I had little love for the “Mad Men” season opener; it was bound to happen.  For years, I didn’t care much that these people were mostly dreadful – selfish, greedy, gluttonous.  They embodied nearly all the seven deadly sins, but their approach was so stylish and compelling, the husband and I returned week after week to Don, Betty, Roger, Pete, Peggy, and Joan.  Last Sunday, however, they lost me.  In a series of vignettes not connected in any obvious way, the arcs of their characters appear to have hit permanent plateaus.  Betty remains chubby, detached, and obliviously cruel.  Don is still a sullen cheater, allergic to happiness.  Peggy has become Don.  Roger takes up space, and Pete – well, Pete is Pete.  There’s not a cheerful one in the bunch.

We’re halfway through Netflix’s “House of Cards”.  Kevin Spacey portrays Majority Whip Frances Underwood in a D.C. environment so contemptuous, if it’s anything like the real deal, we all should kill ourselves right now.

Look this way and that – on television, in the movies, at the grocery store, the dog park, Starbucks – and you’ll find cynicism as quickly as you’ll find joy – no, faster.  This is nothing new.  It’s easier to criticize than compliment.  I’m as guilty as the next person, but it wasn’t always this way.  My glass is still half full but just and I know why.  We feed off each other; our inner curmudgeons win the battle for our souls more often than not.  On any given day, I’m going to have ten conversations and six of them will be negative.  We’ll complain about Washington, the weather, traffic, our WiFi connection, the job, the boss, school issues, children who don’t make their beds, Washington, wrinkles, parking at Trader Joe’s, bills, aches, pains, more bills, allergies, our ‘inbox’, spam, dust bunnies, acne, Washington, the spouse, the house, the car, red lights, coffee that’s too weak, coffee that’s too strong, leaf blowers, Washington, and the printer (because printers rarely work).  Then we’ll complain about those who complain all the time.

Believe me, there are real issues about which we should be upset.  But everything else has a bright side, if we’re interested in considering it.  Sure, sometimes it’s more entertaining to be Eeyore than Pollyanna, but it can often wear us down, too.  I’m sick of being weary.

The husband and I went out the other night and returned home to dirty pots and pans that the girls had failed to clean up after dinner.  I was ready with my anger and disappointment until the husband showed me this letter from Miss T:

Silver linings abound.

Unlike the Presidential debates, last night’s lone opportunity given to Vice President Biden and Congressman Ryan – to promote themselves as the preferred second-in-command come November – matters to me in only one essential way: if the president hits his head playing basketball and slips into a coma, or chokes on a pretzel and dies, which candidate can better take his place?

(Fair warning: much of what I say here will sound petty.  Arrest me.)

I don’t like Paul Ryan.  Never have.  And while I’m not terribly fond of Romney and his ideas, Mitt does not annoy me.  He doesn’t get under my skin the way Ryan does.  Governor Romney passes my high school test.

What’s my high school test?

Every now and again, someone comes along and invokes in me a desire to flick them in the head.  I have to question why.  This is unlike what I felt and still feel towards, say, Dick Cheney.  I’m not convinced that Cheney isn’t the antichrist, what with his warmongering and “I’m right about everything, you idiot” demeanor.  In other words, I’m clear about why I dislike the man.  The same can be said about certain parents at my daughters’ school and drivers who tailgate.  But then there’s Paul Ryan.

When he speaks, I have a visceral reaction.  It’s mostly about his smugness.  I hate smug. And I can’t help wondering how I would have felt had we attended high school together.  In my head, he was that guy who walked around with a sense of entitlement, not because of what he accomplished, but because he was a guy in a guy’s world.  Decent looking, the youngest of four, and youngest son, of a prominent family in Janesville, Wisconsin, I imagine him never questioning the status quo because he was the status quo.  I imagine he expected things to go his way not because he’d do what was necessary, but because that was the order of things.  When he gave the rebuttal to President Obama’s State of the Union in 2011, when he spoke at the Republican Convention last month, and when he sat across from the vice president last night – even with his high-pitched, nasal voice – he was patronizing.  I hate patronizing.  And no matter how it’s packaged – wrapped with a thoughtful bow — I sense it.  It’s ego and not the kind we need to protect our best interests.  It’s conceit.  It’s self-satisfaction.  I couldn’t stand those guys in high school (I went to a Catholic all-girls, they were at the ‘brother’ school).  Of course Ryan doesn’t believe in exceptions on abortion in cases of rape or incest.  He’s never once stopped to imagine what it would be like to be a woman, much less a woman pulled behind her car in a grocery store parking lot, beaten, subdued, and then raped.  Of course Ryan voted against the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act because he’s never been paid less than another doing the same work.  Why?  I imagine him shrugging his shoulders and answering, “Because I’m a guy.”

