of Knob Road pulling over cars like a sworn patrol officer.

You think I’m joking, but most of us have been attacked at least once.  Many of our savvier employees have even gone as far as to video him with their cell phone while he chases them up and down the hill, and if you roll your window down … God help you!  He looks at you like he could chew your face off.  One of our photographers decided to document his behavior the week of Halloween and post it on YouTube.  Check it out for yourself.  THIS is what we’re up against!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hzbwHgtOaY

I know we’re in the middle of wildlife central here in middle Tennessee, so let me pose this question: Does anyone out there have any idea what this guy is searching so desperately for?  Was he not held enough as a baby?  Is there some deep hole he’s trying to fill?  At first, I thought maybe it was a death wish.  Then it dawned on me that maybe someone actually gave him a shot of Wild Turkey.  Like a moth to a flame, he’s trying to score another hit.  I seriously cannot figure it out.

Occasionally, he’ll have some friends hanging out with him, but apparently they sneak away from him in the dead of night when he’s sleeping. He’s the kind of guy that, if you took him out on 2nd Avenue one weekend, you’d automatically assume he was going to pick a fight at Rippy’s and end up getting hauled down to the police station.

On second thought, perhaps he’s a SHE.  You know how it is with women.  If you get more than five of us together, there’s almost always one angry bully in the group whose self loathing forces her to constantly try to ruin everyone else’s good time.  (Excluding my beloved Ya Ya’s of course.)  Maybe this is that proverbial mean girl, in turkey form.  I’ve already been warning my daughter about her.  Fortunately, they don’t usually emerge until right around puberty.  I think I’ll bring her to the station next week on a field trip so she can see the phenomenon in its primitive form.

Anyway, if you’re in a bind this year financially, and you’re looking for Thanksgiving dinner … you know where we are.  I’m just saying! This turkey could feed a family of 10.

Stay tuned!  Next week, I’m unveiling my latest installment of viewer hate e-mail.  It took me several months to come up with the right mix, but I’ve accumulated what I think you’ll see is an entertaining batch.

Isn’t it strange how in January it feels like you’ve stepped onto a slow-moving carousel, but by Halloween, your life is spinning out of control like you’re in a Tilt-a-Whirl?  I don’t know about you, but I’m already feeling nauseous.

I don’t understand how it happens so predictably every single year.  You’d think that eventually we’d figure out how to manage three holidays in three months.  The problem is, if you’re like us, you also have to squeeze in four family birthdays, a Hannah Montana concert, the premiere of “New Moon,” a viewing of “This is It” (which is only on for two weeks, of course), breakfast with Santa, a trip to the Rockettes and some holiday parties sprinkled in between.  I need a nerve pill just thinking about it all!

I don’t remember it being like this before I had a child, but then again, I don’t remember much of anything about my life pre-baby.  I have some photo albums at home that seem to suggest it existed, but that’s sort of like finding the footprint of a dinosaur.  It’s not real unless you’re staring it in the face.

I think the doctors secretly perform some kind of lobotomy on mothers during childbirth so we have amnesia about how carefree our lives were before we decided to procreate.  If we actually realized how much responsibility we were taking on, half of us would probably have a nervous breakdown and try to jump out of the car on the ride home from the hospital.

I love when I call my single girlfriends this time of year.  They’re all sooooo busy.  What with the working out, meeting friends for drinks, traveling the country, learning to speak French …  it’s almost IMPOSSIBLE to squeeze in a lunch.  I want to slap them.  Two years ago, one of “the girls” called to see if she could take Dalton to a movie called “The Red Balloon.”  It was several weeks before Christmas, and I thought it was an extremely nice gesture.

Unfortunately, she showed up to brunch 30 minutes late with a massive hangover from the Christmas party she’d just left several hours prior to our meeting.  To make matters worse, the movie turned out to be a 34-minute documentary with almost no dialogue about a balloon that floats around the streets of Paris.  Despite the “critical acclaim” of this 1956 flick, Dalton got bored five minutes in.  To her 7-year-old brain, it was just a balloon floating around aimlessly.  Apparently, she mortified my girlfriend by talking through the whole thing, asking for popcorn (which they weren’t selling) and demanding to leave during the post-film lecture series.  Did I mention that my friend is single?  The truth is … there’s a lot about it I don’t miss and would rather forget.  We still love her.  She meant well.

