Yet even with my blind, undiluted loyalty - not to mention my dressing up for the occasion with my best nightgown-that-looks-most-like-an-evening-gown - you give zilch in return.

I mean it, I'm ticked. This is my Super Bowl, damn it, but I was feeling letdown way before halftime. True, some of the evening was entertaining and the hosts were funny (when they were on), but I've been with you long enough that, damn it, I have the right to be nit-picky.

So here's what drove me crazy at last night's Academy Awards:

* Ryan Seacrest is a schmuck. He's like that guy in college who greets you like an old buddy when you're threw a big party and then totally brushes you off in Philosophy Through the Ages class the next day. Seacrest was in the midst of interviewing Queen Latifah on the Red Carpet and when he spied George Clooney, he practically climbed over her to canoodle up to Georgie Boy. Latifah was trapped and had to stand there like a big Third Wheel while Ryan drooled all over Clooney. It was embarrassing to watch. I wished the Queen had just up and walloped that little pipsqueak.

* LOVE Neil Patrick Harris' energy, but didn't we see that same Broadway production number from him before?  Are there no new ideas in Hollywood?

* So little time, so many techie awards. For instance, "sound" and "sound editing" - can't they be combined? Then we'd only have to endure one speech about how you were "drawn to sound as a young child in your crib..."

* Speaking of sound, every time one of the presenters clapped - and they did a lot of that - did it sound as if only three people in the entire theater were applauding? The sound was repeatedly echo-y and incredibly annoying. Where was the mike -strapped to Steve Martin's forefinger?

* The dance interpretation number: Why? WHy? WHY? This NOT the Tony Awards, ladies and gentlemen.

* Salute to horror films. Why? WHy? WHY? What's next year - a salute to animated foreign language murder mysteries?

* The noive of that broad who upstaged the documentary short winner. Again, a sucker punch from Queen Latifah would have been in order.

* What's with the audience members, people on the Red Carpet, presenters, etc., who chew gum with abandon? You have billions of viewers tuning in, people, LOSE THE CHICLETS!

* And speaking of presenters, if an actor has an unhealthy, bordering-on-psychotic fear of appearing on stage (I know - oh, the irony), then DON'T INVITE THEM TO PRESENT AN AWARD. Refer to the Academy directory - there are scads of other actors who will gladly oblige!

* Who selected the background music - Lawrence Welk or Mitch Miller?

* When the best actor folks had someone on stage individually laud them and the camera focused on their reaction, it was painfully slow and frozen-smile, please-let-this-be-over-soon awkward.  

* The show started at 8:30 EST and wrapped-up after midnight. Why can't it start at 8:00 and finish at 11ish because, ya know, the rest of us non-celebrities have to work the next day. Make some of those recipients hustle up to the stage a little faster and with a little effort, I think, next year, WE CAN MAKE IT WORK! (Maybe we need Tim Gunn to encourage everyone to pick up the pace...)

So that's what drove me bonkers about last night's show.

But the truth is, Academy, even if you stick with the same tired formula next year, you just know I'm going to stand by you. Yes, I pick you apart unmercifully, but underneath it all, it's apparent that I love you unconditionally. Oscar, baby, it's you and me, no matter what. After all, as I'm sure you are aware, I'm no box of chocolates myself...

Tilikum (hey, I didn't name him...), the 12,000 pound killer whale, will remain with the theme park because he's "an important part of the breeding program at SeaWorld and a companion to seven other whales there."

In other words, he's da man, and a ladies' man at that. Keeping company with seven - count 'em! -      whales is a whale of an accomplishment. Consider him the Tiger Woods of the aquarium set (sorry, couldn't resist) or the ocean's equivalent of the leader of a secret Mormon Sect (bada bing).

Hell, you can tell by the way he dragged the trainer by her hair that he's got game. There are reports that the whale thought her ponytail was a "toy" and that he was just playing, but come on, his species is named killer whales, not "whales who like to mess around with toys," what do ya expect? If you put killer dogs in a circus act, there's a chance that chaos may ensure. Likewise for sea creatures.

And don't forget that this particular killer whale Casanova came with a serious rap sheet - he was involved in the deaths of two other people in the last two decades - another trainer who lost her balance and fell into a Canadian theme park pool and a man who stayed at SeaWorld after closing and apparently fell into the whale tank. (His naked body was found draped over Tilikum, proving that the orca has a real flair for the dramatic and that he does not discriminate, gender-wise, when it comes to lethal mauling.)  

SeaWorld officials insist that they did not ignore the whale's shady past and worked with him "very, very carefully. We did not get in the water with this animal like we do with other killer whales, because we recognized his potential."

