Where my mind goes while my body's on the treadmill.

I made a fantastic discovery today.

If you go to the gym at 10, you can watch "The Price Is Right" while you do your time on the treadmill. I freakin' love that show. Now, granted, it's not the same since your favorite octogenarian and mine, Bob Barker, retired. But Drew Carey does a serviceable job, and I appreciate how the audience is now encouraged to wear crazy shirts and camp it up. Because any show with a plot dependent upon the price of Dinty Moore Beef Stew is a campy show.

The 1 downside to watching "The Price Is Right" at the gym is that the treadmills face the window, right by the street. And so I'm pretty sure that people driving by saw me make some pretty interesting faces ... because you have to be dead inside not to get excited for the 20-year-old guy whose life was just changed by winning a truck. And don't even get me started about the grandma who guessed the price of the next item up for bid exactly, and so won $500 in cash.

The show just makes me happy. So, to all you people who drove by the gym and saw that crazy treadmill lady with a mug like she'd broken the hinges on her jaw? You're welcome.

"The Price Is Right" also made me consider a different career path. My current state of unemployment has caused random thoughts to pop into my head of the "Maybe I could do that" variety. Dog walker, grocery bagger, nanny and street-sweeper driver are all on this list. And today? I've gotta add spokesmodel.

Now, I'm not naive enough to believe I've got what it takes to be 1 of Carey's Cuties. I mean, I know I can't stand around in 5-inch heels and still smile. But maybe I could be a spokesmodel in more sensible shoes - like, at 1 of your lesser car shows. Or perhaps on QVC. I am confident in my ability to model polyester slacks and those matching blouses with the elastic band at the waist. Koret, I am even willing to sign an exclusive contract. Call me!

What seemingly outlandish job do you think would be a perfect fit for you?

There's an R. Kelly "Trapped in the Closet" joke in here somewhere.

Sunday was National Dog Day.

I missed it. My Guy insists that with 4 dogs, it's always National Dog Day at our house.

Foxie Doxie implores you ...

Look at the babies!

Look at them!

Woman, you know what you're supposed to do here. Get on it.

But mostly? Mostly, I'm hoping I don't get turned into the ASPCA. See ... last week? My Guy and I escaped to our bedroom for, uh, some quality adult time?

Yeah. And Lil' Frankfurter barked the entire time, as is his custom. Except he sounded really far away.

When the quality adult time was over (My Guy would like me to add that it was a really, really, really long time - like, 7 or even 8 minutes), My Guy went downstairs to calm the freaked-out canines - because there is nothing more freaky than your parents getting freaky.

Except ... he couldn't find Lil' Frank. He could hear him, but he couldn't actually find him.

Until he opened the hall closet.

I had shut my dachshund in the closet.

I became one of those people who locks their kids in a closet so that they can go get it on.

I am a horrible parent.

But he weighs 7 pounds! It's not easy to keep track of a guy who is roughly the size of an obese gerbil! And he gets obsessed about random things in our house - like on top of the refrigerator, or inside the hall closet.

He thinks that he is just a well-timed jump away from reaching the closet shelf where his coat is stored ... a shelf that's about 6 feet off the ground. So, he sneaks into the closet any chance he gets. Maybe this will be the time when his inner Michael Jordan really shines through and he gets his coat and can drag it around the house and chew it up and generally be a jerk.

Hope springs eternal.

I'm hoping that he isn't scarred for life. I am.

The life of the party.

This week, I've met with a few recruiters and a friend who just out and out offered me a jobby job.

One of the recruiters was clearly hungover. When My Guy asked me for a quick update on the meeting later, I said, "She was maybe 12, wearing a too-short skirt and cheap shoes." Then, in a moment of self-reflection, I added, "I wonder why I have no friends."

The other, super-excellent recruiter was so nice and energetic and positive about finding terrific gigs for me and erasing my experience at Mega Corporate Behemoth from my memory. She was excited ... and I was having trouble matching her energy level.

I'm beyond exhausted. Like, as I was driving home from meeting with the super-bestest recruiter this afternoon, I felt so run-down that I actually thought, "Gee, maybe I have mono."

I don't have mono. I might have a corporate form of PTSD. Oh, and there's the little business of being jacked up on hormones for a good portion of the summer and then finding out that, oh, I'M BARREN. So, maybe no wonder I'm sleeping a solid 11 hours a night.

Maybe no wonder I can't get excited about another job. Maybe no wonder I'm feeling pretty ambivalent about everything. Maybe no wonder.