So, another year has passed.  Thanksgiving is up to bat.  As usual, my husband and mother are in charge of the food.  My dad and I are in charge of drinking coffee all day and devising our battle plan for Black Friday.  Three years ago, he actually sat in line outside Best Buy all night … in his motorized wheelchair … to get a deal on a laptop he never uses.  For him, it’s all about the game.

I have no idea what the allure is for me.  I’ve never saved a dime on anything.  In fact, one year, I bought something at Target my daughter didn’t even ask for because it was being sold at a “doorbuster” price.  Two weeks later, I took it back, lost the return receipt and never got the credit back on my card.  The week before Christmas, I had to go RE-BUY it at full-price when she decided she DID want it.  Are you following me?  I paid for it TWICE!  Thankfully, I have to work this year on the day after Thanksgiving.  I’ll just be acting as a consultant for my dad.

I’m already cringing every time my daughter turns on the television set in fear of what kind of worthless item the marketing gurus are going to sell her on this year.  Two years ago, it was Floam.  Last year, I had to rush out to Walgreens at the last minute and buy those glorified pipe cleaners known as Bendaroos.  About six months ago, she started asking for a Snuggie, but I convinced her it was too big.  It’s not that any of it is that expensive, it’s just WORTHLESS!  OK … I can’t really vouch for the Snuggie, but the other two are, in my opinion, a complete waste of money.

Anyway, the race is on.  You officially have three weeks and one day to get your act together before Thanksgiving.  Run, run, run!

I can’t believe it, but I am less than a week away from hosting my first pyramid scheme party.  Trust me … I can’t believe it either.  I mean, I’m a regular attendee at these sorts of things: Pampered Chef, Prestige, Arbonne, Lia Sophia, Kelly’s Kids, Cabi — you name it, and I’ve been to one of their parties.  I’ve just always felt like there was a certain stigma associated with hosting a party where a) My friends are coerced into becoming part of the company’s sales force, or b) I get a discount while they pay full price.  You know how it works: The more they buy, the bigger discount I get.  How pedestrian!

In fact, my sister-in-law and I used to make fun of people who engaged in such shenanigans.  We affectionately nicknamed her ex-roommate an “Amwaynian” because of her all consuming part-time job selling Amway dishwashing detergent and recruiting people to work “under” her.  Every other week, she would haul a bunch of strangers into their living room to indoctrinate them into what we liked to think of as an above-ground cult.  It was all fun and games until last year when I discovered 150 necklaces with matching earrings in my sister-in-law’s closet.  I don’t think she’s a full-fledged “associate,” but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t admit it either way.  I instituted the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that some of the parties aren’t so bad.  For example, I have an excellent food chopper and a mini spatula I bought at a Pampered Chef party several years ago.  The chopper gets used about twice a year, but I’ve yet to christen the spatula.  Who cares?  I always leave those things stuffed.  It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Typically, the host gets up front and shows everyone how “easy” it is to be the next Emeril Lagasse while using their miracle kitchen gadgets.  About the only thing they DON’T sell is the one thing I need, which is the desire or the skills needed to actually use their products.  Now THAT my husband would pay for!

The Arbonne party was entertaining enough.  I got a little freaked out when they started selling us all on the libido cream.  It seemed a little far-fetched to think that a little moisturizer in the crook of your elbow (which is where they recommended) would have much of an effect one way or another.  Of course, my entire crew tested it out anyway.  No harm no foul, right?  The bottle’s still sitting underneath my bathroom sink … full.

So you’re probably wondering at this point … how did I get myself into this predicament anyway?  Last month, I went to a kids clothing party and absolutely LOVED the entire collection.  It was like no other network marketing experience I’ve ever had in that I went through the racks, picked out a few things I liked and wrote a check.  That was it!  Not ONCE were any high-pressure sales tactics used, and not only that … there was no spiel.  You know — the part where they hand me a Mercedes key chain and tell me the car could be next if only I would Carpe Diem.  It simply never happened!  I’m not sure the company’s going to make it.  I think that stuff’s mandatory to survival.

Anyway, I could go on and on, but I just got an e-mail invitation to a Cabi party at my good friend Lorie Taylor’s house. And I’m NOT joking!

Is it wrong that I’ve spent six months counting down the days until the release of “New Moon” or that I’m burning a candle at my desk night now in honor of tonight being the official one-month countdown to the premiere?  I feel like a small child waiting for my birthday to roll around.  For those of you who’ve been in a coma or perhaps stranded on Gilligan’s island for the past 18 months … allow me to explain.  “New Moon” is the next installment of the “Twilight” saga, which is coming out in all its cinematic glory one month from today.  Teens (and immature adults like me) all over the country are on the edge of our seats and have been for quite some time now.

