After having a Monday from somewhere deep down and hot (Read: Not Florida) that included no fewer than the following fun things—

…two hours on a this-is-going-absolutely-nowhere chat with some Adobe dudes in India,

…the discovery of a hacker (I have outed you MikeWink!) who has been having a gay old time adding all sorts of fun code into my site since 2009,

…SMASH—it’s really a shame that NBC hasn’t done any sort of promotion for this show…I kind of already hate it even though I haven’t even seen it yet,

…another hour on the phone with some Adobe dude who is not currently residing in India and really does understand my problem and yet still cannot help me even though I want to give Adobe my money. All I want to do is upgrade my Photoshop CS3 to Photoshop CS5 which cannot be done, even though I am not a pirate and I am carrying around a fully paid for and legitimate copy of Photoshop. The reason, I was told after THREE hours of my time, is that my Photostop CS3 is part of a SUITE and I can only upgrade one if I upgrade them all. For a mere $699. Fuck that. I’m thinking about becoming a pirate. Maybe the Dread Pirate Roberts. All I will have to do is learn to fight the ROUS…but at least I will have a decent copy of CS5,

…the realization that Bachelor Ben is totally choosing Courtney to be his bride seatmate for the talk show circuit—I know this because Bachelor Ben is really great at decisions (I mean, have you even looked at his hair?),

…NOT ENOUGH COFFEE, because the coffee gnomes that live inside my home regularly swallow up all the semi-decent keurig k-cups and leave behind the crap that is only disguised as coffee but tastes kind of like what I imagine that coffee in Elf tastes like.

…actual googling the origin of the phrase “_____ ALL THE THINGS”, because I was getting a little tired of seeing the phrase peppered into my twitter stream, my facebook wall, my emails. Well played, Hyperbole and a Half. You started a revolution and I had no idea. Did you also invent the putting of periods between words to create emphasis? HAHA! Nice try, I. know. about. that. one. already,

…a bullying situation at school that is actually not really even a bullying situation but more of a sometimes boys kick each other swiftly in the gonads just for shits and giggles situation but my son is still off of all screens right now and I have to figure out what the next steps to this are but since I am equipped with female parts, I don’t understand how boys think, so that’s fun,

…a The Wire situation that is only a situation because I am balls deep into this show (Season 5, episode 3) and I just want to sit all day in front of my television and ignore the outside world and just plow through the rest of the series, but, alas, I made the mistake of saying, “Baby! Want to watch this show The Wire together? I think that would be great fun!” but you know, my baby? He has a life where he actually leaves the house sometimes and goes to work and plays hockey and doesn’t posses the same addiction problems as I do so he doesn’t want to just sit and watch into the wee hours of the morning. He did, however, indulge me by bringing the laptop on our Starbucks date on Sunday night—there’s nothing more romantic than two pairs of headphones, two Starbucks mild coffee mistos, and Jimmy McNulty getting hammered,

…complete and total mortification that I was actually, um, hot, from a Zac Efron movie trailer. This is a serious problem, kids, because, well, Zac Efron is A KID, but after seeing him in those black boxer briefs I’m all, RAWR, NO I’M THE LUCKY ONE (See what I did there?) and then I crawl into a hole and die because it’s ZAC EFRON. FROM HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL. There is nothing not shameful about this.

AND YET.

You guys. Really, I haven’t been this surprised since I found out that Viggo Mortensen has a tail. 

I won second prize in a beauty contest THIS:

Someone thinks I’m funny.

Which is funny, because if you have met me in real life you will know exactly two things: I am kind of a midget and I am not funny. But I’ll take it. And I won’t even bore you with an acceptance speech where I thank my family for giving me the gift of regular blog fodder. I can, however, sing a rousing rendition of Edelweiss, if you you’d like. Wow. I REALLY wasn’t expecting this. My Susan Lucci-esque streak has ended. Apparently, I have arrived.

Instead of being impressed and *gulp* envious of their determination and commitment, I do what I do best. Because sometimes I can be kind of an asshole.