I'm not depressed in that "Oh JesusAllahBuddhaOprah, how can I possibly go on?" sort of way. I'm just more ... umm ... wondering if I have mono. Because I am worn out. Because I can't fathom working right now, even though I've always worked a lot. Because I have no idea what I'm doing with my life.

So, I'm sleeping. And painting baseboards, because our house will never be done. And trying to have faith that all things will be revealed in due time.

Behold my amazing reproductive prowess!

I am so excited, and I have Rep. Todd Akin of Missouri to thank.

Evidently, as a woman, my ladyparts have the ability - nay, the superpower - to decide when to conceive. Akin tells us that pregnancy resulting from "legitimate rape" is rare, and that "the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."

Whew! What a relief!

So, if I'm ever the victim of rape, the last thing I need to worry about is pregnancy - which is a good thing, since Akin and his cronies want to make abortion illegal, even in cases of rape. I thought I had some qualms with a bunch of old white guys bossing around my private ladyparts, but Akin does hold a degree in management engineering. Now, I don't have to worry my pretty little head about it.

And, by Akin's reasoning, if my body can magically shut down conception, then it only stands to reason that it can also magically pump up the babymaking. So, to all those "medical professionals" that told me and My Guy that our chances of reproducing were akin to finding a needle in a very large haystack? If a member of the House Committee on Science, Space, and and Technology says my body is smarter than that, well, then, you know it must be true.

What a relief. I'm gonna start working on our nursery now. I'm certainly not going anywhere near the courthouse, which I imagine will be packed with guys applying for licenses to perform "legitimate rape."

Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.

My friend Mo sent me this hilarious piece about letters home from camp, courtesy of Rock Center.

As a 3-year veteran of Girl Scout camp, these tales of woe hit rather close to home. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but ... camp happens outside. I was expected to be outside, like, all the time. And we had latrines. Instead of real bathrooms.

It was problematic.

I don't vividly remember any of the letters I sent home, with the exception of one detailing the giant wood spider that was living in our tent. My tent mates and I thought it was a tarantula, and were seriously terrified. We named it Henry, except I didn't know how to spell Henry, so my letter home referred to our cabin mascot as "Henerery." Maybe I was thinking about Peter Noone's cockney accent in "I'm Henry the VIII, I Am."

I do remember crying when I received a letter from my mom at my first camp go-round. I was horribly homesick and had diarrhea the entire 4 days I was at camp. Luckily, we'd chosen a short camp session, so I didn't get all dehydrated and have to be hospitalized or anything.

Two years later, I was an old camp pro. My brother's letter to me was the most hilARious thing I'd ever read. He'd dictated it to my mom, and asked if I was living in a house or a teapot. I'm pretty sure he meant tepee, but teapot is a valid option - I mean, if they expect you to go to the bathroom outside, who's to say what else might be normal at camp?

To me, camp falls solidly in the category of "Super Great in Retrospect." As an adult, I'm glad I had that experience. At the time, it was not what I would classify as "fun" - yet I wanted to go back each year. So, there had to be something in it that felt fun or redeeming. Plus, I would play camp counselor the other 51 weeks of the year, making up rosters of campers and painstakingly assigning them to pretend tents - no teapots. I thought being a camp counselor would be the most exotic, awesome job ever - a belief for which I blame Michael J. Fox and Nancy McKeon.

At camp, I learned that I am allergic to hay. I learned a ton of camp songs, and the proper way to fold a flag. I also learned that if you have to take a bite of a food you hate, you can hold your nose and not taste much of anything - kudos to the counselor who taught us that one.

Did you go to camp? What did you write home about, and what have you carried with you to adulthood?

What I learned.

Facebook has been on fire this week with photos from the first day of school. I love it. The excited-but-nervous smiles kill me, as do the shiny, new backpacks.

My mom always took our first-day photos on the front steps. Some of my fashion choices were ... interesting. Case in point: the first day of seventh grade, I wore jeans with a vertical stripe in the denim. And a shirt with vertical stripes. Perhaps I thought this made me look slim and tall. It did not.

Usually, the first day of school was either ungodly hot, or freakishly cold. The first day of kindergarten, I wanted to wear a particular sundress, but it was too cold. But more times than I can count, we got out of school early in the first few days of class because none of the school buildings in town were air conditioned.

