Snooki got to her weight goal of 98 pounds. Generally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anything that any of the Jersey Shore morons are doing.  But a few things annoy me. I bet you’re shocked.

First, as a whole, they completely and utterly soil anything Italian.  If I had my way, I’d require them to label their heritage “Guido” because most of us Italian-Americans aren’t like them. We are literate, pronounce the letter “h” when it follows a “t” (ex. “three” is different from “tree”) and we aspire to do more with our lives than achieving a hair height equivalent to the Leaning Tower of Pisa or a skin color that is Hermes orange.

I get supremely annoyed by people confusing the art of Guido as Italian.  As someone who has actually stepped foot in Italy more than a few times, let me tell you that there is nearly nothing that can visually assault the eye as much as The Situation, Snooki or any of the other douche bags or douche nozzles that are on the show. Most real Italians are well dressed, well spoken and actually eat more than Chiclets and Vodka.

But besides just how the Jersey Shore morons smear the adult perception of Italian-Americans, there is what happens when kids watch the show.  And I say this not advocating that children should watch the show (because I clearly think they should not); but because I assume that some kids are being raised by buffoons who are truly not “smarter than a fifth grader”  and don’t understand that their children watching these behaviors may actually impact how their kids behave. Snooki or her other cohorts somehow become role models. (God help us one and all) And then somehow Snooki achieving what may or may not be a healthy weight of 98 pounds becomes an aspiration of young girls.  And if their parental role models are of a similar mindset, the worry of idiots becoming extinct is safe for at least another generation.

Do you know what would truly impress me about Snooki? Finding out that her IQ exceeded her weight instead of her waist. Spend more time eating and less time spray tanning.

Now if you’d excuse me, I’m going to make myself an espresso.

After visiting Beijing, setting aside the amazing historical sites, I found myself longing for two things - 1. A shower and 2. To get the heck out of China. Never in my life have I seen such a dreary, gloomy city where spitting outweighed common courtesy tenfold. And even the historic sites were often overshadowed by barking people, shoving and hawkers trying replicas cheesy replicas of each site often emblazoned with mini LED lights.

Flash-forward six months later, to when Greg was invited to lecture in Shanghai. Presented with the opportunity to visit Shanghai, my first thought was "Dear God, why couldn't Greg have been invited to any other Asian country to lecture?" And then, I googled it. I found references calling Shanghai the "Paris of China." Hmm, maybe it's filled with Louis Vuitton stores and rude people. Just kidding - I love Paris and don't find the French to be rude. They're just reacting to gauche Americans. But, I digress.

So, I decided to give it a go and we booked a ticket for me. Boy, was I surprised! I had done China as much of a disservice by assuming the entire country was disgusting and foul based on my experience in just one city as if someone were to judge the entire US by a visit to Topeka, Kansas.

Shanghai was an incredible city! It's very cosmopolitan - interesting and eclectic architecture, stylish people and hardly anyone spat. Unlike its capital city, Shanghai offers a much better foray into China than Beijing. It still feels very much Chinese with language barriers aplenty, insane driving and people trying to sell you fake Gucci bags and hookers simultaneously. But it is far more approachable and just enough "western" to allow one to breathe. Which speaking of air quality, Shanghai is to Beijing as the Cape Cod shoreline is to the Sumner Tunnel.

Most of the city's incredible skyscrapers have been built over the past fifteen years or so (which speaks for how quickly China can make things happen.) But whereas, Beijing had very little greenery, Shanghai had lots of trees and plants and parks among the beautiful new skyscrapers. And besides the ultra-modern parts of the city, there were tree lined boulevards that would convince you that you were in Europe.

I would gladly visit Shanghai again. Beijing and Topeka still both compete for last place in places of the world I ever hope to see again. Well, realistically, Topeka still bottoms the list. At least going to Beijing I'd earn a ton of airline miles. And I wouldn't risk running into that asshole Fred Phelps.

One stroller, one toddler, and a hoard of dolls.  Read all about it on EDGE...
'

http://www.edgeonthenet.com/index.php?ch=columnists&sc=cattydaddy&id=121587

Read about our experience being out as a family on EDGE:


http://www.edgeonthenet.com/columnists/cattydaddy///120629/family_outing

Read my column about raising an uber independent toddler on EDGE:



http://www.edgeonthenet.com/columnists/cattydaddy///119410/miss_independence

Read about our experiences jetting around the globe with a baby in my EDGE column...

http://www.edgeonthenet.com/columnists/cattydaddy///118174/flying_the_friendly_skies

Read my column on working parents on EDGE...



http://www.edgeonthenet.com/columnists/cattydaddy///117111/a_tribute_to_the_working_parent

Medical dinners can be a mixed bag. Spouses are either really interesting and artsy or everyone is in medicine and it becomes like an episode of Gray's Anatomy sans the sexy people (give or take a few.) The one we attended the other night was the latter.