You see, this couple that runs together? I cannot see the “Oh, isn’t that so sweet? They are doing something great for their bodies and for their marriage!”

No. Because all I can see is their matching outfits.

I speak the truth, you guys. Whenever the two are out running, they are wearing the same thing. Morning, noon, night. Jackets, Lululemon hoodies, night-time reflectors (so jerks like me don’t hit them while I’m lazily driving while they are out getting exercise, obviously) neon track pants, red spandex pants, SHOES. Matching shoes.

Matching shoes.

Well luckily for them, they can’t possibly the worst offenders in my life.

They aren’t the Ed Hardy family.

Nobody tops the Ed Hardy family.

Want more pearls of wisdom (or something)? Come on over here and see what I had to think about the Golden Globes last night. I’ll give you a hint: I was partially confused by a bedazzled belt buckle.

As a frequent coffee drinker, pumpkin lover, and Keurig-owner, I was thrilled to see this seemingly too-good-to-be-true promotion.

Free to try? Don’t mind if I do.

All I have to do is GIVE YOU MY PERSONAL INFORMATION and you’ll not only send me two boxes of Perfectly Pumpkin K-Cup packs, but you’ll also throw in two boxes of Decaf Columbian K-cups.

Sure!

And then you sent me this:

That right there?

That’s called EMAIL CONFIRMATION that they have successfully retreived my information and I would be receiving my samples shortly.

Only instead of receiving samples, I received this, in my inbox, just a few moments ago:

Let me get this straight, Timothy’s.

You made me a promise that you couldn’t keep.

So now, instead of holding up your end of the bargain, you would like to invite me to PAY FOR YOUR PRODUCT?

Interesting.

Very interesting.

And to top it all off, you currently have access to my email address AND my home shipping address, so that’s awesome.

Well, I told your Facebook wall about how unimpressed I am.

And judging by the way your Facebook wall is refreshing with new disgruntled customers…

…I’d imagine you are going to lose a LOT of customers today.

AND THEN, well, this is super fun little wrinkle. REMOVING all comments from your Facebook wall? Not cool, Timothy’s. That simply makes you look worse. That lets me—and the hundreds of other disgruntled customers—know that you don’t care about what we have to say. It seems there were at least ten different points in this process to swallow pride, grow a pair and make it right with customers. But you didn’t. At all.

I hope it was worth it, Timothy’s. I’m not *quite* sure this was the kind of publicity you were looking for.

And, just, you know, for the record. Since I’m sure there will be people screaming, “WOW! You are so selfish, Ali! Complaining about not getting your FREE stuff! How ungrateful can you get?!?!” please know that this has nothing to do with free stuff. That’s not why I wrote the post. It’s about a company behaving poorly. It’s about a company lying to customers. It’s about a company taking the personal information of many people. It’s about a company not making good on promises. Timothy’s—while I’m sure their intentions were very good and generous—should never have offered free product if they were not able to deliver. Timothy’s—while I’m sure they planned to give out free product to everyone who got a confirmation email—needed to replace the product they couldn’t deliver with something of equal value instead of a Buy One Get One coupon. End of story.

The last time I had been out of the house it was December. And 2011.

Yes, that’s right.

I spent an entire week at home in my bed. Pro tip: I highly recommend never getting an inner ear infection. The good news is that I’m feeling at about 85% and I find relief in exactly two things. Tylenol Sinus (I have absolutely no idea why this works, but it does) and using the Starbucks app. I swear to you, *I* am the reason companies make apps like that.

“WHAT? I can PAY for my coffee FROM MY PHONE? I don’t need to bring any money at all? None? All I have to do is register my cards online and bring in my phone? WAIT! And now you are telling me that all of my flavor shots are FREE? And I can work up to rewards? Sign me up please! I will drink Starbucks exclusively…even though I rarely drank it before because I found it slightly underwhelming and overpriced but now? Well, you are basically giving me my coffee for free, so how can I not buy my coffee at Starbucks?”