And that is what I call my high school test.  In our imaginary classes together, Ryan rubbed me the wrong way.  I don’t want one of ‘those guys’ a heartbeat away from the presidency.

I enjoyed watching Joe last night.  I was pleased with his impatience, his frustration, his outrage over the lies and vagaries of the Romney/Ryan ticket.  I wish he hadn’t smiled so much but I’m glad he laid out exactly what the administration’s goals are, how they plan to achieve them, and how they contrast with Mitt Romney’s.  He hammered home the essentials and did it with a genuine passion.  Yes, he interrupted Ryan and our parents always told us it’s rude to interrupt, but Ryan let him, moderator Martha Raddatz let him…  (I liked her, by the way.  Sooooo much better than Jim Lehrer.)

Next Tuesday, President Obama faces Governor Romney in Round 2.  Let’s hope our guy gets his mojo back.  He could stand to take a few pointers from his right-hand man.

- A little over a mile from our house, a terrible accident took place Wednesday night.  I heard about it on Facebook Thursday morning and it ended up on the front page of the LA Times today.  In short, a speeding SUV crashed into a utility pole and a fire hydrant, creating a growing puddle of electrified water.  Among many witnesses was a Good Samaritan who rushed out of her car as her husband dialed 911.  She was electrocuted and died before she even reached the driver of the SUV.  A short time later, another woman, not understanding the warnings shouted her way, moved to assist the first woman and was herself electrocuted.  This was an absolute tragedy of the highest order.

When our children reach a certain age, as mine have, it’s easy to forget how much they still don’t know, much of it basic.  Whether it’s how to shave their legs or bake a potato, they must be taught – so this morning, I told my three daughters about electricity and water through the context of this horrible accident.  Over the years, I’ve made it a point to demonstrate to them that getting involved is better than being a bystander.  When someone is in need, step up.  I want them to be advocates, to ask “If not me, then who?”  I want them to be like Irma Zamora, who died a hero Wednesday night during an attempt to help her fellow man.  However, in certain situations, risk assessment is necessary and so I tried to teach them about that too because, of course, I don’t ever want them in danger.  What a delicate balance.  So parents, be aware that kids don’t instinctively know that blow dryers and bathtubs full of water don’t mix, while simultaneously reminding them that good people help each other out.

- Okay, next.  Lance Armstrong.  Like Marion Jones, I always suspected he’d be found guilty of doping because instead of vehemently denying he ever took steroids, he’d mostly just claim he never tested positive for them.  Technically, his decision to no longer fight the accusations from the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency was not an admission of guilt, but we’re splitting hairs.  He’s been banned from racing for life and stripped of all his medals.  Yesterday was a sad day in sports because everyone wants to believe in the disciplined, self-sacrificing athlete that pushes his or her body to the limit to achieve greatness, particularly the cancer survivor who came back to win seven Tour de Frances.  Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire inspired us in their home run battle, and so did Armstrong every time he finished in that yellow jersey riding down the Champs-Elysées.  Now they’ve all fallen from grace.  Kids, don’t do drugs.  It never seems to work out well in the end.

- I’m not going to get too far into the rape and abortion debate, but this I’ll say: the Todd Akin situation brings to mind the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth debacle.  John Kerry was running for president and a Republican PAC slimed him by suggesting he had exaggerated his accomplishments in Vietnam, despite the fact that he was awarded a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts.  George Bush and Dick Cheney had successfully weaseled out of fighting in that war.  John Kerry volunteered to go.  That’s all you need to know, period, end of story.  (That the Swift Boat smear campaign was successful still depresses me to this day.)  Rape is rape, neither legitimate nor illegitimate, forceful or not.  Four letters – RAPE.  No one, not Todd Akin, not Paul Ryan, no one but the woman who was raped gets to decide what happens to her body afterward.  If she gets pregnant, SHE gets to choose, period, end of story.  Read Eve Ensler’s HuffPo blog entry (thanks Jeannie).

