Mass_Distractions

I am an "Open House" junkie. Oh for a fix of a fixer-upper or a tear-down, a McMansion or a cozy starter! If it's Sunday afternoon you'll find me zig-zagging through the 'hood like some Pavlovian hound, traveling so slowly, so haphazardly that my GPS is sending out an SOS. I am looking for some kind of sign, more specifically a little lawn sign that points me to the promised land -- an open house. With headlines screaming that the median price for a home in my Los Angeles County is through the roof at $600,000, I know I am not alone.

It started innocently enough, as most addictions do. I was in the market for a bargain basement home. But, finally settling down did not stop my weekend binges. At first I justified my lust for looking as a way to assuage my worry that I had squandered a perfectly good APR.

I’m just one singular sensation. Apparently I am not alone. According to a new report more than half, 51% of all women, are living without a husband. Just like a fish needs a bicycle, if you’re old enough to remember that seventies t-shirt.

There are millions of us and we're coming out of the closet, ready to kick some soccer mom butt. We are SWBC - Single Women by Choice and our greatest family value is we don’t have to share the bathroom or the closet space or most importantly, the TV remote. We are your neighbors. Your kid's teacher. We are doctors. And lawyers. And plumbers. We’ve been the Attorney General of the United States and the Secretary of State. Read more

Imagine my absolute delight and amazement at discovering that Time Magazine had named me (ME!) Person of the Year. There it was screaming out at me on the cover PERSON OF THE YEAR – YOU. Awesome! I never realized that losing those last 5 pounds and switching to an energy efficient fridge and doubling my contribution to NPR would have so profound an effect. It made me feel all Sally Fields warm and fuzzy -- “They like me, they really like me!”

Who else could they mean but me? Who knew that for years my family, friends, co-workers, ex-husband and lovers had been such visionaries demanding to know, “Why is it always about you?” Now, no less than Time Magazine has validated their sense of my fabulous destiny. At least I thought so until I cracked open the pages. Read more

As a connoisseur of collegiate cramming collectives, I know why the Iraq Study Group’s final report is getting the bum’s rush from some of its most important readers. Who could take seriously the findings of a ‘study group’ that has so clearly ignored the time honored traditions of such esteemed organizations? Where was the pizza, the beer, open packets of NoDoz, half consumed cups of cold coffee, bleary-eyed members with tempers frayed and hair doing that Don King thing? No, instead we’re supposed to believe that this acclaimed group of bicker-free bi-partisan seniors were wide-eyed, primly pressed at a heretofore unknown study group hour of 7AM to turn over their findings to the professor, I mean the President. Read more

On behalf of all us gals who never missed a meal I extend a muchas gracias to Madrid's government. Local legislators in the Spanish capitol are putting the squeeze on the fashion industry. They're demanding more portly models on their runways this fashion week. So, along with their haute couture, models will be accessorizing with some more meat on their bones.

Apparently the whole skin-and-bones cadaverous appearance is a weighty issue in the land of paella and sangria. The burgermeisters fear that the skeletal "heroin chic" look sends the wrong message to teenagers. In defense of skinny, its economical, cutting down on food costs and medical expenses -- being able to see your bones without aid of an x-ray machine can cut down on medical expenses. While Madrid's government is putting its foot down, the fashionistas are up in arms, no doubt spindly arms. Just think of that extra inch of fabric they're going to need to hem on the bias. Quick pull out your pinking shears, grab yourself a seam ripper and roll out an extra bolt of cloth. Read more

Who wasn't hoping to see an aching Andre Agassi ace a few and make another round at the U.S. Open? Well, me for one. Initially I was rooting for the 36-year-old tennis icon. For two glorious rounds Andre thumbed his nose at Father Time. It looked like the former champ was proving that 30-something is the new 20-something. He even knocked off a kid too young to ever have seen a wooden racket. I owned one back when the earth was still cooling.

So, I joined the chorus pulling for Andre. "Go old guy! Go old guy!" I yelled, accompanied with a little dance. Suddenly with my arms torqued to the right and my lumbar region twisted to the left, my vertebrae tore faster than a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. I couldn't stand up straight... or crooked. It wasn't like I had been pulling off some impossible return of service or a big top spin lob or even reaching for a dropped pen. I couldn't move. Of course, a stadium filled with screaming performance-enhancing fans wasn't pumping me up. I had no entourage whisking me to a specialist armed with a nauseatingly long needle filled with pain relief. Nope. Like most mere mortals with a miserable spine, I got an ice pack and my doctor's answering service. It was then that I realized this 30-ish tennis legend was making a poor example. If Andre could make it through two rounds of the U.S. Open at his age with a bad back, what might people expect of my body and me? Read more

If you look a gift horse in the mouth in Hollywood you might just find an IRS agent lurking behind a tonsil. The Tinsel Town goodie bags brimming with all sorts of baubles, bangles and Blackberrys given to award show presenters are now taxable income that must be reported. And why not? The haul is estimated between $40,000 and $100,000 -- or somewhere around the box office draw of Ben Affleck's last movie. Apparently, all those extravagant parting gifts caught the eye and the ire of the head of the IRS, who probably makes in a year the equivalent of a single bag of swag.

I doubt the tradition of giving stars exorbitant rewards just for showing up will be fading out. It's just going to take on a new form. A 1099 Form, probably tucked in with the free trips to Hawaii and Lasik surgery and those $280 Stud Monkey jeans. Read more

One look at Floyd Landis and I just know he’s not cheating. His Tour de France victory is now in jeopardy after a test found he had suspiciously high levels of the hormone testosterone. But, here’s a guy who can’t seem to muster up enough testosterone to fill in what’s missing on that scrawny beard of his. And his arms are the size of a couple of coffee stirs. Aren’t dopers supposed to have more of that Jason Giambi exploding out of your skin look? I see Landis’ emaciated physique and I want to force feed him a few Snickers washed down with a chaser of Bosco – straight up. It would probably double his body weight. He makes Nicole Richie almost look normal. And don’t those performance enhancing drugs actually shrink the “performance” area? One glance at Floyd in his spandex tells me all I need to know about that region. Read more

Maybe they should rename that ‘friends and family’ telephone plan to ‘friends and family and secret agents’ plan. That’s thanks to the National Security Agency which is tapping into about a gabillion domestic calls in an effort to seek out terrorists. As a result, every time I answer the phone I take a breath and ask: Can EVERYONE hear me now? It has to be overwhelming for this entirely new breed of first responders. So I feel it’s my patriotic duty to give them the 4-1-1 on my digits so they can save time and cross me off their listener list. Read more

The latest culinary contretemps has left me in a sticky situation. To use my Teflon or not to use my Teflon? That is the question. Whether it is nobler to fry my egg in my non-stick pan and face an unknown risk of cancer or take up butter and oil and suffer the clogging of arteries and needless hours of dish pan hands. Now, after years of simmering questions, Teflon's safety has come to a boiling point. This week the Environmental Protection Agency is expected to name perfluorooctanoate (PFOA) a main ingredient used to make the substance non-stick, as a chemical non-grata.