The first couple we chatted with were pleasant but had less personality than a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau. I tried for a bit but when I had finally had all that I could endure, I excused myself to phone my parents to check on Elly. I hoped that Greg would have found a way to escape by the time I returned. Ok, so I may seem like a bad husband right now but it's not like I left him a la 127 Hours.

Much to my chagrin, he hadn't chewed himself free. But a friend whose company I enjoy had arrived to the trio. We got caught up and were then called in for dinner where once again my luck would take a turn for the worst. As people filed into the dining room, we managed to land ourselves at a table with a lively and interesting couple to Greg's right and a mismatched and awkward couple to my left. I introduced myself to the gent next to me who looked like a cross between the Swedish Chef from the Muppets and an androgynous character from a Saturday Night Live skit. (Oh waiter, another Cabernet please!) And then proceeded to introduce myself to his wife who immediately proclaimed "I'm a dentist." I don't even think she told me her name. How lovely for you.

It was a good reminder that however insecure I may feel being non-medical in a sea of physicians (regardless of the fact that I ALWAYS have the nicest shoes), I have no problem being a doctor's husband. My running joke is that it's much easier to marry a doctor than to be one.

But Dentist Girl really does feel second fiddle. In many ways. They live, and her practice is in the burbs. "But my gym is in Boston." Ok, now I'm even more confused. My gym is two miles away and I have a hard enough time getting there. You make it a point to drive over a half-hour to go into Boston to work out? Really? I bet she doesn't even floss.

And just in case I didn't want to start to drink lighter fluid at this point of the evening, she started quizzing her husband on Shakespearean characters and quotes from his works. Seriously, woman? Emasculating your husband more than his haircut already does is totally unnecessary. But if it keeps you from talking to me, carry on.

And then came the best sound of the night - the clanging glass indicating that the awards presentation and speeches would begin. Phew!

I had sort of an apparition this morning. I received a message from Mother Nature in my toast. It was a lengthy message (I had two pieces) and in hindsight, I suppose that I should have saved it or at least called Oprah. But, I was hungry. So to make up for it, I'm passing her message on here. In a nutshell, she said that she's sorry about all the snow. And that while she will eventually thaw out this ginormous mess, in the interim people should use some common sense (and common courtesy) and put down ice melt!

I thought to myself, You know what? That old broad has a point. It's not that difficult, people. Help her out a little. A sprinkle here and a sprinkle there and the next thing you know, it's a whole lot better.

But my day didn't end with just a toast sighting. Today was trash day. As I was out walking Betty and Elly (and taking our lives into my hands), embedded into one of the already soiled banks, I spotted an "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret " sized maxi-pad that didn't successfully land its way into the truck. It's amidst the rest of a neighbor's exploded trash bag, including what looks like the remnant of a Jimmy Dean sausage. I'm not sure which grossed me out more.

I am willing to bet that whoever Miss Kotex is, she will not pick it up, given the propensity to not deice around here. I just hope that some small child doesn't mistake it for a toboggan.

Last night, Greg and I had an incredible dinner at the White Barn Inn in Kennebunk. We had been wanting to try it for ages and finally had the chance. (Thanks Mom and Dad for minding Elly!)

While waiting for our table, we decided to have a drink at the bar. As luck would have it, the only two open seats were at the piano. So we (quite stereotypically) sat there. In a matter of no time, the pianist began to play "Over the Rainbow". All we needed was a tv showing the Smucker's Ice Skating Competition, Liza Minelli and a local field hockey team and we would have had the quorum needed to vote the Bush's out of town.

While we were seated at the piano, hidden behind a flower arrangement the size of a Texas hairdo, we had yet to offend anyone's wholesome sensibilities. You see, there are natural habitats where one expects to have gay sightings - hair salons, Neiman Marcus, Sephora, and piano bars. In those places, we either blend in like chameleons or are amusing to see like monkeys frolicking at a zoo. But, in a short time we would be neither of those. We would soon be hyenas - dreaded and feared, out to ruin everyone's fun.

As the maitre d' escorted us to our table through the sea of white people replete in their Brooks Brothers and Talbots garb, the frost from the ice and snow outside paled in comparison to what we felt inside.

Two men dining together at 8:45 on a Saturday evening weren't likely business partners poring over documents and yacking it up about the "big game". We had clearly upset the delicate balance in this sleepy red town. Oh, the amuse bouche was just about the only thing that was amused in that dining room. A number of our fellow diners were visibly disturbed that two homosexuals had tainted their dinner. But you know what? This boy didn't care. As a matter of fact, it energized me. By the third look of disdain we got cast from the woman that I'll refer to as Bitch because I don't know her Christian name, we opted for the nine course tasting menu over the four course option. Saddle up, Missy. We're gonna be here for a while!

The beauty of it all is that by the second course, I no longer realized that there was anyone else in the room with us. It was just me and Greg. We had a fabulous night enjoying an amazing dinner and each other's company.

So, to our fellow diners who cast us dirty looks, as you're hanging up those stuffy suits of yours, remember this... Whether you may like it or not, closets are for clothes and shoes, not our lives.