The search for Froggie pictures had me cracking up yesterday. I flagged some of my favorites and thought you might enjoy them, too.

I honestly cannot believe what a little chubber-muffin Scotty was. No wonder the kid didn't crawl until he was 10 months old -- he was too fat.

Around three months, he started to pack on the pounds. Right in his middle section.

You would think sitting upright would burn some calories, but nope. He continued to expand. Mostly in his face.

(Editor's note: Scotty is not actually sitting upright; under the blanket is his Bumbo seat. Looking at these photos brings back so many memories, including how many stinkin' loads of laundry I did. So. Much. Laundry. Also, please note the breast pump on the left. Egads.)

We went to baby gymnastics. Still, no weight came off. We just laid on a lot of stuffed turtles.

By seven months, the chub was seriously out of control. Look at him - he doesn't even fit in that hat. I'm pretty sure the hat was a 2T.

But like most mothers, I was blind to my own child. So what did I do? I fed him cheese. Not diet cheese, but regular, full-fat cheese. And he loved it.

Scotty displayed no shame about his size. Shame was too complicated of an emotion for his little eight-month old brain to handle. So he sat around the house, naked, reading books.

The only time he balked is when I attempted to feed him something nutritious, like leafy greens. The expression below says it all.

Here, Scotty does his best Chris-Farley-SNL-Chippendales impressions. It's spot-on, really.

But alas, that chub has come off. With walking came running, and with running came major calorie burn. At two and a half years old, we're left with this: slimmer, but all attitude and still naked. And size 9 sneakers.

Yup, that's my kid. Why is he wearing sneakers on my couch?!

I don't think a bear and a frog would be naturally compatible in the wild, but in our house, they get along extremely well.

You all know Froggie, right? It's Scotty's little lovey.  This tiny green blanket with a head has quickly become Scotty's object du-jour. His BFF. Gayle to his Oprah. These days, we can't leave the house without Froggie tucked safely under Scotty's chin.

Froggie has literally been with us from the beginning. He's ever-present in most of Scotty's early photographs.

Froggie even travels well. He came to Chicago with us for Christmas when the Bear was only four months old. On our way home, I accidentally dropped him behind the security check-out at the airport.  I was ready to create an international incident to get that little green blanket back, and thankfully, a security guard took pity on this new mom and fetched him for us. Peace ensued, and I did not get arrested.

Froggie ventured with us to Arizona for that fateful play-off game in January 2010. The Bear was only four months old, but both he and Froggie attended their first Packer game.

(Editor's note: I about died laughing looking back at some of Scotty's baby pictures. Holy cats, can you say "FAT baby?" Good heavens, the kid was plump. I cannot believe we were never reported to CPS for encouraging childhood obesity at such a young age. Look at those rolls. His little brown socks are actually causing indentations on his gigantic non-ankles.)

The Bear starts his day with Frog, and ends it with him. During naptime, Scotty likes to talk to his frog about the day's events - everything from music class to who-did-what on the playground. They sing, they laugh, they cry together. Froggie is an excellent confidant.

Scotty frequently will point out various landmarks and objects to Froggie. On car trips, he likes to smash Froggie's face against the window while shouting, "Flag! Look Froggie! It's a FLAG!" I'm sure in his own mind, Froggie is delighted by the attention.

Here, Scotty shows Froggie one of the hot air balloons that drift by our house every morning.

The Bear does not like it when anyone but Brian, I, or himself hold Froggie. He's very particular. You can tell here by the look on his face that he is very unhappy.  Henry doesn't know it, but he's playing with fire right now.

Ahhh, order has been restored in the Universe.

The only time the two are apart is when it is forced. Scotty manages to handle it well, however.

I fear Froggie will be an unintentional student this fall when the Bear begins preschool.

Hell, at this rate, Froggie will likely attend college with the Bear.

It's cool...they seem to be a perfect match. And he mashes into a suitcase fairly well.

It's a weird moment when your child goes from 24/7 management (with the occasional headache thrown in there) to your preferred dining companion and quite honestly, a really fun little person.

