It’s that time again—time for my annual May vacation, the kickoff to my annual June vacation. I’ll probably bring my laptop with me but only to hold up the security lines by saying, Oh, I didn’t know we had to take out our laptops and place them in a bin! When did that rule start? And then I’ll smile sweetly at the disgruntled shoeless people behind me as I proceed to move as slowly as possible. I may even load my pockets with change and try to walk through the metal detector. Why would I do this? TO GET BACK AT ALL THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE DONE THIS TO ME.

I’m heading up to Virginia for my nephew’s First Communion since we are his godparents and have been guiding him in his faith journey since baptism. Coincidentally I’ll also be there for my birthday which I’m totally looking forward to. Really. I always worried that when I reached the midpoint of my life I would freak out, reflecting on my lack of accomplishments and ongoing series of failures, never learning from the same mistakes I’d made over and over again. But instead I’m embracing this new reality. I’m even thinking of reading The Secret. You know, one of those bullshit books about the meaning of life that people start quoting from to show how wise they are—Your thoughts become things! Remember that your thoughts are the primary cause of everything! Still the idea is somewhat compelling. So whatever I think about really hard will end up happening? That’s how powerful my thoughts are? OK. I want to be five years younger. Thanks Rhonda Byrne!

I’ll let you know if my crow’s feet have mysteriously vanished by morning. Until then, see you all in a week.

I apologize for my absence today. I was trapped under something light. I’m heading out of town for the weekend to Chicago, my old stomping grounds as a journalism graduate student with ambitious dreams of changing the world. Obviously I have been a success. I am packing every item of warm clothing that I own including my oversized bib snowsuit and wool argyle leggings from high school. By the time I return on Tuesday, I assume Herman Cain will be gone. Yet another good man taken down by the ruthless media and the court of public opinion. Now they’ll have to find someone else to kick around. (Hint: Gingrich.)

I’m heading on—say it with me—vacation tomorrow morning, like super early, like I should already be in bed. This means I will be very cranky on the plane and will take it out on the flight attendants by turning on my flight attendant button and asking them DO YOU WATCH PAN AM IS THAT REALLY WHAT IT’S LIKE ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH THE PILOT?? We’re heading up to the family beach cottage, which we once affectionately called “Whites Only Cottage” but then had to change the name or my husband wouldn’t have been able to get in. (But sometimes if the light is right, you can still see the faded name on the enormous boulder outside. Nostalgia.)

I’ll be gone the rest of the week plus Monday but I’m not counting Monday because it’s a holiday. My biggest fear, as usual, is that I’ll miss something Perry does while I’m sitting on the beach in my winter fleece trying to get a tan in order to increase the number of suspicious-looking sun spots on my face. If something important does happen, I suppose I can blog from an Internet cafe since our cottage is stuck in That 70′s Show. Which is fine since I plan to spend my time relaxing and reflecting on the days gone by and what it all means and then saying, “I’ll drink to that!” alone on my porch.

Until then, may Perry continue to run, and run hard.

I’m going to be out for the rest of the week (LIKE I DON’T DESERVE A VACATION EVERY NOW AND THEN) in Cartagena, Colombia. My husband’s traveling there for business and I’m going because my sister has been kidnapped and they’re holding her for ransom and I’m the only one with the map to El Corazon. I’m happy that Perry announced his candidacy before I left because I doubt they even have Internet access over there. I may or may not get a chance to blog, in between beach time, happy hour, and some serious drug trafficking, but until that time, please feel free to submit to this blog and submit your comments. And don’t even think about squatting in my house while I’m away. Not only is my house rigged with explosives but my mother-in-law will be here and she will take your ass out, Salvadoran-style.

Now I have a very important announcement to make. Just to prove that not everyone on this blog is an undateable loser who’s counting the days until they move into senior living in the hopes that maybe there they’ll meet somebody, I’d like everyone to know that In the Pink’s one-time single girl columnist Tickled Pink is now engaged. So her tagline is no longer, Is it because you’re not married? It’s now, Is it because you’re engaged? AND YOU GUYS THOUGHT SHE’D NEVER GET MARRIED.