Our elementary school was built in 1912. We used to have tornado drills where we'd all cram into the basement and breathe in the safety and security that only exposed asbestos insulation can give you. Surely it would prevent three stories of brick from tumbling down upon us.

The elementary school didn't have lockers - each class had a long, dark cloakroom, complete with transom windows. Everything smelled like crayons and fresh paint.

My first day of kindergarten, I remember my very pregnant mama dropping me off. She wore 1 of my dad's shirts. She says she was all hormonal and teary, but I don't remember that. My friend Brent broke his leg on the merry-go-round, and I talked about it for weeks.

My brother's first day of kindergarten 6 years later, a girl kissed him in the cloakroom. He didn't consider this a highlight of the day, and so didn't bother to mention it. We heard about it through the grapevine. When confronted, Poochie shrugged his shoulders - he was just a man about kindergarten, popular with the ladies, you know?

This all went down 30 years ago. It seems like yesterday. I'm thankful for those goofy photos of us posed on the front steps - me with some questionable outfit, Poochie with no front teeth, both of us with backpacks bursting with new school supplies. It's the good stuff.

Better Homes and Gardens: Call me!

When I was a sophomore in high school, a mouse died in the wall behind my locker.

Let me set the stage. It was winter. Our building had an all-or-nothing furnace, so it was consistently 85 degrees in February. And my locker was outside the biology classroom of the absentminded guy with the worst toupee ever in the history of bad toupees. Mr. Absentminded Biology Guy taught the dissection classes, so his sense of smell was obviously compromised. Plus, a few years earlier, he'd had an entire class plop their partially dissected fetal pigs into a bucket of formaldehyde right before Christmas break. Three weeks later, when he opened said bucket, he was truly shocked and befuddled to find that the smell made every single student either pass out, barf, or sprint from the room.

So, a decomposing mouse in the wall outside his classroom was not a cause for alarm for Mr. Absentminded Biology Guy - or for anyone else. After all, it was outside the dissection classroom, in the sophomore hallway. Live and let die, man.

My locker smelled like death for about 4 weeks. Four long weeks. I got to know that smell well.

You know how they say that scent is the sense most closely tied to memory?

I am remembering 10th grade like crazy right now. My basement smells like sophomore hallway / bad toupee. I think we had a mouse die in the wall of the finished part of our basement. Much like the area behind the high school lockers, there's not much to be done about cleaning out such a space. We just have to live with the scent of death wafting around the only cool-ish area of our home.

Because I am 37 going on 90, I believe that all things health- and household-related can be cured with baking soda, vinegar and / or vitamin E. So, right now, I have little dishes of baking soda sitting around our finished basement, in the vain hope that it will absorb some of the death stench. Bowls of white powder, like cocaine at a party in the 70s or really, really dusty potpourri. Either way, I'm totally the hostess with the mostest.

Wanna come sit in my stinky basement, talk about high school and pretend that little bowls of white powder are the latest in home accessorizing? Sure you do.

That said ... I am open to any and all suggestions. I think this just might be the ultimate comment cue: How do you get rid of dead animal stank in your home?

In which I go off on this new-fangled "interior design."

I've been nesting. This means that I've been organizing my linen closet, hanging curtains, and wondering just how I managed to land a husband with such an amazing hanger dowry.

Seriously. The man has So. Many. Hangers. He says that for a long time, he'd just pick up a pack whenever he was at Target. Now, it means that we have bags and bags of excess hangers. Sadly, I do not think this means I need to go clothes shopping to pick up the excess, although I have offered. Because I am a team player.

All of my nesting serves to make me feel productive even though I can barely manage to respond to emails right now, much less contemplate maybe someday at some point in the far future applying for another job.

Seriously. I'll stick to hangers for now. Thanks.

In the midst of sorting hangers, I've also spent some time on Pinterest. Since I can no longer watch Hoarders for inspiration to get my house in order, I now have to turn to the Internet. It feels so dirty.

But Pinterest is filled with dorm-room decor ideas right now. And, honestly? This killllls me.

I went to a women's college my freshman year, and there was exactly 1 - ONE! - pair of roommates in my entire dorm that coordinated their comforters prior to arriving at school. They went on to compete together in a series of local Miss America pageants.

Now, it appears that you're supposed to have this entire tricked-out dorm plan. Matching comforters, coordinating rugs, and towels, lamps and accessories that complete the look. And really, you should consider replacing your room's light fixture - just for the year - in order to more accurately express yourself.

And if your dorm room sucks, you won't have any friends.