Scott has been a lot of fun for awhile, but on Monday, he became more "companion" than kid. That afternoon, we ventured out to the park at Town Square with plans to play, then eat dinner at Whole Foods.  Yes, I had to instruct him to not throw the peppers in the produce department and to stay by me while in line, but overall, he was an excellent little Bear. He walked on his own, free of the stroller, gripping my hand tightly and pulling me back as cars drove me ("Car coming, Momma," he says cautiously, pulling me out of harm's way. Mind you, the cars are in the street and we are on the sidewalk, but that's just semantics to your average toddler.)  As we walked through the stores, he sat patiently while I shopped (even his father has not yet mastered this). And then, best of all, he ate a great dinner across the table from me - not next to me. It was a major parenting coup, or felt like one, at least. I'm not sure what other families experience - maybe 2.5 years old is really late to hit this stage? - but I do know dinners out are extremely pleasant right now. Cheers to that.

He even had me giggling by disappearing under the table and popping back up. Silly Bear.

Don't get me wrong - Scott and I have no plans to head over to Starbucks and sip coffee for hours, talking about our feelings, but this change is a nice one. Yes, we still have our bad days, like yesterday, when Scotty inexplicably peed on a park bench while I was on the phone (I think he was mad that I wasn't paying attention to him), but those days are few and far between. This is so much better than the word "no" always being the first thing out of my mouth, or dealing with public meltdowns due to buttons he cannot push or dirt he wants to throw but I don't let him.

Even Brian is enjoying our maturing Bear. They snuggled on the couch last night watching "Inside Edition" while munching on popcorn. They looked so content, I hated to take Scotty up for bubble tub.

Silly Bear. It really does keep getting better and better.

Touch-a-Truck did not disappoint.

It's best viewed through photos. The kid never stopped smiling.

There were delivery trucks...

...and motorcycles...

Race cars...

...and friendly men in uniform.

Scotty walked in a hot air balloon...

...and saw a helicopter land.

He lowered a car from a tow truck...

...and turned the sirens on in an ambulance...

...but the best moment of the day, by far, the moment that made Scotty pause and reflect...

...was when Robosauras ate the car.

No joke. He really ate it.

And now we have a two-year old who won't stop yelling, "Scotty ROBOSAURUS! Scotty EAT CAR!" and then jamming his cars in his mouth.

Overall, despite that little snafu, the morning was a complete and total parenting WIN. :-)

The rules of the playground are simple: Offer support, snacks, and maintain a cool detachment from your child at all times. After all, there are other kids to play with -- that's what the playground is for.

Novice playground goers - mostly dads, from my observations, tend to break these rules frequently. My guess is that they never intended to go to the park in the first place, but the dad, along with all of the children, were kicked out of the house by an overwhelmed mother who just asking for 45 minutes to herself in her own damn house. (um...not speaking from experience here. Just guessing.  ::ahem::) Consequently, these dads, blinking into the sunlight as though they haven't been outside in years, act like young pups: overzealous, disoriented, and slightly hyper.

Playground Dads are easy to spot. They usually roll up in some of completely inappropriate baby apparatus, like strapping their four-month old in an umbrella stroller. (I've seen it, people. It was painful). They then usually attempt to coerce their 18-month old daughter on the "big kid swing" and get frustrated when she cries and is unable to hold on. Playground Dad is incredibly chatting - everything his child does requires a running dialogue. "No Tommy, that's not yours - don't touch that. Oh, okay, Tommy, you can play with it. Okay, say thank you. Tommy,  I said, say thank you! Tommy, don't run away from Daddy. Daddy wants you to say thank you! Tommy, don't climb up there. Tommy, that's too high, Daddy can't reach you. Tommy, go down the slide. No, not that way, the other way. Tommy, the other way. The other way! Tommy, I'm going to tell your mother about this. Toooooooommmmmmmeeeeeeee!"

At this point, the seasoned playground-ers are usually exchanging sideways looks at each other: amateur.

::sigh::

Playground Dad almost invariable breaks the cardinal rule of the playground because he is unable to remain coolly detached from his children. Maybe it's the sunlight or the fresh air or he thinks he is awesome because he's now spent a full 20 minutes with his children without checking his phone or asking his wife to intervene, but he has a sudden burst of energy and decides to engage in a game.

Yes, a game.

Boom, crash.

The kids love it, no question there. But Playground Dad might as well as break out a lute or lyre, because he's become the Pied Piper of the Playground. Children everywhere sense an adult playing - playing! - with another child, and their game of 2 suddenly becomes a game of 14. Like zombies descending upon a still-twitching body, the children race to Playground Dad, insisting he do this or go this way or tag! You're it.

And the one thing I've learned in my two and a half years of doing this, toddlers are like elite athletes: they will outlast you. After fifteen minutes of "chase" or "aliens," Playground Dad is ready for a sports drink and a park bench - but toddler zombies aren't.  They've only just begun. And they want more. They can go on like this for hours. So they suck Playground Dad back in, making him do more pony rides or one more trip down the slide, and the poor fool is going to pay for it tomorrow in Advil and Icy-Hot packs.

