As I write this, I am stuck in my own suburban version of Survivor, The Construction Edition. Of the four houses abutting our property, two have been under extensive high decibel renovation—blasting, hammering, rumbles of heavy equipment, the works—since last July. And yesterday, to complete my induction to Homeowner Hades, the third of those four adjacent houses, the one that was right next to our bedroom, was completely razed. So we’re in for another year of this, blasting and all.

A special shout out and thank you to the only one of my four immediate neighbors who’s not doing anything to their house this summer except planting some lovely (and blessedly quiet) flowers.

My college son—and his laundry—will be resuming residence under our roof for two months, starting sometime this weekend. “You must be looking forward to having your boy back for the summer,” remarked one of my colleagues today. And I am, I really am.

But if we’re being really honest here, I am having mixed feelings about resuming the whole dinner thing. I’ve gotten—how can I say it—a bit lax in my efforts to produce wholesome evening meals on a regular basis. But I do like cooking for my strapping young man because he’s such an appreciative audience, unlike some other male I live with. When I’ve whipped up something positively gourmet, The Hubby inevitably comes home still full from a big lunch. And the days I skip the dinner prep? Naturally, he’s starved…and grumpy about the tunafish sandwich default menu.

The college kids have been drifting home for awhile now; some institutes of higher learning ended their spring semesters as far back as March.

A handy parental rule of thumb: the more tuition you pay, the fewer days your young scholar will actually be in attendance. Just a handy tip.

Just got my June issue of O Magazine. Now I’m a HUGE fan of the Divine Ms. O but I have a serious bone to pick with her as a 1) woman and 2) magazine editor. The cover line of her latest issue screams: “We’re starting a beauty revolution! (Say bye-bye to feeling bad about how you look).”

Alas, it runs alongside an airbrushed-to-the-teeth glamour shot of the mag's perennial cover model, Oprah herself. So, here’s my question for the interview queen: If you’re starting this whole "feel good about your look" revolution, why hide behind all the airbrushing (not to mention the de rigueur professional hair, make-up, and styling help)? Isn't that just a tad hypocritical? And doesn't it send the wrong message: that we still need help to look good?

We know that model and celeb pix are heavily doctored. Et tu, Oprah?

Note to Oprah’s Peeps: If I’m wrong about the cover pix airbrushing, please let me know and I’ll stand corrected. Or, better yet, I’ll volunteer myself to be photographed like the “real” people in the issue’s before and after feature. These real beauty role models are shown as they look when they wake up au naturel in the AM and then after they’ve done the whole makeup-and-hair thing. Kudos to them all!

Lots of terrific chick flick fare out there just now. The other day my sister and I caught a showing of “Then She Found Me.” Helen Hunt, as an appealingly neurotic, adopted 30-something and Bette Midler, as the over-the-top, suffocating birth mom who inserts herself into her now grown daughter’s life, both give tremendous performances. (And Colin Firth, is always adorable…love that accent!)

Yes, it’s quick and witty, but overall, a really poignant look at the tricky mother-daughter thing (yes, dear reader, I cried). It’ll certainly get you thinking about your relationship with your own mother and/or daughter. I know it did for me. And seeing it with one—or both—of them might be a perfect pre-Mother’s Day outing; that it will spark some interesting conversation is a sure thing. 

Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I loved, loved, LOVED this movie. It's one of those flicks that are funny for the long haul and not just the coming attractions. My friend Helene and I laughed out loud from the opening scenes to the final credits. Not to give too much away, it’s the tale of Kate (Tina Fey), a wildly successful 30-something businesswoman who finds herself wildly unsuccessful at getting pregnant. So this uptight, upper-middle class go-getter goes out and gets herself a surrogate—the irrepressible Amy Poehler as the wacky, other-side-of-the-tracks Angie, who "discontinued high school"—to carry her precious progeny for her.

The dialogue is fast, witty, and right on target, and the cast is superb. Not only do the two female leads shine, hysterical performances are given by Steve Martin as Kate’s New Agey, long gray pony-tailed post-hippie boss, Barry (his reward for a job well done is an uninterrupted five minutes of eye contact with his lucky minion), Romany Malco as Oscar the doorman (“You got yourself some baby mama drama,” he announces to Kate when Angie shows up on her doorstep to move in), and Sigourney Weaver as the icky Chaffee Bicknell, owner of the la di da surrogacy agency. Plus, Greg Kinnear is downright adorable as Kate’s love interest, Rob, the lawyer-turned-juice-bar-owner.

The movie skewers the whole contemporary pushy urban parenting scene (only strollers with air bags will do for strolls to the park) to delightful effect. Looking for lots of laughs and a fresh take on 21st century baby mama-hood? Get thee to the multi-plex, pronto!