In which Bonnie discovers one of her favorite science fiction authors tied down in the Bloodmobile, corners him and demonstrates her stunning lack of brain power.

(Read the rest of “The Postman Rings a Bell”)

The Travel Mom went on record on “Good Morning America” to say Carlsbad is one of the top five beach towns in America.

Carlsbad, Calif.

Carlsbad has over five miles of family-friendly beaches that offer the perfect place to cool off. Surfing lessons are abundant, as are the loads of free activities—from jazz concerts in the parks on Friday nights to hiking on the Carlsbad trail system. In addition to the ocean, visitors can play at Legoland or stay at one of my favorite places for the family—La Costa.

I’m sure she meant La Costa Resort and Spa. The term “La Costa” refers to a section in the city of Carlsbad, just like the term “Leucadia” refers to a section of the city of Encinitas.

And speaking of La Costa Resort and Spa, the Acura Classic is about to begin.

In the past, ticketless would-be spectators got free glimpses of beautiful women and their rackets by lining up along a length of chain link fencing on La Costa Avenue that overlooks the Resort and Spa.

If this year’s Fence People can bear to tear their eyes away from Serena and Svetlana, they’ll observe that right behind them is the sliding Marbella condominium complex.

Unfortunately, the people living there may lose everything they own if the condos continue to relocate to La Costa Avenue. The land is moving about an inch a day, pushing the sidewalk up in Carlsbad’s very own version of the first alien scene in War of the Worlds. (Pictures here).

I like to read Dooce.com mainly because Heather B. Hamilton is very funny. But I recently discovered how butt-kickingly beautiful she is and now I am overcome with jealousy.

Being chronically constipated has done wonders for that girl’s skin. Or maybe she’d be even prettier if she wasn’t constipated, and being constipated is just God’s way of evening out the playing field for the rest of us.

Is it my imagination, or do young moms nowadays look better than young moms fifteen years ago? Heck, when I was thirty I looked more like Heather’s dog than Heather.

(We won’t be going into how I look now. Suffice to say teenagers = tanning beds in the wide spectrum of wrinkle inducers.)

UPDATED to bring attention to the slow decline of my brain. Heather B. Hamilton is married to Jon Armstrong, making her Heather B. ARMSTRONG, as it says on her site.

Look at this!

(Read the rest of “Rock Balancing…How Phoony!”)

There’s an interesting discussion going on below Nuclear Moose Candy’s rant on the indignities of single-ply. Lorelle’s comment reminds me of a photo I took to show Hubby why I don’t like the beach at Oceanside Harbor.

I mean, look at this thing. You know it’s going to be COLD. You know you don’t want to be sitting on this even with an inch-thick layer of tissue lining the seat. Holy stainless steel, Batman.

In the mornings at least, these thrones are clean, hosed out by the hard-working Harbor staff and loaded with the biggest dang roll of single-ply you’ve ever seen, about a yard in diameter (Moose would love it).

But by the time lunch is over, all the TP is gone, the trash cans and at least one of the toilets is overflowing, and unless you’ve brought some backup paper, you’re in trouble.

I’ve seen people at Oceanside Beach leaving the restroom with newsprint on their back thighs, and I salute them.

There weren’t any in Minnesota, and visiting family members from Ohio rolled their eyes when they first saw one outside our Carlsbad supermarket. This makes me wonder if it’s just a California thing.

These islands of disinfection are in all the supermarkets I visit, and I’ve seen them in Orange and Los Angeles Counties, too.

They first showed up this winter when the flu vaccine shortage was headline news. The attached signs told us the wipes were for wiping off shopping cart handles, but seemed to really be saying, “Quick! Come inside! You’ll be safe from the flu in here!”

It’s summertime now. The flu and its flaming sword is long gone. And yet the disinfectant wipes remain.

So do all the signs apologizing for any solicitors who interrupt our pursuit of double coupons. And so do those self-checking machines that replace living cashiers and baggers—thanks to them, we don’t have to stand in line with other shoppers if we don’t want to, or have to tell the checker “credit” or “debit” if we don’t want to, or even answer that age-old question, “Paper or Plastic?” Not if we don’t want to.

And now these little disinfectant wipes stand guard at all entrances, ensuring our protection against any ickies left behind by careless, germ-laden shopping cart users. We don’t even have to come into contact with other people’s fingerprints if we don’t want to.

I sense a trend here.

How did a modern update of Samantha’s strong, intelligent character transform her into such a soppy milquetoast of a little girl? Nicole Kidman has talent, sure, but she’s channeling Jennifer Garner’s 13-year-old from 13 Going on 30, not Samantha Stevens.

(Read the rest of “Bewitched 2005″)

Lots of prayers being sent up today around the world on behalf of London’s citizens. Words can’t adequately express the sadness.

It’s quite satisfying to observe Cruise’s character living in a chaotic row house, with an engine resting in the dining room and more auto parts than edible food stored in the kitchen. We all know guys like this, but none of them have blown off Nicole Kidman.

It’s Spielberg’s karmic realignment, an alternate reality universe where Cruise gets what he deserves as well as an epic chance to redeem himself.

(Read the rest of “War of the Worlds 2005″)