They also recognized that he was a stud muffin who could produce a whole bunch of little killer whales, which means poolsful of cash for SeaWorld. Maybe they can give some of that dough to the late trainer's family for a proper funeral. Or maybe they could finally put Tilikum out to a watery pasture before he annihilates another innocent animal lover.

Just because he's a loverboy shouldn't mean that he gets a pass. Three strikes and he should be outta here. And trust me, lady whales, you might think he's the best thing since sliced cod, but you'll probably be better off - and a heck of a lot safer - without boyfriend. And who knows? You might forget all about that bum once you bump into some nice, dependable sperm whales...

It was the sound a typewriter makes when someone bangs away at the keys - some of you remember that clatter, don't you? It sounds downright anachronistic - I thought Lois Lane and Clark Kent were going to grab their fedoras and head over to the newsroom to get the story to the copy boy before deadline. Very strange...and distracting. What the heck, did one of the journalists/cheerleaders at the "news conference" lug their Old Royal portable typewriter to the gathering? I need this one ' splained, people!

Anyway, forget about Tiger, I can't get over the crowd of high school kids who terrorized downtown Philly last week. It happened on a weekday after school let out for the day and the students organized a little gathering on Facebook. The group grew fairly large and vocal so they were booted from a Center City mall area. Undeterred, they went on a rampage on one of the main downtown streets, hitting people, knocking down displays in a department store, etc.

For some weird reason, the whole unfortunate scene made me think of what my brother-in-law used to say to his daughters when they were young and feeling bored. "Find something to do," he would tell them in a firm but fatherly way. But I always liked that saying because it went hand in hand with the "idle hands are the devil's workshop" theory. I can relate. When I have no pending work deadlines, I tend to accomplish little in other areas of my life. I NEED something to do to function well.

Which brings me back to the school kids-gone-wild - they seem to have too much dang time on their hands. And I have a question: Who paid for their Internet or Blackberry access to Facebook - Mommy or Daddy? Then cut it off, Ma and Pa, and tell Sonny Boy or Girl to get a job to pay for their own technology. Nothing like a job to keep you from beating the crap of some innocent bystander! Yes, yes, of course, the economy is in the pits and official jobs are scare, but people still need babysitters, they still could use someone to run errands for Grandmom and they may even be willing to pay a motivated teen to clean their house, walk their dog or wash their car. I know a high school kid who made $300 last week by knocking on doors and shoveling mounds of snow, and she weighs about 100 pounds on a good day.

I fully realize that it's a complicated situation, but one possible way to avoid further melees may be to ask parents to supervise their kids' schedule a bit more. And if it turns out that some of our city's youth have enough time to squeeze-in a riot, then just maybe they also have the time to fit a part-time job or even - heaven forbid! - volunteer work into their routine.

Just a thought. Now get cracking and for God's sake, FIND SOMETHING TO DO!

So when I opened my Sprint cell phone bill, Mom's words sprung to mind.

See, I had recently purchased a new Blackberry/phone so I could catch up - technologically speaking - to some degree with the younger people in my life who have owned these darn gizmos for at least several years now.

I thought I was the cat's meow with my new phone and was happy as can be until I received my first bill. Yes, of course, I knew the new gadget would cost more per month, I'm not a total moron.What irked me was the paragraph on the six-page invoice that read thusly:

"SPRINT SURCHARGES - Sprint Surcharges are rates we choose to collect from you to help defray costs imposed on us. Surcharges are not taxes on you or amounts we are required to collect from you by law. Surcharges may include: Federal USF, regulatory charges, administrative charges, gross receipts charges, and other charges incurred to recover costs associated with governmental programs, and certain taxes imposed upon Sprint."

Is the wording of their little surcharge paragraph galling or what? There's no "sorry we have to charge you" or "we regret that these costs are necessary." Instead, they say in the first line that they choose to charge us so they can stay as profitable as possible. Administrative charge? Pay your secretary, certainly, but not using my funds, OK, pal?

Despite my annoyance at the $4.64 surcharge, I couldn't help but admire the company's extraordinary bluntness. They didn't sugarcoat their action with public-relationsisms, you have to give them that. On the other hand, if they "choose to collect" from me, can't I choose NOT to pay Sprint for these little extras? How about if I try to defray some of my costs, huh, Sprint? What if I want to "recover costs associated with governmental programs"? Shall I follow your lead and just tell you I ain't gonna pay instead of - ooooppps! - pretending that I forgot? Talk about gross receipts...

When I have my speech written out, I plan to call their customer service line and give them a piece of my mind. I'm sure, after speaking with me, they'll soon realize I have none to spare. 