Don't worry; he'll learn. They all do.

Brian and I have been counting down the days until March 24 for one good reason:

Touch-a-Truck is back in Vegas.

Also referred to as "Toddler Paradise" (by me), this fabulous event is exactly what it sounds: for one day only, trucks, cars, ambulances, firetrucks, construction vehicles, A LIVE SHARK FROM MANDALAY BAY, school buses, cranes, a helicopter - even the Oscar Mayor WeinerMobile - will take over a section of the Orleans parking lot and allow tots of all ages to sit, touch, and climb around in the vehicles. (I'm not sure how the shark figures in, but hey, this is Vegas and you gotta keep it flashy). Scotty and Brian went last year and the boy loved it. This year, with his incessant verbal chatter and even deeper appreciation for anything with wheels may cause this little brain to explode from happiness. I have a feeling he's not going to shut up about Touch-a-Truck 2012 for the next six months.

I can't wait.

And while I'll be the first to admit this week has been especially challenging, Brian sent me an email yesterday that made me laugh out loud. My very-serious-attorney-husband-who-plays-his-cards-close-to-the chest wrote:

And this year, the monster car-eater Robosauraus is coming! And there will be hot balloons! [Scotty's term for hot air balloons] This could be the greatest day of the boy's life. It starts at 8:30 and the horn-free time is 8:30-10am. I suggest we get there as close to 8:30 as possible.

Ahh, so silly. What's better on a Saturday morning than me, my two boys, and Robosaurus, the monster car-eater? And a shark?

For more information or to buy tickets for Touch-a-Truck this Saturday, go to www.touchatruck.com for more information. See you there!

Disclaimer: Despite my reckless enthusiasm, I have not been compensated by Touch-a-Truck in any manner. I just really think their event is awesome. Pre-kids, I would have thought it was kind of weird. But with the tiny Bear in our lives, I think it's the greatest idea ever.  See? Parenthood really does make you crazy.

Those were the only thoughts running through my head as I laid on my hospital gurnee on Tuesday afternoon.

Well, that and, "I'm freezing! I need another blanket."

My mother always told me I had a flair for the dramatic.

The whole sordid ordeal began early Tuesday morning. Around 1am, I woke up with terrible leg cramps and stomach cramping. I managed to make it to the bathroom in time, but then spent the next three hours in there. Weirdly enough, I felt better by the time I climbed into bed at 4, and actually thought, "I think I can still make it to boot camp when the alarm goes off at 5:30." Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the bathroom and boot camp became a distant dream.

Around 8, I called in the baby-sitter. There was no way I could handle a toddler in my present condition. Scotty thought it was hilarious that I was lying on the couch and took every opportunity to crawl on top of me, and then jump on my side. I didn't have the strength to battle him, so I called in reinforcement. Thankfully, our regular sitter Sierra was available and came quickly.

I perked up a bit around 10am and chalked up my illness to something not agreeing with me from last night. But when I woke up again around noon, something was seriously off. I couldn't stand up, I had broken out into a cold sweat, and every beverage on the night stand - water, Gatorade, ginger ale, and Coca-Cola - produced dry heaves. As I stood awkwardly near the sink, brushing my teeth, the whole world went white. I managed to crawl back to bed, cried hysterically for Sierra (who at that point had gone from nanny to nurse) and asked her what I should do. Nothing freaks me out more than passing out. We stood (well, I laid there), looking at each other helplessly, and she said she would call 911. The only thought that registered in my foggy brain was that ambulances are expensive (Scotty's little voyage on Day 8 of his young life cost us $1200) and no, the last thing I need is to have the neighbors see me carted out of my house on a gurnee. So she ran to grab a cold wash cloth, I tried to drink some Coke (since blacking out is always correlated with low blood sugar in my life - I guess that's what happens when you grow up with a parent who is a serious diabetic), and just laid there and cried. Pathetic, I know.

After two hours of just laying there, debating my odds, I finally called it. I must have meningitis. Or this is the SuperFlu that is going to destroy the planet because of our overuse of antibiotics. Or appendicitis. Or something else that ends in "itis." Too bad my iPhone was too far away or I would have googled WebMd.

