Sheesh. This is TBS's marketing for their (cleaned up) repeats of SATC. I had to laugh at my mother-in-law's shock and awe at the show, and Samantha in particular, knowing that Mom had not seen such deleted delights as Samantha going down on Sonia Braga or Charlotte's date with a man who called her rap song-worthy epithets upon climax.

Anyway, its hard to let go. TBS is making the end of the show so much easier. The Emmys last night were also fun. Cause let's be honest: I was only watching to see what SJP and the girls were wearing. Not to mention Chris Noth.

I just recently found out that I am knitting improperly. I have somehow created a new stitch, which I am calling the "Belle". (Belle one, purl two) With the help of a friend I have corrected my technique. I finished my current project in a Belleing pattern, but am now working on another kerchief and that involves increasing. So I asked the friend to help. She directed me to this site which has yet to fail to make me think of a porn video. Poor lighting, the faux French mani, the dextrous manipulation of the yarn....I'm wondering if they shouldn't put the thing to some synthesized soft jazz and see how many adverts they get then!

I do raise my glass, yet again, to the Internet though, porn knitting or no. This resource will ensure that I do not fling my size 8 wooden circulars at anyone or anything, and that I may create a project the way the knitting gods intended.

There are a few references to the Sex Pistols in this article. That makes me very happy. Somehow, I am in a major rock-out phase in my life. I was a little depressed to hear R.E.M.'s new album described as "melodic" and "lush". But apparently U2 has scaled it down to the fab four - vocal/guitar/bass/drums, and they are working with a producer who probably has no idea what the word "harmony" means. Good times.

As for the eligible bands for this year's Hall of Fame induction - all I can say is they clearly got me in the gut. I feel like my own personality could be described as "Lynyrd Skynyrd meets The Pretenders" myself. Maybe I should try and attend the induction concert.

My daughter is really good at soccer. I'm so proud I could burst. And, I'm feeling more like a mom than I ever thought possible.

I drive my minivan to the soccer games at a place I swore (as a young married) that I would never take my children, should I decide to have any. I park next to Range Rovers, Volvos, and Lexus SUVs and escort my Aryan-looking children to the field in our requisite soccer gear. (Note: I have not yet bought the requisite chairs. Maybe I'm doing better than I thought.) Usually, I have taken care to wear a clean shirt and maybe some lipstick. I meet and greet and press the flesh of so, so many people.

But then the action starts and my golden girl is right there, in the game. She is agressive, active, unafraid, and fast as all hell. She gets tired and overheated easily like her mom did back in the middle-Georgia softball tournaments of the early '80s. Still, when called upon, she shakes off her exhaustion and runs to where she needs to be or digs the ball out from a crowd or kicks the living daylights out of it.

Here is where I must stop, for modesty demands it. Also, my soccer lingo is incredibly limited. Beyond "Kick it!" or "Goal!" I really have no vocabulary for cheering her little team on, since I have no idea how to play the game. My experience with soccer is limited to a one-night stand with a college player and the relevant cinema.

I guess I'll continue to stand on the sidelines, cheering loudly whenever our team does something I perceive as good, and then we'll get in the minivan and go out for pizza. So I said I would never be that kind of mom. It seems to be the right thing to do, right now. And never, I realize yet again, should you ever say "never".

Dumb Furcal. Why did he have to do it? Where are his people, his entourage? Where are the publicists, agents, etc.?

(Same questions were asked when John Rocker gave that interview to Sports Illustrated....)

All of my sports heroes keep falling, and hard. Oh, Marion. And speaking of Bravos, my darling Chipper fathered a few illegitimate children in between Ozzfest shows, apparently!

Timmy Duncan has stayed clean. Tiger seems human. The Williams have a few problems of their own, but they haven't pulled any Bush twin/Hilton sister antics...yet.

Let's hope that Furcal has learned his lesson and will let some highly paid driver escort him around 285 from now on.

I like Franz Ferdinand. Despite some bad reviews, I still think they have a unique sound and are worthy of this recognition.

So many of the great new bands are European. My favorite teenybopper rockers Snow Patrol were shortlisted for the Mercury Prize. The Raveonettes are Danish, The Hives are Swedish (Var sa god!), and Belle and Sebastian are something if not affected.

Who would win the American version of the Mercury? The Grammys always seem to embarass me with the "best new band" award....mainly because the "best new band" has either a. been around forever, or b. is no good and will not be around to see the next Grammy ceremony. Gaze at this list and you'll see what I mean.

For the American Mercury I'd look at the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or the Black Eyed Peas. But my first choice would be Interpol. We Americans are giving the Brits (and Swedes) a run for their money lately - and with new music coming from Beck, Gwen Stefani, REM, and my darling Interpol - plus the Strokes and Wilco among others with fun new records floating about - hell, maybe this year's Best New Artist won't be so totally cheesey.

Sometimes I like my town and my life. I was not offended at the latest Junior League meeting, I was pleased to get to the coffee shop
in time to discuss our book club selection,
the monster in the Atlantic doesn't seem headed our way, and my children have been funny and well-behaved for the most part.

In fact, they have been inquisitive and full of wonder. Discussions often ensue in the minivan about what life was like before a. toilets, b. cars, and c. hairbrushes. I have heard them talking quietly about how they wish Barbie was their babysitter, or that they could stay four forever.

There are stranger moments, too...like when they sing songs and recite ditties all around the word, "Drinkskwush". This whilst sucking on defrosted popsicles. There is a lot of bottom revealing. And at various times one child is a baby and the other, its caretaker of some ilk. The baby's name is something along the lines of "Baby Ozie" or "Baby Rescue" or "Baby Banana".

So do I fear five hours in the car with them tonight? No, I relish it. My insurance is the portable tv/vcr and my iPod. But for the most part, I'm just going to sit back and enjoy the drive.