It’s summer. Officially. But you’d never know it if you lived in Stamford, CT.

May I have some more rain please? Why thank you. Thanks. That’s perfect.

I had reason to go back and read an old post from last August, when the blog was in its infancy. And this shit is funny.

Thanks for stopping by. Regular programming may resume some time soon, per my whims.

Remember last summer when we thought spending a few weeks at the beach seemed perfectly reasonable? I do. Vaguely.

Taking hundreds of pictures during our Vineyard trip last August was a clutch move. Sure, the memories will sustain us for a while. More importantly, my laptop is throwing off a lot of heat as I fix the tilted horizons and try to eliminate zombie dog eyes… and I’m sure running a computer is far cheaper than turning the heat up above 58 degrees.

Viewing the world from the late November market’s underbelly, hitting the road for two weeks seems a little extravagant. But I wouldn’t want the money back. Blowing it on an overland parking permit, Back Door Donuts, Sharkey’s margaritas and fishing poles (the ones a certain dog who shall remain nameless ate somewhere between Providence and New London) sure was fun. Pull up a chair and warm your hands by the CPU with me as I stroll down memory lane.

I’m still enamored of the clams in the bucket. If I took one picture of these, I took 4 dozen. Greedy greedy greedy.

The Edgartown Lighthouse is beautiful inside and out. And, yeah, I remember those flip flops. I think Talullah ate them some time in early September.

More extravagant memories after the jump.

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This is for Stamford Talk, who’s asked me to post some pictures from my trip to Cannes. Dear, dear Talk… I regret to tell you that I took a small handful of lame pictures with my iPhone while I was there. It was partly because I was working, partly because it rained so dang much there weren’t a lot of opportunities for quaint pictures of this beautiful seaside resort.

Let’s start with my room. My assistant fought tooth and nail to get me into this room, which somehow seemed more desirable than the newer hotel down the street where everyone else was staying. I’m not sure if the fringe curtain around the king-sized bed was very French or just very slutty. You decide:

More fun after the jump

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Let’s take a look back to early September, shall we? A time when I was fresh back from vacation, still basking in the glow of all that family time, before my job chewed me up and spit me back out again. Ha, ha, work, HA! UR so funny. Thanks for the tears this week, it’s been a blast!

But I digress. Way back in those days of ignorance and margaritas, I wrote about how we should judge Sarah Palin on her positions on the issues, not based on her gender.

I still stand by the bit about not judging her because she’s a woman, and especially the part about not doubting her abilities because she’s a mom. And I still really like what I wrote about the tooth fairy, unicorns and the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Anyway.

My thinking has changed a little. I am now convinced that we shouldn’t judge her. At all. It’s sad, really. If I had a frontal lobotomy I wouldn’t want y’all judging me either.  Look at the poor dear. She can’t even get the word caricature out of her perfectly Bobbi Brown’d lips. Can’t you just picture her out on her porch at night with her AK-47 waiting for Putin to invade her airspace? And I wonder how much sleep she loses over those Canadians.

I know this will irk my Couric-hating husband to no end (hi baby! I’ll be right home – gotta go resign first!), but there’s one thing this whole carica charact charade has proven: don’t fuck with Katie Couric. She’ll take you down. She’ll endearlingly tilt her head at you while she does it, and she’ll make it look like she really doesn’t want to ask you the tough question for the third time, but she’ll take you down faster than you can say thanks but no thanks to Congress about the Bridge to Nowhere sell the Governor’s jet on ebay tell Shimon Peres the Israeli flag is the only flag in your office transfer from the University of Hawaii at Hilo to Hawaii Pacific University to North Idaho College to the University of Idaho to Matanuska-Susitna College, and then back to the University of Idaho.

It’s the Season of the Freak Out at work. 2009 budgeting, two huge client events mere weeks away, all-day planning  meetings scheduled from 8 am until well into the night every day of next week…

But enough about my misery. It’s not terribly entertaining.  But Helen’s and Jacob’s misery; well, that’s a horse of a different color.

Pop yourself a nice big bowl of popcorn, get (un)comfortable and watch while Helen and Jacob explore every nook and cranny of their marriage with their counselor. The link will take you to one of four sessions currently available for your viewing pleasure.

I got over myself (more than once) and told you to go see Seussical at Curtain Call. I ruffled a few feathers with some satire, and also connected with a blog goddess I know a little in the real world. Speaking of whom, the FC bloggers’ media tour continued, and if you kinda sorta squint while moving to the left you can plainly see that I was kinda sorta mentioned as the sky-is-falling tipster to the talented and gracious Stamford Talk. My girl Mo agreed with my assessment of John Prettyboy Edwards. I told my husband that if there was a choice between the two men featured on Nightline Friday night, I’d take Bob Woodruff in a heartbeat.  Man of substance versus man of fluff. Plus Woodruff is hawt. Then again, we don’t have a lot of sympathy ’round these parts for douchebags who step out on cancer patients.  Not one, not two, but four pairs of new sandals and flipflops survived three days in my house unmolested. Last night we were kickin’ it large sans children. And today, my boyfriend husband showed up post-workout with bagels, coffee, and smoked salmon for my entire swim group.  Happy birthday to me*!

*rby and matt, you can thank me later.