You may remember that back in the winter I wrote a whole blog about my obsession with the vampire series.  It all started one rainy Sunday afternoon when my husband stumbled into the house with a DVD of “Twilight.”  No one particularly wanted to watch it, including me, but we got bored enough that we did anyway.  Trust me when I say my husband has never regretted anything more in his LIFE.

Not only is “Twilight” the biggest chick flick on the planet, but it’s also geared for 13-year-old audience members.  Imagine watching it as a grown man.  I’m sure “New Moon” will be chock-full of the same teenage angst.  The fact that I’m going to the midnight showing on opening night probably means that I’m either having some kind of midlife crisis or a mental breakdown; I can’t decide which.  On the bright side, I did finally stop calling my husband Edward a couple of months ago when I could see how emotionally scarred he was becoming every time I chose a vampire’s name over his.

Of course, I read the entire 10,000 page series … in one week!  No self-respecting fan could hold their head up without having done the same.  I’m a little torn, though.  Originally, I was set to buy a “Team Edward” T-shirt for the premiere, but after seeing some of the movie trailers, I’m starting to waffle.  I never thought I’d say this, but I might have to switch to “Team Jacob.”  Now that he’s ditched the ridiculous-looking Indian wig and started working out 24/7, I’m starting to see the attraction.  I can definitely understand why Bella might go for him over the pasty-white, skinny guy who, according to the tabloids, doesn’t bathe regularly.

Who could have possibly predicted this time last year that I’d even be engaging in such lunacy? After all, we’re talking about a love story pitting a group of vampires against a pack of werewolves.  Have I really stooped that low?  I mean, am I that strapped for entertainment? Yes! Yes, I am.

I mean, I’ll admit there’s a part of me that feels stupid for being reeled in by this insanely far-fetched story, but there’s another side of me that wonders what’s so wrong with indulging a little guilty pleasure every now and then.

It’s sort of like buying a tube of lipstick when you know you can’t afford it.  Does it make perfect sense to belly up to the Clinique counter and buy it?  No.  Do you feel better the next day after applying it? Yes.  Not everything in life makes sense.  Vampires and werewolves actually fit into that category, but sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind.  Bottom line: I’m financing the lipstick and wearing it to the movies.  As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, I think it’s actually healthy to engage in something mindless every now and then.  I don’t believe in vampires and werewolves, but for now … “New Moon” is my mindless something.  Find yours.

For years, I’ve been telling my daughter we’d take her to New York City for her 10th birthday.  It just seemed like a nice, even number.  I thought she’d probably appreciate the city more once she got a little older.  I didn’t even go myself until I was 19!  Surely she wouldn’t call Child Services on us if we waited until she was 10.  About two months ago, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “Mommy, if you take me to New York for fall break, we can skip the big birthday party this year.”  Think … dream sequence from “Wayne’s World.”  It was like harps started playing.  This was music to my ears.  I actually got dizzy and had to pull the car over.

Any parent who’s ever orchestrated a kid’s birthday party can relate to what I’m saying here.  First, they’re expensive.  Second, they’re a ton of work.  There are the invitations, then there’s the decision over where to have it without duplicating what every other one of her friends has already done.  Sadly, that’s just the beginning.  Once the party actually arrives, it’s like herding cats trying to keep everyone’s child entertained and/or uninjured.  The gifts are almost always opened in cyclone-like fashion … making it impossible to know who gave what.  In recent years, some of the other moms have started sending out thank you cards with amazing party pics printed on the front.  One mom even went so far as to get an individual shot of the birthday girl with every guest so that the photo thank you cards were personalized.  Shoot me!!!!  I’m lucky if I even remember to bring our camera to the party.  One year we had to borrow one!

So, for weeks, we’ve been planning our trip to NYC.  My first stop was to McKay’s used bookstore to buy all of the cheap tourism paraphernalia I could find.  In the “New York with Children” book, we quickly found a couple of must-do activities, including a trip to the American Girl emporium to have lunch with our doll, Emma.  One imperative thing they forgot to mention in the guide is that you should actually bring your doll with you.  I’m serious!  For you American Girl neophytes, let me explain that it’s crucial that the doll and your child have matching outfits.  We spent an hour the night before our trip packing Emma’s bags to make sure her clothes all matched Dalton’s.  At 6 a.m., right there at gate A7, we had our first M-E-L-T-D-O-W-N.  All I could think was, “Is it too late to throw a birthday party?” Of course, my husband offered no support whatsoever.  He was just staring at me blankly like it was entirely my fault, which it kind of was.  I did what most any parent would do under the circumstances and threw some money at the problem.  We now have a new doll named Rebecca … who now needs her own bed to match Emma’s.  Again … shoot me!!!

