My earth-shattering pronouncement about the state of television today. Also? You kids, get off of my lawn!

I have purposely avoided the Kardashian fray. Even before Kim's over-the-top wedding and subsequent 15-second marriage, I've just found that family ... icky.

But now? Now, I think I've figured it out.

See, I sort of half-watched an episode of "Kim and Whats-Her-Name Take New York." Or "Khloe Visits Kim and Whats-Her-Name in New York." Or "Some Other Sister Whose Name Starts With a K Does Stuff in New York." Whatever.

But I watched it with the sound off, which was actually a really interesting sociological experiment.

You know what I saw?

I some some body language that completely spilled the beans.

These people are not nice. They don't listen to each other and they don't give a rat's ass about the other person's wants. There was absolutely nothing authentic about any of it. And really? Kim, we don't believe that you wake up with a full face of make-up, including falsies.

Sorry. And Kim & Ko.? Shame on you for adding to the cacophony telling impressionable young women to aspire to all things superficial. I'm pretty sure thick eyelashes and a ball-player husband don't ensure happiness. So, can you guys please just do the world a favor and go away?

In a striking contrast, I ran across a great article today about someone who devoted their life to using television to spread grace. Not promoting themselves - promoting grace and acceptance.

For a shock to the system, might I suggest this lovely article about The Greatest Person Ever, on TV or Not on TV, Mr. Fred Rogers? It's long-ish, but so worth it. It's a great way to purge that Kardashian aftertaste from your system and to focus on what we should really all aspire to - not bootyliciousness, or having a big effing wedding, but being a decent human being.

I've turned into a softie.

My Guy left yesterday for a convention. He has to go every year, and every year, it's over his birthday. Ick. He'll be gone until Thursday.

I was really sad to see him go. I was surprised at how sad I was.

Let's be honest: My Guy is a kind, funny, wonderful man. But sometimes he makes me crazy. Like how our bathroom mirror is in a constant state of greasy smudgetasticness because he wipes condensation off with his dirty t-shirts. Because boys are dumb.

So, I should be excited to have almost a week of clean bathroom mirrors and time to do whatever I want.

However ...

While I was tooling around Target yesterday, I realized I was in no rush to get home ... and no one was waiting for me. And then I remembered that it used to be like this all the time.

I lived alone, and I was alone a lot. That sort of solitude helps you figure yourself out. But it's also really, well, lonely.

I miss my husband. Which, I guess, means that I've overcome one of my fears about getting married: being dependent upon someone else.

Don't get me wrong: I am managing to function in My Guy's absence. So, like, when Lady Doodle decided that the alpha was gone and so she'd make a play for the position, and growled and barked and was mean to the other dogs, prompting Foxie Doxie to conveniently and oh-so-logically stake his claim by peeing on my bed a 12:45 this morning? I was able to deal with it. And by "deal," I of course mean "go completely ballistic."

But really? Things are just easier when the entire pack is together. That means Mr. Wiping-the-Mirror-With-T-Shirt Guy, too.

Plus? I just miss my friend.

Why yes, my husband is clean-shaven.

When I was little, I was scared of facial hair. Maybe I watched too many westerns. I was convinced that any man with a beard or mustache was A Bad Guy.

Bret Maverick?

Totally A Good Guy.

Creedence Clearwater Revival?

Haunted my dreams.

I still don't like their music. There. I admitted it.

Let's blame my parents, their TV habits, their record collection, and their ability to remember theme song lyrics. I can sing the Maverick theme song. But I still hate CCR's music.

Images courtesy of Google.

A few words about speedbumps. And snot.

I had a horrible cold all holiday weekend. But Monday? Monday, I got my sorry ass out of bed, put on a bra, and announced that it was a new day! And I went into work.

Corporate Behemoth is in an 18-story tower with a 5-level parking garage underneath. From the garage entrance to the very bottom level, it's a mile of driving. Since I am not what you'd call "an early bird" or "punctual in any way," I typically park on 1 of the 2 lowest levels.

