1. That I gave an ABC unprecedented access to my daily personal and business routine over two days and despite my legendary thoroughness, I forgot to add a rider that I receive the Barbara Walters soft-lighting Vaseline-on-the-lens treatment.
2. That that ex-cheerleader Rachel Ray wasn’t even upset about what I said. Why, when Julia Child called me “nothing more than a working-class Polish girl with good bone structure who refuses to give up that WASPy surname even though her husband divorced her for her assistant years ago,” I had the decency to go on a 10-day eating binge and then stay out of public until I lost most of the weight. I was brought up properly.
3. That I stayed up to attend a crowded midnight screening Friday, even going so far as to willingly embarrass myself by being the only one over 30 in the theater, and nobody even fucked.
4. That I get up at 4 a.m. with a dedication that borders on monastic to work out with light weights as is recommended for postmenopausal women, and those sugar hams with hairdos Paula Deen and Ina Garten not only nearly outstrip me in book sales and ratings but are beloved by all of America. A nation of hams in track suits, so why am I surprised?
5. That no one has ever acknowledged that that Diane Keaton movie where she ends up dating the business tycoon who dated her daughter was based on me. Ever. It’s not even one of those “widely known secrets,” either, like how “Heartburn” is really about Nora Ephron and Carl Bernstein. And do you know what? I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment to do full-frontal while Jack Nicholson leered. And another thing? That kitchen in the film was BLATANTLY copied from my third-renovation kitchen at Turkey Hill.
6. That no one has stepped forward to loan out their uterus to my daughter, when she so has bravely gone public with her quest for a baby. Any child born to my daughter will live a life of rarefied privilege and that fact we don’t have thousands of healthy young handmaids on our doorstep just shows how indolent the youth of America has become.
7. That I served five long months inside and I’m not afforded the same respect as 50 Cent. I am not some 45-day-sentence Paris Hilton celebutante.
8. When I think of the number of employees I could have berated, fired, threatened to fire or humiliated in those five months, I, oh … I … I’m sorry. I need a moment.
9. That I have to make insipid small talk with Jessica Simpson and fend off lecherous come-ons from Donald Trump every time we film one of those Macy’s commercials. It gets so bad I actually look forward to getting a contact high from Carlos Santana.
10. That I have to make a gluten-free version of my celebrated stuffing this Thursday because of an ungrateful niece who chooses now to develop celiac disease.
11. That Diddy won’t be my cub.

Read the day’s other lists over at Anna’s:

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For those who did see it, confirm for the others: Sums things up brilliantly, wouldn’t you say?

2. Have you purchased your Three Wolf Moon T-shirt yet? Get on it, man, before they’re all gone. You do realize the lupine powers this shirt possesses? “Most shirts like this only contain one wolf,” one astonished reviewer wrote on Amazon. “This shirt has three wolves, plus a moon. You are basically getting three wolves and a moon for the price on one wolf. You won’t find that deal anywhere else.”

That’s not even the half of it. Hear what other satisfied customers say:

• “I’m swimming in a sea of babes the likes of which are usually found on those K-Tel infomercials.”
• “I had a two-wolf shirt for a while and I didn’t think life could get any better. I was wrong. Life got 50% better, no lie.”
• “You don’t put this shirt on your torso you put it on your soul.”

The Three Wolf Moon mania started with one review, according to the BBC News, and went viral from there. (Like the Tuscan Whole Milk reviews of 2006. I’m going to pretend I’m all hip and shit, but between us, this is the first I’ve read about the super awesome Tuscan Whole Milk.) Some of the writing there on Amazon is pretty good, and of course there is the requisite haiku to the T-shirt. 

So who will be the first celebrity to show up in public sporting this bit of ironic fashion? Or this?

3. It is a frightening time to be the mother of a girl. You think you’re protecting your daughter by buying organic milk, but apparently bovine growth hormones are only one factor in the complicated problem of early-onset puberty. A study found that a history of sexual abuse is linked to early menstrual periods in all girls and, sadly, explains why African-American girls are generally younger at puberty. 

This story in the Daily Beast by Hannah Seligson puts the issue into scary social perspective – not only has the pace of early puberty picked up dramatically, but no one is doing anything about it. Plasticizers such as BPA have been identified as a primary culprit, but U.S. laws governing toxic substances haven’t been sufficiently updated. In the meantime, our daughters are sitting ducks.

Seligson’s story wisely points out the biggest danger in this puberty crisis: the fact that little girls aren’t emotionally equipped to deal with the sexual attention their blossoming bodies attract. Our children are becoming more and more vulnerable, and nothing can be done about it, it would seem. 

Call me a socially conservative environmental nut (a new hybrid, to be sure), but I think dealing with early puberty should be job 1, ahead of allowing 17-year-olds to buy Plan B over the counter or deciding who knows the best way to sexually educate our children – Bristol Palin or Meghan McCain. 

Boobies and Barbie dolls don’t mix. It sickens me that our children’s childhoods will be cut even shorter than ours were.

4. In the June issue of Self magazine, Beyonce disses the “gym look” of some celebrities, saying curvy girls with some meat on their bones look better than overly worked out bodies. No names, of course, but check out these photos side by side. 

I’d like to point out to Beyonce that not all women who go to the gym wind up looking like a collection of sinews connected to ligaments accented by unchewable connective tissue all wrapped up in 50-year-old skin (wearing a top hat), but who am I to correct Beyonce? She’s got the slamming body of a real woman, thighs and all. Someone like Elizabeth Hurley would probably call Beyonce fat, but if that’s fat, it’s fine by me.

