My disappointment in the season finale of Lost is so intense and widespread I don’t even know where to begin. BAH.

But trust me, I WILL start my bitch session as soon as I figure out what pissed me off the most about it. Until then? Tell me what you thought…unless you liked it, then just keep it to yourself.

American Idol is NOT over yet - but I must say this:

Bo? Don’t ever take those black leather pants off. EVER. Amen.

Kenny Wayne? I’m sorry your brilliance on the guitar was drowned out by the bizarro and HORRID vocal performance of the fallen idols.

Did I mention how hot Bo looks in black leather pants? I did? Oh. Okay. Sorry. I’ll return to the finale now.

Oh - and the rest of the Idols with their Idols? SUCKED ASS. But Carrie’s and Bo’s. They rocked.

I do have to admit the “scandal” bit where Randy was trying to pimp his new album? Was very well done. Cheesy? Yes. But the point was made, and made well. Kudos.

Edited to add now that it’s OVER: Poop. Poop. Poop. I’m glad I hadn’t invested much time or hope into this season because I’m very bummed that Bo didnt win and I only watched like 2 hours of this show the whole season. Oh well. At least he still has his sexy pants. And that song they were to release? Sucks. BAD. So I’m glad I don’t have to hear Bo sing it.

I finally got a confirmation email from my brother indicating he had received my “Happy Birthday!” email, so now I can do a Birthday entry for him. What? Yes, I said I sent him a “Happy Birthday!” email, what’s your point? I know that’s cold and heartless but I’m busy, and moving, and I didn’t have his address, and then there’s the time difference, and then…

Yeah, I know. I suck.

But - in his honor - I’m going to give you a few funny tidbits about BroZ and I.

The first night LilZ and I started painting his room, I had a bizarro back spasm that kept me from standing up. LilZ had to help me to the bathroom where I soaked in the tub and all was well again. No biggee.

I spent a good chunk of Saturday painting. I came home for a break and to do some laundry. When I went to stand up from the desk, my back spazzed (spasmed?) again and I couldnt stand up. Only this time? There was no LilZ to help me. Soooo….I got on my hands and knees and decided to crawl to the bathroom to soak in the tub.

Are you picturing this? You should be…it gets better.

At that moment, Sweetie decided I was playing a game and started play biting MY ASS. She would nibble and then run away, like we were playing some bizarro form of tag. This, of course, got me laughing because she wouldn’t stop. This, of course, made my back cramp up worse which kept me from doing ANYTHING but maintaining the all-fours position while Sweetie continuously nipped at my ass.

Luckily, my bathroom is only about 20 feet from the chair the problem started in, so eventually I made it there. I shut the door to look the animals out, and just flattened out on the floor of the bathroom for ten minutes or so, savoring the victory my ass won against my dog.

This? Is my life.

And the saga continues…

I finally broke down and went to the mall just now to buy a few plain t-shirts in the FIRST maternity section I came to. There would be NO “shopping” or “browsing”. I was going to be in and out and not be detected by ANYONE. The first place I saw? I didn’t even know the name of (Motherhood) until I left. They had pregnant women on the displays - that’s all I needed to know.

I walked in and IMMEDIATELY started suffering an INSANE anxiety attack where I felt paranoid and guilty. Like, What the HELL am I doing in a MATERNITY store? I mean, I know I’m pregnant, but I’m probably going to miscarry so surely this is deception on some level, right? They are totally going to see right through me and kick me out. How do I get OUT of here?

Do you SEE how insane I am? From what I understand this is common for “Habitual Aborters” but it doesn’t make it any LESS insane.

I stepped in and after about 3.2 seconds, the lady started TALKING to me. Can you believe that? She began by asking me if I needed help. And I couldn’t even look her in the eye. I just kept thinking Grab a blue shirt and get the HELL out of here. She asked me my due date, and I stammered. She asked me if this was my first pregnancy, and I broke out in a cold sweat. She asked how far along I was and I just ignored her. Then? I found a plain blue shirt and panicked because OH MY GOD, WHAT SIZE DO I WEAR?

So, she led me to a dressing room and promptly called mall security about the KRAZEE pregnant lady who was acting suspicious. She told them to wait and she would notify them if the situation escalated. She handed me an Extra-Small first because I’ve ALWAYS worn XS tops and that’s what I asked for. She probably added that to the list of reason why I was IN-FREAKIN’-SANE. I mean, have you seen me lately? EXTRA SMALL? WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?

See? I’ve always had size A boobs - size A boobs BELONG in XS tops. That’s what I was thinking.

Yeah. The top fit beautifully everywhere BUT my boobs. And she asked me the obvious question, “Um, ma’am, what size cup do you wear?” Now - I’ve been ignoring her questions and avoiding eye contact the ENTIRE time I’ve been in the store. But - the second she asks about my boobs? I perked right up and said “A C-Cup, probably needing a D-Cup now…because my boobs have NOT stopped growing in 18 weeks.” And then I just talked and talked and talked about my boobs to this complete stranger who just wanted to help me find a top. We decided, since my boobs would just get BIGGER, I should get a size small top, and leave the xtras smalls to women with SMALL boobs.

So I left - wearing a shirt with no stains and carrying a bag of basic tanks and tees to hold me over a few weeks. I was very proud I kicked my anxiety long enough to tell the woman about the fact that my boobs were SO small I had to have B-cup pads sewn into my wedding dress less than TWO YEARS ago. Why did I have to tell her that? I don’t know. More importantly - why could I tell her THAT but not answer the question, “how far along are you?” I’m sick, I tell you. If you see me out - don’t ask me if I have picked out any names yet. Ask me about my boobs - those I seem to have NO PROBLEM discussing.