With Brian on his way home, Sierra drove me to the ER. I limped through the doors, like the walking dead, clutching only my wallet, phone, and Chapstick. I figured if the world was ending, those are the three things I most need. The triage staff took one look at me and asked me what I had eaten the night before. I'll admit, I had some questionable blueberries. They kind of shook their heads and escorted me to Room 4.

This meat locker of a room could not have been more than 55 degrees. In nothing but a very thin hospital gown, I related the last three days of my life to the nurse on duty. His working hypothesis: the race on Saturday left me slightly dehydrated. Something (those berries?) caused a rather unpleasant, unexpected reaction in my system, which made  me lose a great deal of fluids, leaving me dehydrated, weak, and dizzy.

Treatment? Two bags of fluids, anti-nausea meds (mmm, Zofran, my old friend), and Lomitol. I took some pictures because I was bored.

And I have to tell you, by the second bag of juice, I felt myself perking up.

Within three hours, I limped out of the ER a little faster than how I came in. Brian and Scotty were there to pick me up, and I promptly went to bed as soon as we got home. This morning, I feel about 80% and am continuing the fluids.

And avoiding the berries.

I've been a child of the 702 for over ten years, so very little about this city surprises me. We're used to slot machines at the grocery store, mayors who love martinis, and that silly "Crazy Girls" billboard that has been running for like, 20 years. Las Vegas is a great, fun, chill city. It's a little crazy, a little suburban, a little outdoorsy - it's really anything you want it to be.

But on Saturday, both Brian and I witnessed an all-time first.

Our St. Patrick's Day definitely varied all over the map and ended with a bang.

It started with a half-marathon relay out at Hoover Dam. My friend Jill from boot camp asked me to run with her, and I jumped at the chance. So we woke up at 5:30am, donned some green shirts, and ran through the same tunnels used by railway workers to build the Dam. She took the six mile leg, I finished with seven-point-one miles. It was historic, it was breathtaking, and it was a fantastic way to start the day. 

After racing home, I took a quick shower and Brian and I were off to a pre-season Cubs game at Cashman Field. The giant pretzel and beer I consumed never tasted better, especially since I was still picking dirt out of my eyelashes. (let's not even talk about my running shoes or favorite socks - it was a very messy, windy run). We watched a really exciting game with friends Crystal and Kyle (celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary), and then headed to East Fremont for some St. Paddy's action. Crystal and Kyle had dinner plans for their anniversary, so Brian and I went solo to Insert Coins.

The name is exactly how it sounds - not slot machines, but vintage video games. You can rent a booth or kick it old-school, like we did, and stand at the machines. Since I hate video games and are terrible at them, I tried to do my best Elizabeth Shue-circa-1985 impression and cheer on my man while he played Galaga. I'm sure I just looked like a bored wife with a Cubs backpack leaning against the wall. Either way, Brian set the second high score and we both giggled as he typed in fake initials ("BAD").

From there, we raced through the rain to Lo Thai, this amazing Thai restaurant that gets great reviews. It was totally worth it, too - nothing says "Happy St. Patrick's Day" like a fantastic bowl of pad thai. I thought Brian was going to slam his head against the table when after the waiter asked for my level of heat, on a scale of one to five, and I replied, "One point five, please." What? I'm nothing if not specific.

With lots of yummy food in our bellies, we headed over for the real St. Patrick's Day party - to meet up with some friends at Henessey's. The place was packed, but they had a giant room set up in the back dedicated to beer pong.  I could barely contain my glee. I love beer pong. I only wish I played more in college, but it was always hard to get on a table. I don't care about the drinking part of it - I just really enjoy throwing ping-pong balls into Silo cups. Maybe I'll get Scotty started now - that would be a good afternoon activity. It's a fun game and might improve his fine motor skills or something. And just imagine his skill level in college...

Anyways, this is where the story takes a weird turn.
 
As we settled in the back, I noticed a girl standing towards the front of the room. Now remember, it's St. Patrick's Day on Fremont Street in Las Vegas. You are bound to see weird things. But I did a double take when I saw her, and even with my carb-ladden, beer-soaked brain, I knew something was off. Her back was turned to me, and she was wearing tiny little boy shorts, fishnet stockings, really tall black heels...and that's it. She had long hair, but I couldn't see anything on top except skin. Very exposed, very naked skin.

This is just a regular establishment - just a normal restaurant/bar that you would find in any city. (I think you might, since it's a chain). Brian actually eats lunch here on the weekdays quite often. So what was up with Naked Girl?

When she finally turned around, I realized what was going on.

Body paint.