It’s genius, I tell you.

They have convinced me that I am getting some sort of great deal. Even though I’m getting, like, thirty cents off of an already-too-expensive drink. And yet, here I am, showing up for my daily $2.76 peppermint misto. As if they are giving it away. It must be what people were like when credit cards were first introduced. “WHAT? I can pay for things WITH THIS CARD?  I don’t need to bring any money at all?” It’s a slippery slope, you guys. I’m sure I won’t be the first person to go broke, one misto at a time. And if it happens, well, I can really just blame it on the ear infection. What do you mean? I’m from the past! I don’t know what things are like in 2012!

Speaking of time travel (Related: this might be my most favorite segue I have ever used on this site. Speaking of time travel. Awesome. It’s like I’m Dr. Brown right now.) I plowed through 11/22/63 this weekend. After I made the resolution to read 62 books in 2012 (which is one more book than I read in 2011, for those of you wondering why I decided on such a seemingly random number here), I realized that choosing a big, honking 849-page novel may have been a poor choice in reading material. But, you guys, I could not put this one down. I am generally a fan of Stephen King. Or I was, back when he was writing terrific character novels, but then something weird happened to him, an accident maybe (?) and he was churning out some piss-poor excuses. But now? Redeemed. REDEEMED. This one was so good. It’s like The History Channel meets Back To The Future meets Friday Night Lights meets Pleasantville.

(And if you know anything about me, you know that this is something I’d be willing to get behind. Probably twice.)

I know the entire planet seems to be reading The Hunger Games right now, but I am telling you, this is so much better. And this one wasn’t even written for 5th graders! (Note: I have absolutely nothing against The Hunger Games. In fact, I read it and liked it in 2009 when I was choosing a read-aloud book at work. For grade 7. Heh).

And I have no fancy segue for this, but I just wanted to ask your thoughts on the all-caps. You know, when I tweet something like:

You see, when I first started tweeting, I found the interface to be somewhat limiting. I mean, I was okay with the 140-character limit, but the lack of bold and italics were making me twitchy. As you know, bloggers tend to be, um, what’s the word…EMOTIONAL. And because of this obvious character flaw, I feel the need to express myself through bold and italics and words spelled out in all-caps. I have also become a fan of doing *this* to express to you that I am putting MAJOR EMPHASIS on that this. Now, I am sort of put-off by tweets that are written like this: I REALLY LOVE PAPERCLIPS! IS THERE ANYTHING BETTER ON THIS PLANET?! Because, well, really? Is there anything worth that much emotion? Possibly an encounter with Jon Hamm. Possibly.

There seem to be two camps, as far as capital letters go. The ones who see it as emphasis and the ones who see it as screaming.

Obviously, I’m in the emphatic camp.

What camp are you in?

“Bruce Willis is dead.”

And, of course, if you have seen the Sixth Sense, you know that he was right. Bruce Willis was, in fact, one of the dead people that pre-puffy-faced Haley Joel Osment saw.

And, of course, if you haven’t seen the Sixth Sense, (SURPRISE! SPOILER ALERT!) you are about 13 years late to the party.

When I started reading the Harry Potter series in 2011, I went  in knowing things. Because I may own this Threadless t-shirt, I already knew that Snape kills Dumbledore. Because I watch the talk show circuit, I already knew that Ron and Hermione engage in some last-movie snogging. It’s kind of the nature of the beast.

And guess what?

I was okay with it. I swear, it didn’t take away from my love of the series. Not even a little bit. To be honest, I kind of assumed that Dumbledore was going to die and I kind of assumed that Ron and Hermione were going to get it on. I still wanted to see how it happened. Spoilers didn’t change that.

So, I guess I need to assume that because I started watching The Wire in 2011, I go in knowing things. And I do. I know that Omar dies. I know that season 2 is controversial—some people loved it, some people hated it. And Jesus, I know about D’Angelo Barksdale. And I’m almost as angry about that as I am about Wallace. WALLACE. I am still so angry about Wallace.