I'll let you know how it works out. And if you know of any other companies that "have some nerve," let me know. Mommy Bones would be so darn proud, she coulda had a heart attack.

Yes, I realize that for a lot of folks, blizzards are a pain. If it is your wedding day and you sent out 200 invitations waaaay back in October on a blazingly sunny afternoon; if you are about to give birth to twins any day now; or if you have three kids with the croup, then it's probably not the forecast for you. 

Bottom line, snow elicits different emotions.

For instance, the movies have us snowed by their version of winter weather. In film, everyone lives nearby and can stroll to friends' and families' homes for a cup of hot cider and a warm chat, wearing matching cashmere accessories and a smile. On screen, people who initially thought they despised each other are bound to fall passionately in love when they are stranded in a luxuriously-decorated, modern mountain cabin that has silk sheets in every bedroom, a latte machine and a working hot tub.  

On the other hand, the TV news typically makes snow seem as if it is the equivalent of Armageddon, featuring stories about people wrestling each other in the supermarket bread aisle for the last bag of bagels or standing anxiously in mile-long lines at Home Depot to get their paws on that last shovel or snowblower.

For me, however, an occasional snowstorm represents an opportunity that rests somewhere in between the movie version and the TV "start-panicking-now!" reports. After all, the with modern metrological technology, we are alerted about impending winter storms by at least the Fourth of July, so we have loads of time to get ready. For me, proper preparation starts with some food staples - dinner items, breakfast products and munchies I'd never buy unless it was a special occasion or a Tuesday.  Add some wine, some decent DVDs (OK, "Bright Star" was slow, but who cares? I'm not going anywhere...), some good books, those sections of the newspaper I never had a chance to read last week and I'm all set.

During this weekend's record-breaking 28 or so inches in Philly, I stayed in my jammies til noon watching Project Runway On Demand and I bet you there were plenty of DiDi doppelgangers out there doing the same exact thing. It's the height of decadence, swaddled in flannel, sipping a cup of Earl Grey and watching Heidi Klum bring a young designer from Iowa to tears because his cocktail ensemble was an absolute, what-were-you-thinking disaster.

For the rest of the weekend, my hubby Dave and I hunkered down in front of our wood-burning stove in our den/dining room, grabbed another Girl Scout cookie and let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Church? No can do! Exercise? Impossible. Walk the dog? I'm afraid it's the backyard for you, puppy!

So don't feel too sorry for us Northern folk when the Weather Channel paints a gloom-and-doom picture of our forecast. Yes, it's gonna snow, but we will manage, trust me. We will be well read, well fed, well informed and, well... relaxed.

Why? Because snowstorms can be a blast. 

What's that? They're predicting another foot of snow in the Philadelphia region this week?

True, it was fun and all that, but let's not make a dang habit of this. In the meantime, clear out the bread aisle, sister - girlfriend is on her way...

Now that's a bummer of a cultural outing.

And it's not the first time a Picasso work has been accidentally gashed. Several years ago, Las Vegas hotel bigshot Steve Wynn was showing some pals his Picasso painting, The Dream, and mistakenly caused a six inch boo-boo in that $139 million piece. (What's with the six inches - standard "ooooppps" fare?) Wynn has an eye condition that restricts his vision and he didn't realize that he was elbowing the artwork. Bet he fervently wished it was all a dream...

Anyway, whether you get dizzy all of a sudden or you can't see very well, if you screw-up a painting that's valued at $100 mill, it's gotta hurt. I break things all the time - one of my high school friends crowned me "Diane the Destroyer" 30 years ago - so I can relate, believe me. However, the items I obliterate with my clumsiness are worth about $3.95, retail. If I tripped and went head first into something irreplaceable that cost a fortune, I'd be petrified to ever leave my house again.

So if your week is getting off to a bad start, don't fret. You could be slippin' and slidin' into a priceless work of art, you nitwit. Instead, you're just breaking a few wine glasses from the Dollar Store.

See? I told ya, things are looking better already!

You know, any public figure who resigns their position because they "want to spend more time with my family" really means "the jig is up and I'm about to be uncovered as a pedophile/addict/pathological liar/werewolf."

Ditto for sports legend/he-man Mark McGwire. He finally admitted to taking steroids. Three baseball cheers for you, Mark, for 'fessing up! But wait, don't get too excited because after that statement, he quickly added: "I did this for health purposes. There's no way I did this for any type of strength purposes."

Are you kidding me? The only thing he wanted to strengthen was his ERA and his IRA. But, no, McGwire insisted that someone told him that steroids would help speed his recovery from a heel injury. (Oh, Achilles, where are ya when we need you?) Really, Mark? You don't say. And did this very same person also try to sell you some land up in Alaska?