Someone had painted on a white-corsetted-looking-thing on her torso and chest with the Jameson logo on it. It looked professional - amateurs need not apply - but that was all she had on. Just...paint.

Shocking, to say the least.

It was one of those moments of "Oh God...oh wow...seriously? Really?...just how is that paint staying on? And what's keeping...them...up?" 

Fascinating, to say the least.

I'm sure my jaw dropped, as did Brian's. Every guy in the crowd was swiveling to gawk at Naked girl when we realized she had a friend - except instead of white paint, this girl was "wearing" a red corset with the Jameson logo on it.

I give the good people as Jameson Whiskey an A+ for creating such a memorable marketing campaign. This was something none of us were ever going to forget.

The Jameson girls expertly wove through the crowd, posing for pictures, smiling, and passing out shots. They had two more friends, in teeny-tiny dresses with them, passing out the drinks and grinning and giggling. These women knew exactly what they were doing.

And then, inexplicably, they decided to play beer pong.

Guess who got bumped?

I slumped in my chair and pouted. I think I muttered to Brian, "How many miles do you think they run everyday?" but he was still staring so intently at them I don't think he heard me. (I'm pretty sure he stopped blinking for a solid five minutes). I can't believe me, girl in the blue sweatshirt that smelled like Thai food, lost her beer pong table to topless women passing out shots of free whiskey. The indecency of it all.

But in the end, I will admit, they were good. They beat the boys (and instead of beer, they used - what else? - Jameson whiskey) and managed to not fall over, vomit, or lose their paint. They actually ate food, too, and every time I looked over, one of them was stuffing french fries in her face. I was impressed, in a "I'm not sure I'm really witnessing this or hallucinating" kind of way.

So there you go. Our very Vegas St. Patrick's Day. Full of historic tunnels, baseball, Galaga, Thai food, and body paint. In a city that some claim lacks culture, I'm going to have to disagree. It's got a charm all its own.

I'm the first to admit, I probably overlook the importance of helping Scotty cultivate his artistic side during our daily play. We've gotten into this routine of cars-blocks-playground-books (lather, rinse, repeat) that works well for us. He gets dirty with his cars, he builds stuff, he knocks it down, and then we read about either cars or building stuff. We're about as one-note as it comes.

But with Brian in yet another arbitration (this has been going on since December, people) and the long, long days stretching in front of us, I'm struggling to fill the time. On a whim yesterday, I pulled out the paint and some paper, and Scotty went from Destructo Bear to this amazingly serious, thoughtful Painter Bear. It was hilarious to watch. So I took pictures and tried not to interrupt his concentration.

As I wrote on Facebook yesterday, he requested only two things: complete silence and more blue paint.

He sat like this for 90 minutes, barely saying a word.

He didn't even crack a smile. It makes me wonder what he was thinking about.

And yes, we're 99% sure he is left-handed.

After the final masterpiece dried, the Bear proudly presented it to Brian when he returned home from work. Brian promptly named it "Water Lilies" and we hung it in a place of honor on the fridge, near the clippy-magnets and my favorite picture of Brian when he was a little boy.

It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. And best of all, my house is neither covered in dirt or paint. The Bear washed up well.

OMG.

Before I begin this entry, I want to share with you a little tidbit my grandma told me growing up, just as I was starting to date. She told me, "Kimmy, when you are on a date, remember one thing: don't look at the way your date treats you, look at the way your date treats the waitress or waiter. Of course he is going to be nice to you - you are his date. If you really want to know what kind of person he is, watch how he acts when he thinks you are not looking."

Probably some of the best advice I've ever received (and yes, Brian is exceptionally lovely to all wait staff).  I feel like I need to email or tweet Ben that same advice. Except this time, it's a little too late for that.

And he probably won't believe me anyway. "Tread lightly, Kim," he would say.

And by this point, all of America knows that he picked Courtney. I'll skip over the boring stuff - Lindzi shakes her head a lot, Juliet sorely let me down by not seeing through Courtney's bs, Ben's mom is really sweet - to get to the good stuff. Like, why were both girls wearing capes? Was Courtney intentionally channeling her inner Cruella DeVil or was she really about to steal some dalamatian puppies? How cool does Switzerland look? (my only gripe: where were the yodelers?)

Then there is the REALLY good stuff - um, Courtney and her totally sociopathic behavior. Yup, I'm slapping the "sociopath" label on her. She is a masterful manipulator. She played this game perfectly, from start to end, from teeny-white bikini to skinny-dipping to busting out the sweet-but-cheesy-scrapbook o'memories. She was feminine with her super-high little girl voice ("Who, me?") and killer wardrobe/figure/amazing skin, but "down-to-earth" enough to play with spiders and shun make-up, like in Belize. This is like the perfect man cocktail. I only wish it had been football season so she could have impressed Ben with her fake sports knowledge. As Emily so smartly put it, she was down right "irresistible."

