It's A Fun, Sexy Time, Charlie Brown!

While my sister in arms, Jules, seems to have the ability to cast herself into the future, where such gems as Lost, 24 (or, as I like to call it: Jack Bauer Is Having the Worst Freakin' Week In History) and American Idol: the Search for America's Next Daughtry, glimmer in the distance, I am readying myself for a fun, sexy Thanksgiving.

Before I settle in to watch David Archuleta lip synch schmaltzy pop tuneage at the saccharine fest that will be the 82nd Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, before I stuff myself full of delicious carbo goodness, before Al Roker tells me what's going on in my neck of the woods, however, it's probably best that I introduce myself (and I curse Julie for dropping the Austin Powers quote before I had the chance. And she calls herself my friend.)

In my former life, I was a PR wiz, able to make troglodytes, such as corporate attorneys -- even TAX attorneys -- sound like angels from on high. Really. It's true. In 2002, however, I threw off the shackles of corporate life and dove headlong into motherhood and life as a domestic goddess (ok, FINE ... maybe just a demi-goddess). Now, I spend my days teaching my children right from wrong, as well as some righteous dance moves, indoctrinating them into the cult of change, all the while trying to become the Giada DeLaurentiis of West By-God Virginia.

As Jules mentioned, we lack a clear vision for this project, so please indulge our initial all-over-the-placed-ness. While we're searching for our direction, I'll be addressing such pressing matters as how Snoopy knows how to use a toaster (I mean, really, he has no opposable thumbs), the miracle of inflatable holiday lawn decorations, not to mention the matter of why, in the name of all that is right and holy, we are subjected to The Christmas Shoes year after year after achingly cheesy year.

So, join us, my cynical friends. Comment here and there. Click things. Enjoy. Help us ... umm ... help us.