Best scene in television ever? Possibly.

D’Angelo: Where’s Wallace? Where the fuck is Wallace? Huh? Huh? String? String? Look at me! Where the fuck is Wallace? HUH!? I don’t want this Payless-wearing motherfucker representing me. I’ma get my own man. So just get back in your car and get the fuck back down south.
Stringer: A’ight, you stupid motherfucker, you made your decision.
D’Angelo: Yeah, I made my decision. Where’s Wallace at? Where the fuck is Wallace? Where’s Wallace, String? String! Where the fuck is Wallace? Huh? Stringer?!

But to be honest, I kind of assume that everyone on The Wire is going to die. And knowing certain things? It doesn’t change the experience. Even if you know certain things, you don’t know everything. You don’t know exactly when or how or why it’s coming. You don’t know certain circumstances. You don’t know that stupid D’Angelo Barksdale is going to make you cry giant crocodile tears while begging Stringer Bell to tell him what happened to Wallace.

And so, here is a newsflash for all of you; a spoiler, if you will.

Spoilers are everywhere.

They are unavoidable. Twitter, Facebook, blogs, Gawker.com. People are talking about pop culture. They are talking about movies, television shows, books. I mean, I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t get on Twitter at exactly one minute after A BIG REALITY SHOW ends and be all, “Can you believe that XXXX won? XXX totally got robbed, man!” because, well, I have respect for time zones and dvrs and I get that people don’t want to spoiled right away, especially if you are right about the watch the end of a season you have been following for many, many months. I’m not that much of a dick.

But, honestly, I really am not going to wait three months for you to catch up on on your DVR if you are behind.

People! PLEASE STOP GETTING SO ANGRY WHEN SOMETHING GETS SPOILED.

Get over it.

And start watching more quickly so I can have someone to talk to.

Because I really needed to talk about the season finale of Dexter. And Survivor.

And season 2 of The Wire.

and Starbucks.

I swear. Starbucks intimidates me.

I really just want to drink coffee. But there’s something magical about the feeling of the inside of a Starbucks. There’s music (that’s usually crappy), there are comfy chairs (that are usually occupied), there are fancy cups (filled with overpriced drinks that I can’t pronounce), there are pieces of cake the size of my face (that will go straight to my ass). And yet, somehow I am drawn to the place. I walk in and think, “Oh, hello, sexy! Are you going to solve all of my problems today with your caffeine and your wi-fi?” but, of course, that is not what comes out of my mouth. Because, you see, Starbucks? INTIMIDATING. Once I get up to the counter, even after having a 20-minute line to practice my opening line, what comes out is neither suave nor, well, possibly even English.

“So, you know how you, like, have those pumpkin spice lattes? And well, you know how they are super sweet, right? Well, you put flavor shots, or pumps or something pumpkin flavored in them, right? Well, so, like, I’m wondering if it’s possible to get one of those shots or pumps or whatever just put into regular coffee?”

“Sure. What kind of coffee?”

“The hot kind?”

“What size?”

“Big?”

“How many pumps?”

“Um, one, I think? I don’t want it to be sweet at all.”

“OKAY! HERE’S YOUR DRINK! ENJOY!”

Liars. That is not my drink. I don’t know what it is, but it was gross.

And it didn’t taste at all like pumpkin.

And speaking of intimidating, want to know what else intimidates me?

I mean, why not, I am already embarrassing myself today…

Health food stores.

Oh yes.

So, on the recommendation of several lovely people, I wanted to start taking something called Greens+. It’s a superfood, and just the sound of that makes me think my poor body needs it. It’s supposed to be good for energy and for hair growth, which, if you have been following my hair saga at all, well, you know that I NEED MY HAIR TO GROW because I am super great at decisions and hairdressers intimidate me and so I let him cut off all of my hair and now I am practically bald and have The Rachel circa 1999.

Grow hair grow!

So, I walked into Ambrosia on Sunday afternoon.

