1. The Sex and The City movie is filming all over New York, and at first, everyone seemed to get a kick out of spotting the action and actors and sending guerilla cell phone pictures to gossip blogs.  At this point, I suspect other less grouchily inclined folks are feeling, like me, that this whole SATC operation is more of a plague with its inconvenience and restricted areas.

Most film companies seem to accept that NYC is fairly populated, and it would be a tad unreasonable to expect everyone just not to show up one day while they’re working.  But the SATCies will yell at you if you stop and try to spot the celebrity.  Or look sideways at their lunch wagon.  I tried to take a picture of Kristen Davis’ director chair, and I got an, “(unh!) Excuuuuuuuuse me, Ma’am, but you can’t just stand here and take pictures (huff!).” I moved two steps and took one, anyway.  Because I am passive-aggressive like that. 

How is it that film crews can just take over national landmarks, like the front steps of the NY Public Library?  There goes about fifty thousand tourists resting and taking photos and about fifty thousand mid-town lunchers using the chairs, benches and tables.

 I remember being blown away by the fact that New York City was entirely empty in The Mouse That Roared.  Now, of course, anything is possible with computers (man, I just sounded a generation older saying that), but did they have computers in 1959? 

I guess a library isn’t such a big deal, but what about all those movies that take place in the White House?  How does that work?

“So, Dubs, can  you and the fam just sleep over at Condi’s tonight? We need to film the White House for our movie about aliens attacking from outer space.  Also, we may be destroying the Pentagon with firebombs.  That’s okay, right?” 

2. Never, ever go to CVS to reprint old photos. I had twelve of those little tiny square prints packed together four to a page. Those bastards charged me $50. Then the cashier had the audacity to hand me a slip offering a $4 coupon if I filled out an online survey. I WILL AND THEY WILL FEEL MY WRATH. But keep your $4, why don’t you?

Just got back from the Garden State Mall, where it took 20 minutes of stop-and-go traffic-dodging to turn into the mall property, 20 minutes of stop-and-go traffic-dodging to park, 20 minutes of stop-and-go people-dodging to get inside to H&M, where 20 minutes of stop-and-go shoving people-and stroller-dodging was enough to make me get the hell out of there.

I can’t wait until next week. We’re going to Staunton, VA, where not only is ’shit’ a four-letter word, it is a four-syllable word.

1. I just went to VS to try on bras since mine are all in tatters. Had to put back all the pretty grown-up ones which were too big and get a stupid wireless (wifi bra!!) one with pink hearts and polka dots on the straps from the teenybopper line. So much for sexy… I could have carried my young in those pouches.

2. Yesterday I received spam mail from these most excellent addresses:  MillicentDiscomfitCarrier@something.com and ElmaGuiltyWoody@britneyspears.com  Awesome!  I suspect MillicentDiscomfitCarrier is responsible for the dreadful bras, though. 

There is an all-Italian team in P’s indoor league.  They couldn’t be more typical if they were custom-ordered from an ethnic stereotype catalog.  Names like Tony and Frank? Check. Dark, curly hair? Churlish temperaments? Check and check.  Oh, and did I mention we’re in New Jersey, too? 

There is a set of twins–one goalie, the other captain—whose voices are pretty deep and resonant. It’s the voice of God, if God is Foghorn Leghorn’s Barnyard Dawg.

They are thick and violent and not very clever, and are apt to form threatening groups on and off the field, warning refs or opponents to “ betta watch your back!” One night, some of the other team’s groupies got rowdy, and Voice Of God thundered, “I guess SOME guys don’t know how to control their women, huh!”

What am I supposed to do with that? It’s like someone is handing out free prejudice samples.

Also? Europeans are awesome.  I just saw a tourist with a Dooney & Bourke fanny pack, styled somewhere between an apron and a carpenter’s tool belt.