Oh, man.

Couple this with my distaste for Uggs and sweatpants with sayings on the butt and I would completely fail college now.

My dorm room ensemble included a hot pink comforter and maroon towels. Nothing matched. But nobody else had stuff that matched, either, so it was fine. We didn't have air conditioning nor any sense of interior design, and we liked it!

I might be slightly bitter because I watched a VH1 countdown show this weekend that recapped the top songs of my formative years, the 90s. The soundtrack to my college experience evidently sucked. I now realize that it both looked and sounded bad.

Book report: Heavy bidness edition.

I like to read. And, since I suddenly have lots of free time, well ... there's been lots of reading going on.

Want to feel better about whatever trifling little problem has you all down and out? Pick up Heaven is Here by Stephanie Nielsen - you know, Nie Nie, from The Nie Nie Dialogues? Yeah. She was burned over 80% of her body and still managed to work through all the physical and psychological pain to keep on living her life. She's truly lovely and amazing. I think Stephanie's book is interesting, too, in how it addresses how humans can't help but look ... after all, she was horribly scarred. But what's really telling is what we actually see. I hope everyone who sees her sees a graceful warrior.

I enjoyed Nie's book and appreciated how it put things in perspective. However, she's totally focused on her kids and wanting to have more kids, and family family family. So, her book wouldn't be my first choice for a So, You Just Found Out You're Barren Book Club. Because in that way, it made me feel sort of bad.

But, any So, You Just Found Out You're Barren Book Club - or, any book club, really - would be well-served to read The Sacred Acre by Mark Tabb. This book offers a great look at how to positively impact people's lives, no matter who you are.

It's the story of Ed Thomas, small-town Iowa football coach. Thomas was NFL high school coach of the year, because his tiny program produced 4 NFL players. But there's so much more to the story ... Thomas considered his job to be raising men, not training football players. When his town was leveled by an F-5 tornado, Thomas led the clean-up efforts and vowed his team would overcome adversity to play its home opener on its own field just 100 days after the storm. And they did.

Thomas was shot by a mentally ill former player. And then? How his family responded was amazing. Watch this 10-minute video from The ESPYS to learn more. It will be 10 minutes well-spent.

I love this book. I'm not from this particular small town, but when people ask me where I'm from, I just want to hand them a copy of this book and say, "Here." Because it's the same sentiment.

We're gonna need a montage!

Being unemployed is weird.

Thursday, I went to the pool. The pool! For 4 hours! It was craziness!

Friday, I ... don't quite remember what I did. I know I walked the dogs.

Saturday, I ran some errands, then fell asleep on the couch.

Today, I walked the dogs, made a pot roast, and made some curtains my bitch by hemming them to an appropriate length. Like a boss. The boss of my house, the greatest housewife ever in the history of housewifery.

Except that I burned my arm on the iron. Which would be no big deal, except that we didn't have any aloe in the house. And I am allergic to a bunch of ointments and stuff. So, we tried a spray, and it turned my arm red, and I felt like barfing, so I cried. Ugly cried.

Even as I was crying, I knew that I wasn't crying about my arm. I was crying about my stressful week. Because even though I can't even remember what I did on Friday? I still feel like a loser for getting sacked. And what sort of sucktastic woman can't manage to iron a curtain - a giant piece of flat fabric - without searing off some flesh?

My arm is fine. I'm fine, too. The curtains look fantastic. I'm just so tired - emotionally drained from the last few months. I mean, let's be honest - while being barren and fired sounds like a great set-up for a feel-good rom-com, it sort of sucks in real life. Right now would be the "I'm kinda depressed" montage.

So, I'm being quiet. I'm reading a lot. I'm attempting to buy my husband's love with crock-potted meats. And I'm trusting that tomorrow will be better.

Scarry thoughts on getting fired.

Thank you all for your kind words about my little, erm, employment situation, or lack thereof. I so appreciate your snark.

I've also discovered that you don't have to be an adult to have a strong opinion on unemployment.

On my way home from getting sacked, I saw 2 very energetic boys jumping up and down, waving a sign for their Kool-Aid stand. Of course I stopped.

As I walked up to their folding table, I was taken aback by the super blondness of both boys, and their Joker-like cherry Kool-Aid-stained mouths. They were adorable.

I paid 75 cents for my cup o' sugar, and gave them a 25-cent tip. They couldn't believe they got a tip!