And it looks just about how you expect every natural food store to look like. Everything is brown and there are lots of giant pill bottles lining the walls. (They want to pump. CLAP. Me up.) I squeezed past the group of cyclists all geared up in spandex to try to find this wonder stuff.

“I’m, um, looking for Greens+?”

“You are staring at it.”

“I am? Oh my god! Thanks!”

“Why do you want to take Greens+?”

“Well, because someone told me to.”

“I think you should try x, and y, and possibly even z.”

“Well, I think today I’m just going to buy some Greens+ in a flavor other than barn, thanks.”

“Try the natural tangerine. But, I really, think you might need x and y. Actually, I think you need all three. It looks like you do.”

“Hey, I eat a lot of quinoa. I am a healthy person.”

There was no question; he could smell the donuts I had eaten for breakfast and was silently judging me and was PUSHING THE DRUGS. They are drug pushers. Drug pushers, I tell you.

“Up to you.”

Pusher.

Also, totally a liar. Because even the tangerine tastes like farm.

Pray for quick hair growth. The last thing I need is to go back for X, Y, and Z.

It’s far too intimidating.

It’s true.

As a girl who was raised by her television set, I secretly dreamed about prom from a very, very young age. The dress, the limo, the corsage. Perhaps I’d even make my own dress like in Pretty in Pink. Perhaps I’d have a picnic prom like on Saved by the Bell. Perhaps Kevin Bacon would show up and be all “Let’s Dance” and everyone cuts loose. The possible scenarios were limitless, really. But, alas, no prom for me. Because I went to an Orthodox Jewish high school, instead of prom we had prom’s ugly stepsister, Winter Revue. I’ll tell you right now, not the same. When there’s no DANCE and no PROM QUEEN, it’s no dice for me.

So, when I heard that my sister-in-law was having a surprise 39.5 prom party, I was intrigued. Her friends had arranged to give her a prom of her own, her very first. They hired a party bus, and arranged to get dressed up in fancy 80s formal wear to dance the night away. No, I’m not kidding. When I was then invited to said prom, I immediately said no. I mean, I get that it’s not a real prom, but would she really want her brother and sister-in-law there?

Also, if you didn’t know. I’m a bit of a

because I don’t dance and I don’t really drink and I can’t ride a party bus without three sets of Sea Bands. I’m kind of the Amish girl at the party, without the bonnet.

So, I was prepared to just hear about Prom.

And then, somehow, I ended up being the photographer at this event and wearing a giant pink headband with matching pink tights.

And meet my date—Nacho Libre

(Fact: The Movember mustache was doing nothing to help this situation.)

I’m glad I went, there’s no question.

Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to tweet to you about the dude singing NICKELBACK karaoke like he was there to score himself a record deal and the karaoke king DJ who was running the show and decided he’d rather sing the karaoke himself than let me get up there and embarrass myself through Total Eclipse of the Heart. I am still feeling cheated, like three days later.

And I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about the dude in the T-Birds jacket.

T-BIRDS JACKET.

UNIRONICALLY.

And then there was actual music from Grease. And then he was ON THE DANCE FLOOR. I practically wet my pants right then and there.

And then, well, I wouldn’t have been able to show you this.

I don’t even know either. 

There was nothing about the night that wasn’t over-the-top ridiculously hilarious.

(except for maybe the three minutes I attempted to move like Jagger…and pretty much moved like, um, Carlton Banks. THIS IS WHY I DON’T DANCE, DAMMIT.)

And I was super glad that I got to be there to photograph it.

And now I want a real prom of my own.

With a date—who doesn’t have a mustache—and a limo and a corsage and a tiara and an embarrassingly awkward slow dance.

And if Kelly comes wearing the same dress as I am, we are going to throw down.

(YES. I know it was the spring dance…but I never had one of those either.)

And there had better be some karaoke.

My mom once bought my sweet little girl a Barbie that had pasties covering her nipples.

True story.