Speaking of Alaska, I just read that when she was governor, Sarah Palin had a tanning bed installed in the state mansion. She never commented publicly on using the device, but her supporters stood up for her, claiming that she needed the artificial light because there's not a lot of sun in Alaska. OK, folks, once again, say what you mean: Carcinogens aside, just admit that Mother Sarah wanted to look like a hot bronzed goddess when she was winking her way through the campaign trail.

Me, once in a while I get into trouble for saying what I mean, so I'm trying to learn to zip it.

However, if I call a press conference, start flexing my tanned biceps, and announce that I want to spend more time with my relatives, all I gotta say is, take it all with a grain of you-know-what.

Back in my make-out days, I couldn't indulge in Public Displays of Affection if anyone was in the same room. It was icky to suck face with someone while your friends were schmoozing nearby. How do you think the term "get a room!" was invented? It's code for "for God's sake, kiss in private, you perverts."

But watch TV classics like "The Bachelor" or "Jersey Shore" and you'll see more tongue than an orthodontist. And here's the kicker: Nary a one of them is even the slightest bit embarrassed or hesitant to lock lips for all of America to see. I could swear that I saw one contestant on "The Bachelor" go so far as to reposition her body angle so the camera could get a clearer shot of her "going in for the kill." The bachelor looked positively petrified...

The Bachelor ladies have nothin' on the "Jersey Shore" guys and dolls. This crew acquires more kissing partners than Tiger Woods in his prime. After a few dozen cocktails, they'll make-out with anyone within a five mile radius of their favorite after-hours club. I'm just waiting to see one of them in a passionate embrace with a cop who is arresting them for disorderly conduct...

As the old song states, a kiss is still a kiss. And if you've ever enjoyed a good kiss, you know that it can be the start of a beautiful relationship. But - and this is just a suggestion - when a lens is adjacent to your molars, why don't you just ask the camera folks to kiss off and (mercifully) fade to black?

Yo, Snookie, Paulie, are youse listening?

I'm the designated litter-picker-upper on our street. It's a self-appointed position with no remittance and zilch prestige.

People in my neighborhood litter like they are patrons in a movie theater, assuming that some schlub will pick up after them when they throw their trash on the ground. There is a gigantic elementary school on the corner of my street, which is not the main cause of litter in my corner of the world, but it certainly adds to the pile.

Every day, while walking my dog or running to the store, I pick up litter on the sidewalk in front of the school, up and down its front steps and on the corner next to the spot where the administrators park their shiny cars. But no more. I recently noticed teachers, staff, the principal and the maintenance person walking right past empty Salem packs, beer bottles and newspaper pages. Sometimes, when I'd bend down to scoop up some piece of refuse, they'd just hurry past me. What, are they above doing a little dirty work? Am I the only one who sees the soda can thrown right next to the trash can?

That's when I got mad as *#!* and decided that I wasn't gonna take it anymore. I know, it's petty, selfish, spiteful and narrow minded, but I just want to see how long a certain plastic bag is going to stay on the branch of the tree next to the school's entrance.

Of course, I realize that educators and school personnel have far bigger fish to fry these days. But maybe, just maybe, if kids see their leaders take baby steps to make their school look tidier, it might inspire a spark of pride that sets a tone for true learning.

Then again, maybe sometimes an empty Snickers wrapper is just an empty Snickers wrapper.

We shall see. For now, I'm confining my litter pick-up route to the perimeter around my house and the school crowd will have to fend for themselves.  And trust me, this time, I ain't talkin' trash.

Scholarly folks love to study the most outlandish subjects (such as the largest squid known to mankind, a 26-foot- long squid corpse found off the coast of New Zealand) or topics (such as why microwaving sponges to kill germs may not be such a great idea because it can also cause the cleaning device to burst into flames).

Today I read of a new study that shows texting while driving is even more risky than talking on a cell phone while behind the wheel.

Really? You needed an investigative team to prove that hypothesis? Most of us ordinary schmuck could figure out that one. Yes, yes, I'm sure they needed the hard facts to back up their proclamation, but instead of obtaining a grant, interviewing participants and pouring over pages and pages of statistics, couldn't the scientists just call a meeting, take a quick vote and have the head honcho conclude,"Heck, YEAH, when you're driving, texting is more dangerous than cell phone talking. I almost ended up in a ditch off the highway when I tried to text you that I was running late for this meeting!" It sure would save a bunch of time and money.

But that won't happen. Trust me, stay alert and you too can identify this decade's Really Stupid Study.

Next thing you know - Heaven Forbid - they'll sanction a study trying to pinpoint the detrimental effects of blogs on the hemispheres of the human brain.