But as I walked away, the blonder and more Kool-Aid-faced of the boys left the stand as well. "My brother fired me, but I don't even care," he said, holding up 2 dollar bills. "I got paid, so I don't even care! I'm gonna go play my game!" And off he ran.

I figured that was a good lesson. I, too, got paid, and now I can go play my game, whatever that happens to be.

Last night, My Guy and I celebrated my firing by going out for dinner with some good friends. We laughed and visited and I felt like things were going to be OK.

Well, that is, until the subject of Richard Scarry came up.

"You know," our friend said, "our kids are obsessed with hobos. And it's all because of this Richard Scarry book that has a hobo in it, with the stick and everything. And the book says, "Hobos don't have jobs."

My Guy started laughing.

Our friend continued, "So, we asked the kids if Mommy is a hobo, and they said that since she doesn't have a job, she is, in fact, a hobo. So, Cha Cha, I'm sure they'll agree that you, too, are now one of the hobo peoples!"

Don't you think this looks like me? My dad is a train nut, so I have always liked riding the rails.

Image courtesy of underthefuzzygreenhat.com, where writer Lucas Wagner has discovered that he, too, qualifies as a hobo under The Scarry Hobo Law.

In which I get fired for talking shit.

Or, saying "shit," to be more accurate.

Today, as I was walking out of my building at Mega Corporate Behemoth, heading to lunch, I saw a familiar face. It was my contact at the contracting company that placed me at Mega Corporate Behemoth.

Contracting Guy and I chatted on the sidewalk a bit, and then he mentioned that Mega Corporate Behemoth had decided to terminate my contract. Because I am not a good fit. After 2 months of menial work and conversations during which I said that I needed work, was willing and able to help, and was actually creating projects for myself, all to zero response? Last week, I told my manager that I was "underutilized and felt like no one gave a shit that I was there."

People, I sayeth the truth.

And I got shit canned. For saying "shit."

Turns out said manager took issue with my attitude and felt I wasn't a good fit.

So, there was Contracting Guy, interrupting my lunch plans. He was there to walk me back to my Cube of Despair and watch me pack up my shit, err, stuff, and escort me from the premises. Immediately. Because I just might completely fuck some shit, err, stuff, up!

As he watched me throw my box of Kleenex into my messenger bag, Contracting Guy actually said to me, "Listen, I'm gonna break with protocol a little bit. I'm not supposed to leave you unattended, but I need to use the restroom. Try not to go all Exorcist while I'm gone, OK?"

Umm, sure, buddy.

So, I managed not to act like an idiot in those 3 unattended minutes. I walked out with my head held high, even when we walked past a conference room where all the managers from my team were meeting. I made a point to be laughing and engrossed in conversation with Contracting Guy as we passed the open conference room door, because come on.

As Contractor Guy got me all the way to my car without me breaking shit, err, stuff, or stealing anything, I told him that when he goes to fill that position again, he should look for someone young, someone who doesn't ask a lot of questions.

I'm too seasoned to waste my time. Which is why I'm currently drinking beer. And trying to overlook my bruised ego.

In which I sound like Miss Reading Congeniality.

I'm afraid this post sounds like "I laughed. I cried. It was better than CATS. I'm going to see it again and again." But I just enjoyed all of these books.

It's So Easy - Duff McKagan
There's this little band called Guns n' Roses - perhaps you've heard of it? Duff was the original bassist. He was just sort of another bassist to me until I discovered Married to Rock. He was so funny on that show and clearly hated being part of a reality show. So, I picked up his autobiography, and I must say: Duff is a super cool and interesting guy. For example ... what do you do when, as a rock star, you think you might have been screwed out of some of your money? Well, if you're Duff, you go get a degree in economics. Because you're a badass!

Duff seems cool and pretty normal. I really enjoyed this book.

Life Itself: A Memoir - Roger Ebert
I've always appreciated Roger because he finds joy in the movies. He judges movies by what they are trying to do, instead of comparing every movie to, say, Citizen Kane. That said, I picked up this audio book because, well, I was looking for an audio book at the library, and this seemed sort of OK. But it was super great.

This is Roger's autobiography, and it has clearly been impacted by his health woes in recent years. He can't speak anymore, and so, he writes. Here, he writes about everything from his childhood to his passion for newspapers to marrying as an older adult. Also, he dedicates an entire chapter to Steak 'n Shake. I approve.

This book made me follow Roger on Facebook so that I can keep track of him via his new avenue of discourse, social media. He's a gem.