I’d say all in all, the trip was a huge success.  Of course, there were a few minor setbacks you’d expect on an adventure such as this one, like the day we got off on the wrong bus, walked 45 blocks to see the World Trade Center memorial and never actually found it.  Guess who was staring blankly at whom on this one?  I wanted to kill my husband.  We walked so far it felt like my big toe had separated from the rest of my foot.  Convinced that I had a case of gout, we decided to hop the subway to our next destination … another huge mistake.  I can’t tell you how many underground trains we got on and off of to end up nowhere near our hotel.  Here’s the best piece of advice I can give any tourist going to New York: TAKE A CAB!  They’re cheaper, and you’ll avoid losing hours of valuable sightseeing time trying to figure out the Rubik’s cube that is the New York subway system.

Another thing I took away from the whole experience is that everything in New York costs 10 times as much as it should.  For example, I thought I’d reached a point in my life where I wouldn’t get sticker shock from something as simple as a crab cake, but apparently I was wrong.  One night on the way to our hotel, we decided to go into the Waldorf Astoria to show it to Dalton and just warm up in general.  After having a $12 cup of hot chocolate, we decided to just get something “light” to eat.  $160 dollars later, we had consumed a bowl of tomato soup, an order of crab cakes, a club sandwich and three salads.  I needed a stiff drink, but at that point … we couldn’t afford one!

The only other must-do item on our list was to see “Wicked” on Broadway.  I bought the tickets on the Internet sight unseen for $140 a piece … and that was the matinee!  I kid you not when I say we were on the very LAST row of the Gershwin Theatre.  Any further back and we would have been sitting in the booth with the lighting crew.  It was so stupid it was actually comical.  Despite the partially blocked view, it was, hands down, the best play I’ve ever seen.  Our savings account defiinitely took a beating this fall broke (ah… I mean break), but as the marketing gurus for American Express might say … “Trip to New York … priceless.”

Is it me, or does it feel like the flu shot is being pimped out on every street corner this year?  It’s not like I’m against vaccinations.  After contracting a full-blown case of the flu back in 2003 that eventually turned into pneumonia, I’m probably one of the biggest proponents of the flu shot you’ll ever meet.  Still, there’s something a little unsettling about just how desperate everyone seems this year to stake their claim on people’s upper arms.

The other day, we got a call at the house from what the caller ID revealed was the Kroger pharmacy.  Convinced I must have inadvertently forgotten to pick up a prescription, I actually decided to pick up the phone.  There was no person on the other end of the line.  It was just some automated recording … making sure I knew they were offering flu shots this year at the pharmacy.  No!  Really?  I hadn’t heard.  I desperately wanted to prank call them and ask if they could work me in at the drive through.  Who knows?  Maybe they’ve discovered a way to squeeze people’s arms through that little drawer to speed things along.

I took our dog to the kennel today and half way expected them to offer me a “BOGO”: I buy the kennel cough shot, and they throw in a flu shot for free.  I can’t help but wonder if the big drug companies are offering some kind of performance-based bonus this year to those who can dole out the most vaccine.  Whatever is going on, I fell for it.  Today, Shots Etc. came to the station to stab us in the bicep.  (I’m not joking.  That’s the name of the company.)  As always, I wore my cotton ball-covered Band-Aid around for the balance of the work day.  If you’re going to shed blood, you might as well milk it for all it’s worth.  In fact, they somehow even talked me into getting a shot of B-12 while I was in there.  I must have “gullible” written all over my face.  What kind of fool gets up-sold on a shot?!  No wonder my husband never lets me get out of the car when we’re trying to negotiate something.

If your company isn’t offering flu shots … don’t worry.  I’m sure you’ll soon be able to pop into the nearest Jiffy Lube.  Chances are you can get a shot in their waiting room while your engine gets revamped.  I’m sure the Lexus dealership must be doing it.  I’ve heard they have homemade cookies in there and everything!