Here’s the thing. We stared in wonder at Barbie and wondered who she was and who she had become. Janet Jackson at the Superbowl, perhaps? Silver sparkly pasties. I’m fairly certain she was wearing fishnets and had several piercings too. At first I was slightly outraged. Really? REALLY? Why is a product like this even on the market? Are my daughters going to want piercings and pasties and fishnets too? Am I damaging them at such a young age? Am I sending the wrong message with this toy? I’M YELLING ABOUT BARBIE!

But then, well, I just laughed. Whore Barbie. *Snicker*

Have you ever played with Barbies? Have you ever watched children play with Barbies? In our house, Barbie mostly spends a lot of time in her closet getting dressed and undressed for special occasions—the beach, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, vacations, dates, school, birthday parties. And when she’s not getting dressed and undressed and dressed and undressed, she’s having her hair braided (and sometimes cut! Gasp!) or she is zipping around in her fancy pink car. Sometimes Barbie likes to smooch Ken a little bit. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she is an airline pilot, a school teacher, a cowgirl. I have seen many imaginations at play in our house and—surprise!—no Barbie scenarios have involved Barbie stripping her clothing off to reveal her pasties. Because that’s not what Barbies are to my girls.

A lot of people are up in arms about this new Barbie. The Tokidoki Barbie. Have you seen her?

She comes with a Tokidoki purse (that I *might* secretly want to own. I mean, ahem.), a pink mini skirt, a pair of animal-print leggings, stilettos, pink hair, and, well, a giant chest tattoo (and a back tattoo too!)

Okay, so here’s the thing. I get it. I get why moms don’t like this.

NEWSFLASH: YOU DO NOT NEED TO BUY IT.

It’s simple, really. If you don’t like it, don’t buy it. No one is going to force your hand on this one. (Also? I doubt anyone else is going to buy this Barbie for your children; she costs over $50 and won’t be carried in toy stores…she is supposed to be a collector’s doll.) If you don’t like its messaging, don’t buy into the messaging. Why does it have to be this giant fight. Why must we YELL ABOUT BARBIE? Why must we take to Twitter and Facebook and our blogs and call for BANS ON MATTEL PRODUCTS and demands for RTS about Why Barbie is Bad.

Don’t buy it, that’s okay.

Do buy it, that’s okay too.

YOU ARE THE PARENT.

And if you do buy it and your kid comes to you and says she wants pink hair? You have the option to say NO.

And if you do buy it and your kid comes to you and says she wants to wear leather mini skirts? You have the option to say NO.

And if you do buy it and your kid comes to you and says she wants to wear stilettos? You have the option to say NO.

And if you do buy it and your kid comes to you and says she wants to get a giant chest and back tattoo? You have the option to say NO.

That’s the thing here. Okay. Yes. Barbie has a tattoo.

At least she covered her ass and is not wearing leggings as pants.

Tights and I? We have an interesting relationship. I love them, because, well, I am a fan of not freezing my lady parts in harsh Toronto winters. I hate them, because, well, I am also a fan of not having extra nylon and spandex congregate around my mid-section. No, really, this is a problem. I buy the right size for the height and weight. I go to put them on and after some very impressively bendy contortion=like moves, I find myself with extra material that can be pulled all the way up to my nipples. And, as an added bonus, there’s all sorts of extra dangly material down by my crotch as well. Tights are confusing for me.

So, I begin googling who I have to blame for this invention. Must be a man, right? No woman would invent something like this.

And then suddenly I’m down a pantyhose wormhole where the big question is whether or not Peggy’s wearing of pantyhose in the early 60s in that episode of Man Men was too early or just about right. Did you know that before the one-piece pantyhose hit the market (which were indeed developed by a man), women were wearing stockings with garter belts and suspenders attached?

This is what I need! Garter belts and suspenders and stockings! This will solve everything.

Wormholes, man. They suck the life out of me. (Times were simpler before Google.)

Also sucking the life out of me?

My 5:30am daily wake-up call.