Congratulations to the lovely and talented Sarah Lavender. Sorry for all the broken hearts, boys.

While I’m away, read some of Tickled Pink’s greatest hits. It will also be a nice respite from the Perry coronation coverage:

Is It Because You’re Not Married?

The Road to My Personal Hell is Paved with Your Good Intentions

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Try Match.com

The Breeder Conspiracy

See you in four days.

I’m back from my vacation and, since you asked, it was quite enjoyable. At the drunken toasts during the family reunion, my aunt announced that she was ready to “pass the torch” to the next generation of Crosbys, at which point I took a step forward and said I was ready for the awesome responsibility, until I realized she meant all the grandkids. And I’m all, them?! THEY STILL WEAR PULL-UPS AT NIGHT! I AM THE KEEPER OF THE TORCH! And then I grabbed a half-empty bottle of chardonnay and ran out the door to taunt the lion which, for some reason, was one of the many animals roaming this particular resort.

After the long weekend in Pennsylvania, we drove to Rehoboth Beach, mostly so I could reminisce about my childhood by eating everything that reminded me of my childhood which quickly became an episode of Eileen v. Food.

I must admit, it was refreshing to take a break from the news, although I couldn’t escape the Casey Anthony verdict. I was at a nail salon at the time (oh please, you probably were too) and the TV was turned to CNN and I immediately started hyperventilating. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I yelled to my fellow customers. SHE SO TOTALLY DID IT. I knew this because right at that very moment I was reading the People cover story, Will Casey Anthony Get Away With Murder? And then I went back to reading about Wills and Kate.

It seemed like over the past two weeks, Perrymania had calmed down a bit. One of my cousins asked me if I thought he’d run, to which I responded, eyes rolling, what do you think (which could mean yes or no but doesn’t put the onus on me). Now Reuters is reporting that “Texas insiders” are saying Perry will run. I’m going to start using “Texas insiders say” to introduce all my wild political theories, accompanied by a smug, knowing look. The insiders say he’ll be jumping into the race in the “next few weeks,” which isn’t good enough for me. How am I going to plan my happy hour to kick off his campaign with that timeline? I’m going to make a totally uneducated guess and say that he’ll announce on July 18, which happens to fall on the Day of Bad Omens, according to the Wiccan Calendar.

Meanwhile the Texas Independent is highlighting the larger effort by conservative Christian leaders, organized by Southern Baptist evangelist James Robison, to get Perry to run. (Here’s the full list of the super-secret June meeting attendees.) One of Perry’s big supporters is San Antonio pastor John Hagee who, aside from being an antisemitic homophobe, has also referred to the Catholic Church as the “whore of Babylon.” I will be sure to bring this up at my next Catholic voters conference call. We are not from Babylon.

Really, do we need another crazy conservative Christian in this group? Hasn’t Michele Bachmann already cornered the market? Besides, she has better hair. OH NO I DIDN’T.

A recent WashPost story revealed that in 2005, Bachmann “ran screaming from a bathroom at a constituent forum, claiming that a lesbian had attempted to keep her there against her will.” As a state senator, she was seen “crouching behind hedges to observe a gay rights rally.” Her husband refers to homosexuals as “barbarians.”

Beat that, Rick. I know you can.

I will be on vacation for the next two weeks at a family reunion and to escape the sauna effect. Seriously. This is worse than a sauna. It’s like a sauna inside a sauna and everyone around you is smoking and naked. For obvious paparazzi security reasons, I can’t disclose the location of the reunion but needless to say we’ll be laughing and sailing and playing touch football and talking about which one of us should run for president next.

I fully expect Perry to announce whether or not he’s running for president during my absence just to ruin my vacation and I’m happy to say that I already have a post template for either scenario.