- On a minor note, the California company that makes Red Vines – my favorite movie candy – recalled their Black Licorice Twists recently because they contained more than double the amount of lead deemed healthy by the state’s Department of Health.  Two things: 1) I didn’t realize there was any amount of lead considered healthy, and 2) don’t get your black licorice from a company called Red Vines.

- Back to school on Monday, sort of, and Tuesday, for real.

It’s been a busy few days here in our little family.  I wish I could blame my lack of posts on President Obama – we live two miles from George Clooney – but whom am I kidding?  The closest I got was this morning at the end of our hike, walking by the party rental trucks.  I took photos of the tents and some leftover centerpieces.

No, I was busy this week breastfeeding my three children.

Kidding.  I’m kidding.  I kid.

If you live in a cave, you might not have seen the cover of Time Magazine.  There’s a hot mama on the cover breastfeeding her son who looks old enough to not only pour himself a glass of milk, but to actually milk the cow.  Needless to say, the photo and ensuing article has caused quite a kerfuffle.

It’s all so silly.  It’s not as if this kind of extreme attachment parenting has reached epidemic proportions.  I can’t even remember the last time I saw a woman breastfeeding in public.  The title of the piece “Are You Mom Enough?” is to goad us all into becoming self-flagellating dervishes, ripping out our hair wondering if we’re the best parents we can be.  It’s unkind, really.  As mothers, we already doubt ourselves in those micro moments when we’re not busy making lunches, ironing shirts, correcting homework, emptying the dishwasher, driving to Timbuktu, and wiping proverbial shit off the fan.

You can catch more of what I had to say on this subject tonight on E! News, 7pm, check your local listings.  It’s important that you watch because, really, when have you ever seen me on television?  Since it’s unclear to me at this time how they’ll cut the piece (they’ll hopefully only show my good side), I’ll repeat some of what I said at the studio yesterday:

Nobody has ever once approached me in my minivan – driving the girls around – to be on the cover of their magazine.  If the four of us drove around in a convertible, naked, and the ten-year-old was driving – maybe.  Maybe.  This Time cover was meant to be sensational so you’d buy their magazine, period.  How you feel about attachment parenting is the conversation, but mothers breastfeeding their 4-year-olds and/or chewing food to feed their child – at the end of the day has no bearing on your own family situation.  For the record, I think it’s weird.  I think if a kid can unbutton your blouse, it’s probably time to stop breastfeeding.  Also, the food I chew is the food I swallow – but whatever.

I’m tired.  After the E! taping, I went to the “Battleship” premiere to hang out with Rihanna because, you know, I’m in Los Angeles.  It’s what we do.

It’s always surprising when someone assumes I have all my ducks in a row.  I’m not sure what I convey to certain individuals that they’d think this.  Most of my friends know the truth – that I’m as scattered as the next person, happy to get through the day without spinach in my teeth, with children lucky to have clean sheets once or twice a year month.  Seriously, who are those people living with nary a dust bunny?  Whose computer cords beneath their desks are not tangled?  Whose food never gets green and hairy in the back of the fridge?  Who has never picked out a French fry from in between the car seats?  Who’s never paid a late fee?  Who’s ready at a moment’s notice to get into a swimsuit?  Who’s never worn a pair of blown-out underwear?  Who changes their wiper blades regularly?  Creases in their jeans, retirement savings, they never run out of milk.  I ask you, who are these people?!

They are not I.

I’m the type of person who encourages her nine-year-old daughter to take care of the fish and their tank but rarely insists and never threatens.  This approach often leaves me with stinky socks all over the house, backpacks left on the floor so as to break someone’s neck, lights left on, dogs that occasionally go hungry, dirty school uniforms pulled out and ironed from the hamper, burnt toast that needs scraping, shelves that need organizing, a two-car garage that only fits one, and a stinky partridge in a rotting pear tree.  The beds are made and there’s rarely a dirty dish in the sink, but I’m hardly Type-A.  I’m a B minus, tops.

From time to time I get a wild hair, which sometimes results in the appearance of ducks in a row, but it’s a smoke screen.  And honestly, my ducks are, on occasion, fish – like yesterday, when I decided to save them from an abbreviated life in the murky waters that was their home.  I even cleaned and put back their furniture.

Tell me, what’s hiding in your closet?  What remains, day after day, month after month, on the top of your to-do list?