5. Join me in oogling Victoria Beckham’s Birkin and Kelly collection, will you? So pretty! Some $2 million USD worth of luxury animal hides with handles, she reportedly has. This should repulse me but it doesn’t. Victoria Beckham herself should repulse me, but no. I think it’s because she’s a throwback to an earlier generation of “star,” one who would never be photographed wearing sweats and Uggs, sans makeup. She’s so theatrically ladylike that it’s hard to get too upset over the ridiculous get-ups she wears to soccer matches. She’s our modern-day Wallis Simpson, pushing the limits of thinness and richness. You go, Posh. Buy all the Hermes bags I can’t afford.

6. Do you think either Beyonce or Posh suffer from “tingling thigh syndrome“? Super-skinny jeans cut off the femoral cutaneous nerve and can cause tingling, burning and numbness. The condition’s made even worse by wearing skinny jeans with high heels. Fortunately for its victims, TTS doesn’t cause permanent damage.

7. Yeah, here’s just what guys have been looking for – the Plunge, a wedding Web site for dudes. Complete with how-tos on buying a ring and planning a honeymoon. And classic advice about bachelor parties: Avoid cliches but make it “epic”! How many productivity hours will be lost in the American workplace with the launch of the Plunge, do you suppose? Can’t you just picture all the guys in your office wasting away hours there, just like their female colleagues do on the Knot? More importantly, what guy would admit to writing or working for the Plunge?

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1. “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” Def Leppard. This song was on the tape (yes, tape) of an aerobics instructor at a very down-at-the-heels health club we went to in our tiny college town. The song is so cheesy it veers into campy territory but it has the right beat for the pecs exercise we did to it. Forevermore, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” will subliminally remind me to squeeze my pecs as my forearms come together in front of my face.
2. “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” Jett. Ignore the advice to keep your iPod’s volume at a level where you can still hear outside noises and turn this one up. Try not to sing too loudly, though.
3. “Like a Prayer,” Madonna.
4. Or “Papa Don’t Preach.”
5. Or “Vogue.” Or. … Madonna – like Britney and Gwen Stefani – are bountiful fonts of workout-ready tunes. “Like a Prayer” has the alternating slower and faster segments perfect for doing sprints and cool-down intervals on either a treadmill or an elliptical; “Papa Don’t Preach” has an extremely fast beat; and “Vogue” provides a good excuse to test your resolve and not actually vogue there at the gym. ‘Cause you know you want to.
6. “Livin’ on a Prayer,” Bon Jovi. Put it on the playlist right after “Like a Prayer.” Not many workout songs feature a talk box now, do they? (And I bet you thought that was a wah wah pedal, didn’t you? Silly!)
7. “Freedom! ‘90,” George Michael. This was my favorite part of spinning class. The class was taught by a ragingly clueless heterosexual, so it made me titter to hear this closet-case song (from the album “Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1,” no less) on his compilation otherwise filled with completely unsuitable classic rock. (Seriously. There was Tom Petty on his mix. I love Tom Petty, but the gym is no place for real musicians.) “Freedom! ‘90″ (not to be confused by a Wham! song titled “Freedom”) was perfect for climbing. Plus you knew you were getting closer to looking like the supermodels in the video, the ones who sang with sweaters over their heads.
8. “Swing,” Savage (feat. Soulja). You know you’re hardcore when you have songs on your iPod that have “featured” artists contributing. A little urban grit to balance out all the plastic on this list.
9. “Rock Your Body,” Justin Timberlake. Fire up the iPod of any middle-aged suburban SAHM and there’s Justin Timberlake. Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just abide by them. It’s good to have Justin on your playlist. You’re at the gym to bring sexy back, after all. “Rock Your Body” makes a good stretchy cool down song.
10. “Hollaback Girl,” Gwen Stefani. March to the beat. Uh huh! Show that machine who’s boss. This shit’s bananas.
11. “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” Sylvester. The guiltiest-pleasure disco song EVER. This song has rocket ship sounds and is sung by a man-lady who was the inspiration for RuPaul’s persona. It doesn’t get more disco than that. Which means it will get you moving faster than a line of coke can.
12. “Crazy in Love,” Beyonce. You’ve seen Beyonce in those hot pants in the video? You can achieve that, too. In like a year of working out six days a week. Lookin’ so crazy, your love’s got me lookin’, got me lookin’ so crazy in love.
13. “Yeah!,” Usher. Some music critic wrote that “Yeah!” has the catchiest synth hook since “When Doves Cry.” That doesn’t excuse its misogynistic lyrics, though. I’d blame Usher, but that would mean he wrote them, and I just don’t see that happening. Its inclusion on my playlist makes no sense, but I never claimed it did.
14. “Get Down Tonight,” K.C. & the Sunshine Band. Something about the unabashed “Let’s go somewhere where we can do it. What was your name again?” ethos of K.C. gives me that little energy boost to continue. You know, in case I end up back in 1975 via time machine and I need to look really good in my high-waisted jeans so I can have nearly anonymous sex with a guy in a polyester shirt in the pre-AIDS disco era. K.C.’s music has lots of horns. Very horny.
15. “The Rockafeller Skank,” Fatboy Slim. The hypnotic, robotic continual loopiness of this song makes time disappear. You could put it on repeat and sweat away an hour on the elliptical and it would seem like 5 minutes.

Go ahead, ridicule and heckle all you like – but only if you suggest some additions for my workout playlist. And then check out today’s other lists at Anna’s:

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