There's been a problem with speeding in the garage, so, in their infinite wisdom, Facilities put in speedbumps. A whole lotta speedbumps. But they went all out and put in these speedbumps that were not really speedbumps at all, but parking stops.

Like, this is a normal speedbump: o
And this is the flavor of speedbump they put in: ^

So, people were driving around the speedbumps and hitting parked cars, and low-riders where getting damaged. And people came to a complete stop before traversing the speedbumps. It was bad.

But now we have some normal-ish speedbumps that are more o than ^. But the people? They still drive like morons! They do not appreciate the new flavor of speedbump!

And so Monday, when I was wearing a bra for the first time in 3 days and trying to pretend that my body composition wasn't still 87% mucus? I did not have the time nor the inclination to get behind somebody who was shy about crossing speedbumps. I needed to be behind a speed demon, not The White Explorer.

Can we all just agree that if you drive an Explorer, it's not necessary for you to come to a complete stop before before inching over a speedbump?

Complete. Stop. Seriously.

Some people just can't handle power tools or 4-wheel drive. Lady in The White Explorer? I'm talking to you. I drive an 8-year-old Honda with messed up rotors and I drive it like I'm outrunning a tribe of angry natives who have never seen an outsider compared to you in your 876,234-horsepower vehicle.

Plus, if we're being honest?

I really, really, really needed to blow my nose. And you were so slow that I ended up with a mucus situation. As in, I wiped my nose on an old Wendy's napkin that had been in my glove box for 3 years. You know, those emergency napkins that are partially degraded because they're so old? The ones you keep only for true emergencies? The ones I had plenty of time to rummage around and find while you were coming to a complete stop at yet another speedbump? After I'd memorized your license plate and put a voodoo curse on you?

Yeah.

But I'm feeling much better now.

Thankful it's only once a year.

Remember when my father-in-law reprimanded me because My Guy wrote the wrong house number on a note he sent him?

Yeah.

This is what went down on Thanksgiving.

FIL: So, did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb?

Me: Umm ... what?

FIL: Did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb - to your house?

Me: Our house is in Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Oh, right. Tinysuburbway. Anyway, did your parents ever see your house?

Me: It's Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Well, I call it Superfarawaysuburb.

Me: I think the post office would disagree with you.

FIL: Well. Did your parents ever see your house?

Me: Umm ... yeah.

FIL: Well! Next time they come down, call me! I could drive up and meet them for lunch! I didn't get to talk to them much at the wedding.

Me: That's because they avoided you because they think you're batshit crazy.

OK, maybe that last comment was my internal dialogue.

I ain't hatin' on no fruit.

But here’s yet another reason why I love my husband.

Me: I have to meet with this crotchety VP who hates some copy that I didn’t even write. I have to meet with him and act all gracious and shit and fix something that I didn’t even break in the first place. And this guy is infamous for being a real jerk. He’s “the idea guy” and so he can get away with being a total ass. He cusses people out and makes people cry all the time – everybody knows it, and he gets away with it! Also? I was waiting for the elevators the other day, and I heard this horrible slurping from someone behind me. It was like an alien vivisection or something – totally gooey and noisy and gross. And it was this VP, devouring a pear!

My Guy: Who the fuck eats pears?

Allow me to brag.

My brother Poochie is brilliant.

This week, he successfully defended his master's thesis and his GIS certificate. I edited his thesis, and if you ask me? His research is going to revolutionize railroad planning and logistics.

This is also a nice way of saying that I didn't understand a good part of it.

Lest you think that Poochie is a flash in the academic pan? Let me tell you about the revolutionary theory that really put him on the smart-guy map. It's called The George Strait Test.

The gist? No man can punch George Strait in the face. It just can't be done - George is too nice! Everybody loves George! Therefore, no man can punch George in the face.

Even if you're not a country music fan, you gotta admit - Poochie's on to something.

Image courtesy of georgestrait.com.