Hey Guys! Oh No He Didn’t! Can you believe that Perry decided to [run/not run] for president after all? He’s such an [asshole/asshole]! I guess now he’ll [plan more Days of Prayer/drop the whole Christianity act]. We should totally have a happy hour when I get back to [drown our sorrows/celebrate]! In the Pink will pick up the tab. OMG, I’m just kidding! Thanks for [reading/ignoring] my blog while I’m gone. I really [miss/hate] you guys. Gotta run, there’s another [drink-off/drink-off] with the cousins!

In all seriousness, we really should have a happy hour upon my return. We haven’t had one since the 2006 midterms. And I’m sure that whole “misunderstanding” with the management at Stephen F. has cleared up by now. I’m planning on handing babies out as party favors to the first 20 people to show up. (Fine. The only 20 people to show up.)

See you post-Perry.

So I’m headed to Sonoma wine country and will be gone the rest of the week. You may be wondering why a recently unemployed woman like myself has decided that now is the time to spend money on frivolous wine tastings, spa treatments, and I ♥ San Francisco windbreakers. I would argue that this is the perfect time. For one, I have plenty of vacation days.

Next week I will start working on a site redesign as you all have expressed to me in no uncertain terms that the shepherd/serial killer isn’t doing it for you. I’m not sure what the banner will look like—I’m deciding between a photo of me with rented children on the beach, all of us wearing crisp white blouses to match our freshly whitened teeth, or a photo collage and corresponding timeline of my life thus far.

Yeah. You’ll be begging me for the Pastoral scene.

Enjoy the rest of your week and weekend and remember that life is short and you’re sitting in your office while days, months, years are going by. Unfortunately by the time you realize it, it’s too late.

I’ll be heading to the Republica de El Salvador tomorrow for a much needed and, may I add, well deserved vacation. I won’t be able to blog or twitter until I’m back on Wednesday since it is located in Central America and I’m not sure they have El Internet-o there. The Frente Farabundo Marta para la Liberacion Nacional, or FMLN, is in power now, so it is a true socialist country. I should feel right at home. Ay Dios Mio! Unfortunately I haven’t been practicing my Spanish which means I’ll be smiling and nodding at what everyone around me is saying while drinking to excess. Kind of like what I do now. Ay Dios Mio! I’ll see you next week.

When I headed up to DC for the holidays, I brought my laptop with me, having every intention to work a little in between freezing my ass off caroling and actively participating in a living nativity scene. (I wanted to be Mary, they made me one of the oxen.) But you try explaining to four nephews that Auntie Drinkie can’t help them cover themselves in Dora band-aids because she has to go blog.

There didn’t seem to be much political news anyway, and I was too caught up in that whole River Road flood in Bethesda. I was afraid to take a shower in McLean, VA because I thought the Act of God might be headed my way and I would have to be airlifted out of the bathroom.

In retrospect, I suppose I could have written about Christmas dinner and how my relatives almost disowned me because I don’t think Caroline Kennedy’s qualified to be senator, especially considering the enormous shoes she has to fill. This is not the first time that I’ve found myself on the opposite side of my family. The primaries, for example, come to mind.

But if I had blogged about it, it would have ended with everyone at the table (minus the toddlers, who were running around the house naked, along with a renegade uncle) slowly coming around to my position, nodding their heads and sipping espressos and praising my infinite wisdom, saying, “Well, Eileen, you’re right again.”

So I ended up taking an actual vacation, and arrived back in Austin earlier today. I won’t bore you with the details of my journey, except to say that the flight attendants tried to take away my Christmas village lighthouse that I was carrying on the plane because they didn’t think it would fit in the overhead bins, leaving me little choice but to scream THIS IS A COLLECTOR’S EDITION AND YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A GLORIFIED BAR WENCH.

That said, I trust you all had a nice holiday and that you’re ready to embark on a new Texas legislative session. I didn’t even realize it was coming (I guess I wasn’t on the press distribution list, OMG) until I ran into Kirk Watson at Jo’s coffee. Thanks for ruining my chai and tuna melt, Senator.

If you did not have a nice holiday, please don’t whine about it in the comments because that will just bring everyone down and it’s not our fault that your family doesn’t like you, or that your crow’s feet are starting to show, or that another year has gone by and you’re still not making anything of your life.

