It's all because of cigarette butts, those tiny cylindrical spheres, just an inch or so long, that have been piling up in front of my house. They are nature's way of saying, "Di,you think the litter around here is bad, wait til you get a load of these little suckers!" For some reason, everyone who lives near me is smoking more - and more and more and more - and/or ashtrays are no longer available in the United States of America.

One day I swept-up every last butt on my sidewalk and counted 90 of 'em. Folks, I'm a chocolate lover, so I understand how tough it is to "just say no" but 90 butts is an awful lotta tabbaccy. You want an environment to look like Skid Row in a flash? Throw more than four packs worth of butts into a small area and PRESTO! you got it, pal.

So because I'm more steamed than usual at ciggies what does the universe send me? An email from Philly Thrilllist about not just any old cigarette, but an amazing new Swedish smokeless tobacco product (they call is "snus" in the Land of the Midnight Sun) that's "been pleasing European enthusiasts since 1850" and is "tucked into the upper lip, providing a richly flavored tingle that goes anywhere you do, and delivers discreet, convenient tobacco satisfaction without the need to spit."

That's all terrific news, until you notice the caveat that comes with this amazing stuff which, apparently, they HAVE TO include in their jazzy public relations communication:"WARNING:This product can cause gum disease and tooth loss."

Damn, why did they have to spoil it? The advertising geniuses made it sound so enticing with the alluring words: "Infused with bergamot oil for a better, more unique taste than its peers, the 22-tobacco blend's available in eight different forms and flavors - from pre-portioned to loose, from the classic blend to Nordic Mint - because even marauding Vikings have concerns about bad breath." 

Honey, if you're still chewing tobacco in 2012, I predict that bad breath is the very least of your concerns.

And speaking of 2012, doesn't a snuff email blast seem so very 20th century? What's next, an ad campaign for moonshine and hog skinning?

Swedish snus? I'll stick with Swedish Fish.

The Swedes are doing what American politicians like to call "putting lipstick on a pig."

Yup, you can gussy her up all and adorn her with purty descriptions, but a stinker is still a stinker and dip is still dip. (Is that where the term "dipsh_ _" originated?) And those who chew it, stash it in their gums or use it to spice up their bubble gum will still end up as toothless as a hillbilly centenarian.

So forgive me, but I'm just fuming at tobacco these days. Somebody, quick, get me a Double Crunch Reese's Cup to calm my nerves...

"Private Property. No Trespassing. Do Not Look in my Windows." This home-made sign was plopped on the front lawn of a nearby twin home that's set back from the sidewalk. I don't want to judge too harshly, but this isn't exactly a community where people are dying to peer into House and Garden domiciles for home-decorating tips. If I'm strolling around Rittenhouse Square, yeah, I'll admit it, I glance inside a historic home if the curtains are open and the building is close enough that I can't officially be incarcerated for Peeping Tom-ish behavior. Who doesn't want to see how the other (i.e., richer) half lives? But in my hood, I think a "don't look in my windows" sign is laughably unnecessary. Ain't nobody peeping in to admire your Ikea couch and painted Salvation Army coffee table, neighbor, so settle down.

"Center for the Empowerment of Women." Although there's nothing I support more than the empowerment of women, there is something inherently depressing when the sign for the Center for the Empowerment of Women is cockeyed, fading and perched in front of a tiny apartment building with a tattered chain-link fence, patches of brown grass and torn blinds that have all seen better decades. Why doesn't somebody empower some paint and a rake to spruce the place up a little? Don't women - especially those who need to be empowered - deserve it?

"No Littering. Violators will be Fined." We noticed this ironic sign on several telephone poles. If this law was actually enacted throughout Philadelphia, the city's budget and school system deficits would be wiped clean in a week. Seriously, has anybody ever heard of a trash can, for God's sake? News reports claim that Philly is currently striving to become "America's Greenest City" through a series of 150 "sustainability initiatives." But how can we be "green" when brown litter is so much a part of our landscape? Whenever I visit another major city, I always take note of their litter situation and it's never as monumental as ours. These cities typically have numerous strategically-placed trash cans, which leads to the conclusion that more receptacles = less litter. Fairly easy equation, but in my Philadelphia hood last year, they actually REMOVED many trash cans and added just a sprinkling of the super-duper solar-powered versions. Folks, can ya guess what happened? That's right - there is more trash piling up than ever because people won't walk more than two feet to dispose of their Rite Aid receipt, Metro newspaper or losing lottery ticket.

