Holy Mackerel

I ventured out into our backyard the other day to innocently take some pictures, and almost got swallowed up by the weeds and thousands of baby trees wending their way to the skies. For a moment, I forgot where I was, and was sure I had been kidnapped and dropped off in the jungles of South America by some drug lords who needed a middle-aged senora to fetch their taquitos and water for them. After finally climbing out of the Zone of Death, I made my way back inside and told Mr. Handsome I knew what our summer project was: to make our backyard habitable again, and I don't mean for mice and other small mammals. Now, for us, a "project" usually means things like what one might be planning to make for dinner, or tackling the laundry, or maybe something as huge as clipping our toenails. All this to say that we don't "do projects" here. We're not that kind of family. But I think a summer project would be a good idea, especially when it comes to our backyard. ...

My husband wants Susan Boyle, and in a bad way. Everytime he goes upstairs to the office, after a few minutes' time, just long enough to allow the computer to boot up, I hear the faint strain of Susan trilling her little song on Simon Cowell's British cash grab show, Britain's Got Talent . Out of utter curiosity, and because my background is investigative journalism at its finest, I asked him why in hell's name he does this. His response: "She's hot." Last night, he listened to her six times. SIX. TIMES. He tells me she's inspirational. I tell him, "I'll show you inspirational. Get over here, big boy." But no, guys, he won't budge from the computer. He sits there, staring at her, like a dog at a bone. She's irresistible. I even found a pool of drool on the keyboard later that evening. Then, Mr. Handsome was sitting beside me on the couch, and we were both watching something inane, as we always do after dinner, because that'...