Last night I actually fell asleep (before 10pm) while running lines for Emily’s play and while helping Josh study for his French spelling test.

I was only mildly helpful while playing the roles of the Auntie Em, munchkins, the scarecrow, Glinda the good witch and the wicked witch. I tried my darndest to be theatrical (What would Rachel Berry do?) because I think I only came off as distracting and off-putting. “Mama, obviously you need some more Rachel Berry lessons. You aren’t very good at this.” Ah, but that’s why I work on the internet. Nobody needs to hear my impression of The Great and Powerful Oz.

Which is probably why I fell asleep.

I assure you that I was hardly a help in the French department. Even though I live in Canada, I do not speak a lick of French. I can, however, tell you that milk is lait and bread is pain. Why yes, I do know all of my French from the Engligh/French food labeling. Ask me about cereal and honey and crackers and cookies. Go ahead…ask me! But when it comes to the spelling of the French word for fifty? Forget it. I’m hopeless.

Which is probably why I fell asleep.

Perhaps my time would be better spent napping and not, you know, googling very important things like “who invented pantyhose” and “where was the first circus” and “Moon River Breakfast at Tiffanys”

Yesterday, this lovely lady asked: Would you rather have an extra $50 or an extra two hours in your day?

The answer—for me—was obvious.

THE TWO HOURS.

You guys, I need them.

I told her that I would use the time to exercise and to cuddle my kids a little bit more. But, really, I would probably use them to stay afloat—to help with homework without falling asleep, to be able to make it through dinner without an extra coffee, to be able to go out with my friends, to be able to check backpacks, to be able to make sure we have lait in the house.

And maybe to invent some better-fitting tights. God knows that someone needs to. And preferably someone who actually has a vagina.

But, okay, here’s the thing. My So-Called Life. Life Unexpected. October Road. Arrested Development. Freaks and Geeks. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Once and Again. Everwood. Sports Night. American Dreams. The OC. 

Canceled. All of them. Too Soon.

And not only did I like all of these shows. I LOVED them.

I like my shows like I like my books—character-driven. All of these shows had it. But audiences want something else, I guess.

I mourned each loss and wondered how shows like ER—which completely lost any sense of quality television for me the minute Mark Greene died—went on to create too many seasons of crappy television. Grey’s Anatomy? Really? Why do we all watch this show—it’s not even good. It hasn’t been good since the end of season 2. I guess it’s because I’m committed to these shows and will watch them all the way to their usually two-seasons-too-late demises. If you need any sort of proof, I am still watching One Tree Hill and The Office.

So, I can’t say I was at all surprised when NBC gave its new 1960s show The Playboy Club the axe after airing only three episodes. I can’t say that I loved the show. I was certainly intrigued after the first episode. I even found Eddie Cibrian’s Dop Draper impression likable, which shocked surprised me, because, well, he’s Eddie Cibrian. But my interest was piqued; and I was certainly willing to give it at least a half-season chance, unlike X-Factor, which I quit after episode 1 (Thanks, Simon Cowell, for bringing us American Idol AGAIN.) and Ringer, which I quit before episode 1 was even over. And don’t even get me started on Whitney.

So, I can only assume that because I was watching, it got the boot. Which means exactly one thing, I’m thinking: I know what else is getting canceled.

Hart of Dixie and Pan Am.

Because I love them.

I am probably picking the wrong shows. Based on the number of shows with acronyms for titles—NCIS, CSI, CSI COLON CITY OF YOUR CHOICE, SVU—maybe if Pan Am was called FTFS (Fly the Friendly Skies) or LBDT (Look But Don’t Touch) or DFTWYG (Don’t Forget to Wear Your Girdle) or something, it would stand a better change at getting picked up for a whole season. What am I even thinking? It’s already doomed. I’m cursed, or something.

Sorry, Christina Ricci. You might be out of a job soon. But the good news is that maybe you can get a part on CSI: Detroit or something. You’ll probably have a job for the next 18 years or so.