Once she locked Ben in her high beams (pun intended), the poor man never stood a chance.

Even before the final rose, she was working him. She asked him how his mom and sister knew "all that bad stuff" about what happened in the house and why they brought it up again. Ben defended himself, she pouted, and he caved immediately. The whole "Men just take and take from me" and "It was so hard for me in the house with those girls" - wah-waaaaah. She is such a VICTIM! I cannot stand it! I have absolutely no patience with that kind of behavior. Yes Courtney, I know. It's so incredibly difficult being gorgeous and a model that people just walk all over you. I half expected her to break out the "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" speech.  I mean, where's the accountability? What is SHE doing to make the situation right, aside from acting like a huge martyr and making plays for more sympathy? She is the one who treated these women horribly. There is no defense for that.

My suspicions were confirmed in "After the Final Rose." Ben stated clearly that he was upset with her behavior and shocked to see this other side of her on TV. Yes, the other girls had warned him. Yes, he ignored them. ("They didn't give me specific examples," he groused weakly.) Yes, he was mortified that he was played for a fool and ended up proposing to The Girl America Loves to Hate. He looked sad, unkept, and vaguely homeless. I actually felt a twinge of pity.

And then Courtney came on stage after Ben exited and somehow, through her fake tears (um, she never actually shed a single drop of water), managed to redirect all of America's attention not on her deplorable behaviors, but on the fact that Ben "abandoned" her. Dropping the 'a' word, huh, Court? Pretty strategic. Chris Harrison shifted gears and you could feel the mood of the audience change slightly - now, instead of talking about she called other girls "Fattie" and "Horsie" and talked about the "kill shot," Courtney was asked if she could ever trust Ben again. She sniffed a little, looked forlorn, and replied with a stiff upper lip, "I'll try."

Well played, Courtney. Well played.

Ben was then dragged back on stage and the two attempted to convince the world that yes, they still are together and yes, Ben is very, very, very sorry for "abandoning" her. (She even tried to call him during the abandonment! And he didn't respond! The horror! She should get points for trying so hard!) Ben, continuing to be played as a fool, put it all on his shoulders. He muttered something about "being a man" and engagement means they are 'in this for life" and looked sincerely contrite and stated he hoped they could make it work.

Sucker.

I'm sorry, I'm just not a romantic. I think when you've worked in my line of work, you know that love doesn't really mean a whole lot to the success of a relationship. There's love, there's lust, there's attraction...it's a broad spectrum. And the heart is a fickle creature. Marriage takes work and humility and compromise, and quite frankly, I told think Courtney is capable of loving anyone but herself. We've seen ALL sides of her (literally) this season, and Ben needs to understand that not only is he engaged to the sweet, but also to the "sass" (if that's what she wants to call it).

My prediction: with her reputation now repaired in the eyes of America (she secured the "Girl-Done-Wrong" title again), this relationship will limp along for another few months. However, in private, fuming and still humiliated by the bad press, Courtney will knife Ben in the heart (figuratively), claim publicly she never was able to trust him after the "abandonment" and then trade up for a B- or C-list actor.

And she'll keep the ring.

Obviously, I am very anti-Courtney. My friend Nieva, however, is not. She likes Courtney and is rooting for her and Ben. Since I love a good discussion, I've invited Nieva to write a counter to my little rant about. If she wants, I'm happy to post it once it's ready. If you are like Nieva and feel strongly on the other side, please know, I'd love to hear your thoughts as well. Shoot me a message.

While I hate this show, I do like the conversations it brings up. It's always fun to chat about, whether it's one-sided (on here) or two-sided (on the playground, where we spend most of our time.) So yes, I will likely be back to blog about Emily Maynard's experiences.

But no Bachelor Pad! :-)

Here's to next season -

KSB

Editor's Note: After posting this review yesterday, I may have confused Nieva's empathy for Courtney as actually liking her. Nieva was quick to point out that she, too, acknowledges Courtney's horrible behavior on the show and does not condone it. She hopes, however, that the show was a wake-up call for Courtney and hopes she will become a better person because of it. I would like to point out that Nieva is a much nicer person than I am, and I give her serious credit for seeing the positive in a person like Courtney.