Sign of the times? I certainly hope not, but Sammy and I will keep our eyes peeled, promise...

Lotsa things seem to annoy me this month, including:

- Answering my office telephone and hearing the following: "This is NOT a sales call. Do NOT hang up." If that ain't an invitation to click off the line, I don't know what is...

- Reading that Wal-Mart has reassigned their overnight greeters at thousands of its supercenters across the country. So now, if you run to Wal-Mart at midnight for a 12-pack of beer or some toilet paper, there won't be an 80-year-old man to provide you with a warm and hearty welcome you as you enter the store. Damn shame. Never gonna get that kind of wholesome friendliness from the Wal-Mart checkout clerk, that's for sure.

- At a Madrid festival, a bull whose head had been affixed with large balls of flaming wax fatally gored a man as it was let loose to rampage through the town's streets. While it's a shame that someone was killed, when large balls of flaming wax are tied to a bull's head, one can hardly expect the festivities to end on a gleeful note, can one?

- My favorite mega-idiots from that "church" down South said they'd be picketing at Joe Paterno's funeral. The connection? Boys and girls, we've discussed these people before - there is no connection, just a bunch of dimwits with too much time on their hands, not enough gray matter in their heads and nothing stirring in their souls. 

- And speaking of souls, there was a large advertisement in the paper last week proclaiming that a revelation had been sent from above about the imminent arrival of Jesus Christ. To get the skinny on exactly when he's coming to earth, the ad said that readers could purchase details at a cost of anywhere from three dollars to an even ten bucks. I'm just speculating, but if the Lord is coming and the end of the world is near, shouldn't this information be shared for free? I mean, what are they going to do with the money they make - take it to heaven with them? It just doesn't make sense, I tell ya...

- And finally, here's how to tell that we are a country of lazy louts: My fellow anti-litter neighbor bought me a magnificently handy little device called a Rubbish Clamp. It's a metal rod with a "pincher" at the end that enables you to pick up trash without touching someone else's discarded cigarette butt, soiled diaper, Snickers wrapper, etc. What caught my attention was the tag on the Rubbish Clamp: "No need to bend your waist, do picking when walking, confident and clean." The implement was made in China, so I have to hand it to the Chinese advertising copywriters for perfectly describing how I feel when I walk down my street and spot yet another pile of litter on my sidewalk - confident and clean, with, God Forbid, no waist bending to be had...Clamp that, suckers! February, here I come!

That's right up there with one of my other favorite quotes uttered by a man defending himself after being accused of stabbing a woman: "I didn't kill her, she fell into the knife."

Of course, both examples involved tragic deaths (as opposed, you know, to the non-tragic deaths), which are nothing to joke about.

Nevertheless, when the Italian Captain Shettino (I pronounce it with a slight variation) of the doomed cruise ship Costa Concordia invented the implausible "tripping" explanation for his cowardice, what could you do but smirk? That guy was tripping all right, but not with his feet.

Reading about this shmuck and his ship made me think of my dear old Dad.

Back in the day, he was an accountant during the week, but on summer weekends he was the proud captain of a 17-and-a-half-foot boat named The Wishbone. Dad was usually a jolly fellow, but once he stepped foot on that ocean vehicle, he was a changed man, all business and full of commands. We kids liked to have a fun day on the water, but Captain Daddy Bones knew that a boat - no matter how puny - was a precarious craft once you got out on the high seas and you had to treat it soberly and with respect. We could laugh and joke all we wanted, but he remained stern at the stern and kept a sharp eye on the water, on other boaters and on us. They called it pleasure boating, but Tom Bones wasn't about to let any tomfoolery affect his ship or his passengers.

Once when my sister and I were out on the boat with my Dad, I fell while waterskiing and hit my face on those 1970-eras skis-that-were-so-gigantic-they-could-have- been-used-as-surfboards. Blood gushed out of my cheek as I flopped around in the water. When my Dad circled the boat around to retrieve me, he looked as if he was going to pass out and frantically pulled me into the safety of the Wishbone.

I learned from Daddy Bones that a ship's captain is in unequivocally in charge and if that craft and its passengers go down, he would go down with them.