I want to know whatever happened to that scare a couple of years ago when we ran out of the vaccine.  Isn’t anyone worried about the system being depleted with all this additional publicity?  I guarantee if you count, there are more flu ads on right now than beer commercials.  I think we can all agree … that’s saying something.

Anyway, I’m out until next Tuesday.  If you’re looking for something to do tomorrow night for a good cause, head over to the Cotton Mill’s Pink Party benefiting the Susan G. Komen Center.  The party runs from 6 to 8 p.m., and you can check it out on Facebook.  Just look for “The Cotton Mill Nashville.”  Have a great week!

It’s official: Our dog is running the house.  I never realized that a 7-pound animal was capable of becoming my boss, but here we are.  Nearly four years to the day after Santa dropped him off on our doorstep, he’s not so large but is very much in charge.  I have no idea when or how this happened, but I realized it for the first time Monday.  At first, I thought I was imagining the whole thing, but I’ve spent the last couple of days studying him.  It’s true.  We now work for him.

Let me start out by giving you a little history.  Last year, we participated in a carpool with another family in the neighborhood, so the dog only got to make the school run twice a week.  This year, when I started driving every day, he got promoted.  It was like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to him.  You would have thought Donald Trump had hired him to run one of his Fortune 500 companies.  He would circle the garage door a hundred times in a row, chasing his tail, waiting for us to leave.  It was so cute/ludicrous that my daughter and I thought about videotaping it for a submission to America’s Funniest Home Videos.  I say “almost” because my husband found out and told me it was the most low-rent idea I’d ever come up with.  Apparently, it shook some sense into me.  It’s not even on NBC for goodness’ sake!

Fast forward to this week, and it’s like I’m living with a whole different dog.  As soon as my daughter exits the car, the dog starts treating me like one of his employees. Unlike most pets who like to sit in your lap lovingly and look out the window, this one insists on riding in my daughter’s booster seat all the way home like it’s some kind of throne.  To make matters worse, he’s now refusing to get out of the car when we get back home.  No joke.

Up until two weeks ago, he would hop into the front seat and jump out behind me every time he heard the garage door closing. It was our little, daily ritual.  On Monday, I turn around … no dog.  I’m thinking, “Oh no.  Did he jump out in the school parking lot?  I KNEW this would happen one day!” As I’m about to break down in tears trying to figure out how I’m going to explain this to our daughter, I happen to glance through the tinted back window.  He’s just sitting there staring at me.  I call him again in that baby talk we reserve only for our pets and children.  Still … I’m greeted with nothing but a blank stare. With the clock ticking and no other options, I opened the door and he hopped right out. Who does this guy think he is? I’m now his limo driver!

I’ll admit … he’s adorable, but it’s not like he’s starring in his own Pedigree commercials or anything.  I don’t see any fat paychecks rolling in as a result of his good looks.  I can’t figure out what’s prompted this radical transformation.  When we got him, he was a glorified shelter dog with a broken tail.  Today … he’s too cool to be bothered with us.  Has he been talking to the cat? They pretend to hate each other when we’re home, but who knows? Maybe she’s been brainwashing him during the day while we’re at work.

I’ve started to notice that his behavior is rubbing off in other areas as well.  For example, he now refuses to go to his bed in our utility room unless I have the appropriate brand of treat on hand, and even then, he’ll only go inside if the washer and dryer are both off.  For a while, he was giving the ice maker hell, but I guess that was becoming too labor-intensive with the cubes dropping every hour.  I cannot tell you what a HUGE departure this all is from the dog we once knew.

The old Prince Charming let our daughter wheel him around in a stroller without making a peep.  We dressed him up as a golf caddy one Halloween, and he was totally fine with it.  He even kept the little clubs strapped onto his back like a good boy. Today, it’s bark, bark, bark.  I want in.  I want out.  I need more water.  I don’t like that bowl.  A couple of weeks ago, we went on an overnight trip and left him at home.  He went on a hunger strike, refusing to eat.

Not only is he a problem child at home, but he’s turned into the neighborhood bully.  A couple down the street has two Doberman pinchers who, I might add, are responsibly kept in their yard by a wireless fence.  The other day, Prince bolted through their yard after them while barking like a German Shepherd.  The Doberman’s owner politely told me that a couple of weeks ago, Prince’s behavior actually scared one of her 100-plus-pound dogs so much that the dog ran up onto her own porch for safety and wet herself.  MY DOG IS 4 INCHES TALL!  Maybe the U.S. military could use him for some kind of operation over in Iraq or Afghanistan.  No doubt he would demand to be named commanding general.