Drop-Dead Healthy: One Man's Humble Quest for Bodily Perfection - A.J. Jacobs
A.J. has written a series of books where he treats himself as a bit of a guinea pig. First, he read the entire dictionary. Then, he tried to follow alllllll of the Bible's teachings. Now, he's trying to be all healthy, all the time. The great thing is that he's such a funny, self-deprecating writer. And he's honest. And informative, so I was entertained, but truly learned some stuff, too.

Also? A.J. gets mad props for being super kewl when I met him a few years ago and admitted to being his stalker. Extra points for not trying to get me kicked out of your reading, Mr. Jacobs.

So. What books have made you basically incapable of any criticism lately?

Do not touch my condiments.

Soooooo ... yesterday, I may or may not have told my manager that a) I am underutilized; and b) I don't feel like anybody gives a shit whether I am there or not.

This was in response to him asking if I had applied for a full-time job with the team. I stopped just short of laughing in his face, but it was a bit of a come-to-Jesus conversation. He was genuinely surprised. By the end, he looked like he was going to throw up.

Keep in mind that this did not prompt him to respond to any of my emails today, including one where I suggested that he hadn't forwarded me a meeting maker, despite my 3 requests, because evidently only Nicolas Cage could forward said meeting, and there's a terrorist plot, and only Nic can fight it, and his kid is all, "Are we gonna die?" and Nic is all, "I won't let that happen," and is crunching his forehead up a lot and running everywhere, and evidently it's hard to forward a meeting request when you're running all the time.

I mean, really. How could you not respond to this email?

But, evidently, good communication is sooo not a factor in employee satisfaction.

Couple that with the fact that at Mega Corporate Behemoth, there's a permanent sign affixed to the refrigerator door, warning employees that said fridge is cleaned out on the Wednesday night of the week of the Mega Corporate Behemoth pay day.

Except that I'm not a Mega Corporate Behemoth employee - I'm a contractor. So, I have no idea which week includes their pay day.

Evidently, it's this week. Because last night, the cleaning crew emptied the fridge - completely. They threw out my almost-full bottle of salad dressing. Salad dressing! That shit is good for yeaaaaaars! And they just threw it away! Leaving me to eat dry salad! Alone! In my Cube of Despair!

In the midst of my completely stupid find-and-replace task today, I cruised Wikipedia to prevent my brain from completely atrophying. I ended up reading all about John Wayne Gacy.

It's a coincidence, I swear.

My marriage is built on lies. And teevee.

My Guy and I have been watching a lot of the Olympics. Or, as my brother used to call them, the Bolympics. The games of the gajillionth Bolympiad, if you will.

I was surprised to find that some of the competitors in women's gymnastics are my height, or even an inch taller. I'm 5'3" on a really good day ... and I even saw a gymnast who is 5'4"!

I mentioned this to My Guy, who was all, "What are you talking about?"

"How tall do you think I am?"

"Like, 5'5"?"

And then I had a heart attack from laughing. And then I got all somber. "You don't know me at all!"

So, I was feeling really alone, and, well, vulnerable. And then? Then I found out ... Bret Michaels is single.

Yes. Our favorite bandannaed rocker split from his fiancee / babymama. They are asking for privacy right now during this difficult time.

Now, I'm married. And I'm gonna stay married, even though this is obviously a very challenging time for me and My Guy, what with the height discrepancies and the reappearance of my old flame, Bret. We're gonna work through it, for the sake of the dogs.

But beyond that, does this mean we can look forward to yet another season of tramptastic fun on Rock of Love? Because My Guy and I have been known to bond over trashy teevee. And another Bret Michaels-based show could help us rebuild our marriage.

Now, I have a well-documented obsession with the Rock of Love skankfest. I'm sure I've personally contributed to the downfall of western civilization with my many thought-provoking posts on Bret's misguided quest for sex, err, I mean love. But Rock of Love?

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Buzzfeed does an excellent job of arguing for yet another season of Rock of Love. As I mentioned in my visionary proposal for Slut Rehab, we, as a culture, need to provide outlets for our hoochier members. And Rock of Love is it.

vh1? I hope you're reading. And since I was looking for volunteer opportunities, maybe I could do community service by helping the ladies cover their hoo-has and stuff.

Also? I'm sort of embarrassed by the number of posts I've written about Bret Michaels and his entire ecosystem of cheap Christmas trash. I'm hoping this means I'm an anthropologist and not, you know, a slut groupie.