So Captain Suave Italian guy who allegedly was trying to impress a lady friend on the coast by gliding the cruise ship close to shore, all I can say to you is what Gomer Pyle used to proclaim on his television every week: "For shame, for shame, for shame." 

Shame on you for leaving people on the ship as it tilted into the sea. Shame on you for letting your crew and your entertainers and your waitstaff - people without fancy titles and dashing uniforms - save frantic passengers who were scrambling to survive.

And shame on you for thinking we'd buy that "I slipped and just happened to fall in the path of a rescue boat" crap.

Next to "honest, she just fell into my knife" that's the biggest fish story of the 21st century...

Naturally, I didn't listen to the word "possible," I just stumbled to the bathroom, grabbed my deodorant and frantically tried to read its ingredients through blinking Monday-morning eyes. The print was so agonizingly tiny it could have stated "packed with a mysterious conglomeration of extremely dangerous chemicals - for God sake, use sparingly" and I would have been unable to read a word of it.

A few cups of tea later and armed with my no-line bifocals, I could finally decipher the miniscule wording on my deodorant and was relieved to find it did not contain paraben (although a few of the other contents were disturbing - who wants to put "hydrogenated castor oil" under their arm?).

Other items, like my moisturizer, powder and foundation (hey, it takes a village...) didn't even list the elements that work so hard to make me presentable.   

Still worried, I Googled the paraben news and found that it was based on a very small study involving only 40 British women with breast cancer who had paraben in their tissue samples. Seven of the women never even used deodorant, which led the scientists to consider that the paraben must have come from something other than deodorant.

By the way, the American Cancer Society does not find a connection between deodorants and breast cancer. They say other studies found parabens in lotions, makeup and sunscreen products (uh, oh, damned if you do; damned if you don't), but that more research and much larger studies are needed to determine if it is a risk factor for breast cancer.

Digesting of all this seems like an episode of Dr. Oz, where your head bursts from trying to absorb a cornucopia of statistics, warnings and diagrams, and where you learn that - in essence - absolutely everything you eat, own or love will eventually be the death of you.

This latest research news probably sent worrywarts like me scrambling to their medicine cabinets to determine if they were doomed, worried that they would be relegated to a lifetime of looking like a hum-drum "Glamour makeover "before," forced to make their own contraband powder from crushed mango skins.

Bottom line, if you or someone you love has been affected by breast cancer - and I think that includes everyone - you know that finding the root causes of this disease is a must.

But shouldn't the medical folks make sure that they have all of the facts before making all of us petrified to look and smell our best?

Because, although I'm cutting down on chocolate (kinda) and walking more (sorta), I'm telling ya, breaking up with Estee Lauder or my old pal Lady Speed Stick may just put me over the edge...

The phone was only in the drink for literally one second, but apparently that's all it takes to fry its innards. After swiftly retrieving it, I tried all of the Urban Legend remedies (removing the battery; sucking out the moisture with a hair dryer; putting it in a bag of rice to absorb any microfibers of water; praying to St. Thomas Electrus, the patron of essential technological devices) with no success and then reluctantly trudged off to the nearest Sprint retailer (which, of course, was far, far away). 

The Sprint store gave off the vibe of a medical office, with a receptionist who briskly took my information and ordered me to take a seat. I sat silently, along with all the other idiots who somehow destroyed their cell phones, shifting nervously in cheap chairs and looking blankly at a television on the wall. As people's names were called, they were guided to a "private" nook, where a technician softly broke the news: "We did everything in our power, but I'm afraid your phone is gone, along with all your vital personal information that you have no other record of; videos of your children's birth; and text messages from your ex that you definitely needed for your next court appearance - I am so sorry."

Everyone in the waiting area pretended not to hear the prognosis and stealthily avoided eye contact. You could practically feel the solemnity in the room - it was like a run-down ER, without the pharmaceuticals.   

As I waited my turn, I contemplated whether to admit how my phone met its fate. Should I fib when the technician asked me why it suddenly stopped working ("No, doctor, I only drink sherry on snow days and national holidays") or fess up to my mishap ("Yes, nurse, I sprained my ankle because my nephew bet that I couldn't do a skateboard wheelie on a cement sidewalk")?

When I broke down and told the Sprint guy the truth, he dismantled my phone and sighed as if he were reviewing a CT scan of a nail lodged in my cerebral cortex.