That’s my job.

I’m back from my Big Bend excursion, so all you naysayers who thought that I couldn’t make it for four days without Starbucks or wine bars, who expected me to die on the mountain clutching my diminishing supply of dried cranberries and empty bottle of Pellegrino, BURN ON YOU.

However, I’m sure you’d be happy to know that my legs have completely given out, and I pitifully hobbled into the office this morning looking like an ad for Preparation H, until I gave up completely and tearfully army-crawled my way down the hall.

But I did make it to the top of the South Rim (sadly, no rope tow involved) along with all the happy campers I was traveling with. In hindsight, it probably would have been a much easier trek if I had left my laptop and battery charger at home. And my lucky brick.

(Plus, I probably would have made it up faster if I hadn’t been stuck behind Andy Brown, who stopped every time we passed a hiker to hand out Andy Brown buttons.)

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not exactly what you’d call a true camper (although I think I beat Mr. PL, who forgot to pack virtually everything except 20 cans of beans, and had to wear one of my t-shirts, which fit him perfectly if by ‘perfectly,’ you mean ‘male midriff top’). Aside from the fact that I left my camel pack open in my tent and had to sleep in a soaking wet sleeping bag, it’s hard to get any shuteye when you’re camping with people deathly afraid of bears:

Rustle, rustle.

Andy Brown, turning on flashlight: “Lawrence, is that you walking around?”

Lawrence Collins, turning on flashlight: “Andy, is that you?”

Five minutes later.

Rustle, rustle.

Andy, in shaky voice: “Lawrence, are you out there?”

Lawrence, in shaky voice: “Andy, is that you?”

(Repeat every 15 minutes until sunrise.)

That said, I highly recommend the hike, despite the fact that I’m currently wheeling myself around the office in my chair.

Before heading out to Big Bend, we spent the first couple of nights in charming Marfa, where I met… West Texas Hillbilly. Crazy world. He introduced himself at a coffee shop, and Mr. PL asked how he knew it was me, once again revealing the fact that he never reads my blog or he would know that I post photos of myself every other day.

When I met up with friends later, I said, “You’ll never believe who I just met. West Texas Hillbilly!” And they thought I was a dreadful snob for being excited about meeting a genuine west Texas hillbilly. He was kind enough to loan us city folk some camping gear that we had forgotten — tents, hiking boots, breathable socks, food, water, long underwear, etc.

The night before, we ate at Blue Javelina, where we ran into celebrated criminal defense attorney Dick DeGuerin. You’ll never guess who wanted his picture taken with him…

(Dick, you can now kiss your career goodbye.)

Mr. PL, not knowing who DeGuerin was but wanting to break the ice, shook his hand and told him how much he admired his work.

REALLY?! Which case did you admire most — the one where he defended that psycho cross-dressing millionaire real estate heir who chopped up his neighbor into itty-bitty pieces?!

While in Marfa, I visited the famed Chinati art gallery, where I realized that I have absolutely no art appreciation after ridiculing the Dan Flavin project, which consists of several separate buildings of florescent colored bulbs. The only difference being the particular color of the bulbs.

When I came out of the third or so building, I told the rest of the tour group that they’d NEVER GUESS what was in there. MORE FLORESCENT LIGHTING. Naturally, they looked at me with contempt for my small-mindedness and lack of culture.

We spent our last night in Marathon at the Gage, which was wonderful except for the unfortunate shared bathrooms. Hey — if I wanted to share a bathroom with complete strangers, I’d stay in a COLLEGE DORM. The restaurant at the Gage, however, is spectacular. I even took footage of it for Texas Monthly, where I pretended to be some kind of broadcast journalist speaking into the camera instead of the blogger poseur that I am.

And with that, I’ll get back to icing my knees, which now almost look regular-sized due to the painful swelling. I trust you all had nice holiday weekends. (This is a statement I like to use because it sounds polite while making it clear to the person I am addressing that I really don’t want to hear about their vacation.)