Ultimately, my outcome was grim: My beloved phone was a goner and I needed to purchase another phone.

As I selected an iPhone to be just like all the cool kids, I feared that bidding adieu to my beloved Blackberry - gee, wasn't it only yesterday when I proudly took that device home? - would cause me volumes of grief. I was right. It was a struggle to master simple tasks, like how to retrieve emails or select a ringer that didn't sound like the Sistine Chapel on speed (my apologies for ruining your shavasana, fellow yoga classmates).

Ultimately, I must also learn how to shield my powerful new phone from any unfortunate human error mishaps.

I sure as hell hope there's an App for that.

The cynic in me automatically thought, "really, how's that possible?"

But after he told me the story, I understood. It seems that, pre-dog, he was a "man about town" who barely came home to sleep. But one day he found a forlorn puppy wandering on a nearby street, took pity on him, drove the him to the pound, and went on his way. About a week later, he called the shelter to make sure the dog had been adopted, only to learn that he had not and, in fact, was scheduled to be put to sleep that very day. He asked them to hold up the execution, rushed over to the facility and adopted the dog, whom he named "Larry." Without planning to, he suddenly became a canine "Dad," a duty that called for him to become less of a gadabout and more of a responsible caretaker. In his new role, he walked his rambunctious mutt to a nearby dog park every day, which helped him to become friendly with neighbors whom he had barely even noticed before, including an old college buddy who had lived on his same block for eight years. One dog led to lots of new friends (and eventually to two additional dogs) and certainly a new way of life for him.

In that same "fate" note, I met my hubby one weekend when some friends extended a last-minute invitation to visit them at the seashore. We had a great day at the beach and a fun dinner party at their house, and I assumed that we were done for the night. But then someone suggested that we head to a club and before I knew it, I was chatting with a stranger and the rest is romantic history. (Except, of course, for the days when we momentarily want to strangle each other...)

Now, I'm not saying that the evening I met my beloved was the only time I ever hung out at a nightclub. Nor am I saying that every stray dog wandering on the street is magically going to revolutionize your life - ya have to kiss a lot of frogs and pick off a bunch of fleas first - but you just never know.

The point is that we can plan our lives to our little heart's content, but those blueprints are probably going to get discombobulated anyway.

So this holiday season, if you plan to have a lovely, relaxing, joyous celebration with your family, don't flip your mistletoe if it doesn't exactly turn out that way.

Smile, send good vibes out to loyal old Larry, have yourself a Merry little Christmas and I'll talk with you in 2012.

But he obviously stayed on task for one reason and one reason only: He was a distracted driver AND a VIP - a Very Important Putz.

Very Important Putzes think that they cannot go five minutes without letting the world know their thoughts, words and precise whereabouts.

If you're a walker, you can spot a texting driver immediately as they bob their heads rapidly up and down: text; obligatory glance at road; text; damn road again; oooppps! kid walking to school, watch it, sonny boy!; text; road AGAIN; yellow light, hit it, mister; ooooppps!, bicyclist; rinse and repeat. 

But this guy was hard core, reading an obviously fascinating text, road or no road. Sammy and I were perplexed and fascinated, so we kept watching him:

a) Because we need a little excitement on our walk, frankly; and

b) Because we couldn't believe how long this moron could commandeer a moving vehicle down a main city street without actually LOOKING at said street. Does this mean that legally blind people can now drive a car, too? I used to know a blind guy who loved automobiles and would have killed to be able to drive, so maybe this whole "you don't really need to look where you're going" trend is promising news! 

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration recently released a survey showing that about half of American drivers between 21 and 24 confess that they have texted from the driver's seat. Interestingly enough, the interviewees didn't consider their actions dangerous, although they did think it was unwise for other drivers to text while behind the wheel.Why? Because only they - and not the other lowlifes - are Very Important Putzes.

Driving home the other night on a downtown street that was clogged with rush hour activity, the car in front of me had to constantly honk at the driver in front of him to move forward when the light turned green. I'm no NASA engineer nor a soothsayer, but my guess is that the snail-paced driver was repeatedly texting during the lull between light changes, thus making a slow commute even more painstaking and wince-inducing.

But raise your hand if you have ever glanced at your phone to read a text while sitting at a red light.

See? That's a lot of fingernails and I'll admit that mine is among them.

I don't know why we do it - we're not the Secretary of State, we're not keeping an entire medical team waiting while we rush to perform neurosurgery, and we will not perish without reading our pal's reply to our latest witty text.

So let's resolve to keep our corneas on the road and avoid being Very Important Putzes.

Trust me, some other VIPs (Very Important Pedestrians) will be forever grateful.

I'm not dissing them. Actually, I'm in awe that someone had the dedication and scholarship to create an entire book about steam and then convinced a publisher that it could be a real hit with the reading public.

But I wish this list of gift books didn't cross my path on the very day I received my 2011 royalty check of $11 for "Tea, Sticky Buns and the Body of Christ: Postscripts from a Nursing Home," my book about taking care of my aging Dad that took three grueling years to finish.

True, I didn't set out to write this Baby Boomer memoir to make my fortune. But any writer who doesn't admit to having a few daydreams of appearing on the Oprah Show is just plain lying. I pictured me and O hitting it off, bonding over Cosmos at her penthouse apartment in Chicago, and me breaking down in ugly sobs after learning that my humble book has been selected for the Oprah Book Club.

Of course, my Oprah appearance never happened (and never will - QUITTER!) and have been encouraged by the occasional email from a reader who - THANK YOU LORD! - kinda sorta enjoyed the book. But still, eleven bucks isn't even a round-trip train ride during rush hour.

An English professor of mine in college used to say: "To be great artist, you must suffer." Back then, I wasn't quite sure what he meant - cramming for exams? - but when my skimpiest of checks arrived, I think I finally understood (not the great artist part, just the suffering...).

But I'm not gonna let it gnaw at me. I see authors hawking their books at food festivals, craft fairs, yard sales and keg parties, so maybe I'll just sprint onto that bandwagon, too. 

I'm going to sit right down and send Oprah a letter, because now she has an entire network of programs to fill and I'll give her one last chance to use me, USE ME!

And I'm also going to set a goal for 2012: This year, I'm hawking my book and I ain't stopping until my residual check soars well into the twenty-dollar territory.  

Just take a peek at that creature for a moment. Does he look like he hangs around basketball courts? He looks more like the type that hangs around vacant lots dealing illegal substances. Forget Freddy Krueger, put Hip-Hop at the end of long, dark alley if you want to terrify slasher movie audiences.

Plus, he's a rabbit, for God's sake, the symbol of Easter, fertility and batteries that last a really long time, none of which are automatically linked with Philly or with professional basketball.

The Sixers management wants the new team representative to have a Colonial theme to mesh with the city's historical image. They are working with Jim Henson's Creature Shop and Dave Raymond, the guy who was the Phillie Phanatic for many years, to develop an appropriate Hip-Hop replacement. Maybe those experts know if it took a while for people to warm up to Miss Piggy (a swine) or the Phanatic (let's face it, nobody knows exactly what he is - the lovable creature from the green lagoon?). However, I'd bet that very few men, women or children ever felt all warm and fuzzy about Hip-Hop. (Even though the guy inside of his mascot costume was probably both warm and fuzzy after a few hours of trying to entice the Philly crowd to cheer along with a giant synthetic hare.) I'm sure the Sixers conducted loads of market research regarding their furry mascot and I'm guessing that all of their findings could be summed up thusly: "WE HATE THAT DAMN RABBIT, GET RID OF IT, THAT !*@# THING SCARES THE LITTLE ONES AND MAKES MY GIRLFRIEND NERVOUS."

Of course, the National Basketball Association has bigger rabbits to fry these days, what with the strike almost over and their season still in limbo. It's hit everyone in the basketball world hard, including the hourly wage earning soda and popcorn vendors at the Wells Fargo Center and other arenas who have yet to work this season. But it's tough to feel pangs of sympathy for the multi-millionaire players when it's rumored that they'll earn less money if this contract goes through. (Maybe now they can feel a real bond with the terminated Hip-Hop and the currently unemployed popcorn sellers?)

Who knows, perhaps a new team mascot that mimics a 15th century Puritan will shake things up in Philly once the 76ers finally hit the boards.

The dictionary defines a mascot as "a person, animal or object adopted by a group as a symbolic figure, especially to bring them good luck."

And right about now, the Sixers - and every other team in the NBA - could definitely use an extra heaping helping of that.