Over Memorial Day (which is to say, my mysterious absence), I was at a cousin’s wedding — actually my cousin’s daughter which makes her my second cousin? first cousin once removed? or was it just another wedding I crashed?

Did I mention the reception was at the Kennedy Center? On the rooftop? It was a spectacular view, made even more spectacular by my animated conversation, intellectual wit, and political insight. In fact, I’m pretty sure the outside bartender was rather impressed with my talking points. Either that, or I had spilled yet another drink down the front of my top.

Don’t worry, I don’t try to ruin all weddings with amateur political punditry. Just the relatives. (The Crosby women. I’m flanked by my two aunts, one on my left, the other second from my right. They are the only ones who get to call me “fattie.”)

The wedding day started out nicely enough. The downtown Memorial Day biker rally and parade was a treat, although I wish I’d had more time to talk with the vet in a motorcycle jacket adorned with “I’ll forgive Jane Fonda when the Jews forgive Hitler!” patches.

As usual, I was a little late to the ceremony — the bridesmaids were already lined up outside the church — so I had to race up the stairs, tripping over my floor length skirt and wiping out in front of the relatives. Oh, yeah. Like that’s the first time I’ve disgraced the family.

One of the hot topics at the reception (and by “hot topics,” I mean “what I was talking about”) was Hillary’s Last Stand. The general consensus was that she won’t be the nominee. Of course, there’s always someone in the crowd who is completely delusional, and usually that someone is me.

Last hope — the DNC Rules and Bylaws Committee! They meet on Saturday to decide whether or not to seat the delegates from Florida and Michigan. Best case scenario… Hillary continues to drink to numb the pain. Even if she were awarded all the delegates from those two states, which she won’t, she can’t overtake Obama’s delegate lead. I believe we’re at the end of the road.

And I. am. spent.

[Obligatory triplets photo... and yes, I think it's perfectly fine for my sister to display her sons in the window.]

I will be going on holiday Thursday through Monday. To Florida, if you must know. Don’t give me that look. It’s been months since I’ve taken a vacation. Oh whatever. Take a screenshot of this blog – it will LAST LONGER.

No, I’m not driving to the Sunshine State to confront my nemesis, wearing a diaper and brandishing pepper spray (although I do have naked pictures of an unidentified woman in my possession at all times). No, I haven’t been tricked into federal quarantine. But yes, I will be tying my dog to the roof of my car.

If you have any questions or concerns while I’m away, please contact TJ Shroat, Managing Editor In Absentia. (He will be posting later today on film noir and the past life of Charlton Heston as a Mexican.) You can find TJ’s phone number on a certain call list. Do you even have to ask?

Keep in mind that my “vacations” are not always about me – sometimes they are for the greater good. This photo is from last Christmas when I spent time cuddling with babies in prison. Because I’m selfless that way.

You know, there’s really nothing more fun than traveling 16 hours straight with two Scottish women in the row behind you suffering from the croup. Oh look! Someone just hocked a lung on my lap! And I thought this flight only served peanuts!

Not that I should be complaining. The lung tasted better than the ox tongue I sampled in London. As you might expect, I was quite the UK tourist and by ‘tourist,’ I mean ‘pub sampler,’ which is to say ‘bar wench.’ Although I never did have my Tony Blair moment (I have yet to snap a photo with a foreign politico, unless you count Charlie Stenholm), I did spot Andy Brown outside of Parliament. Apparently he is running for a seat in the House of Commons. Lawrence Collins, having lost his lobbying credentials, will serve as his campaign manager. Or, as they say in London, ‘bar wench.’

I spent my last couple days in Scotland where my v. beautiful friends got married at Borthwick Castle outside of Edinburgh where Mary Queen of Scots sought refuge. The Queen was a very handsome lady, and by ‘handsome,’ I mean, ‘the polite way to describe a woman who would be better off using her ass as her face.’ The wedding, however, was lovely and yes, there was a real bagpiper. You’ll be happy to know I behaved myself and did not regale the crowd with tales of my misspent youth at McLean High. I did, however, break out in spontaneous cheers.

When I got home, having hurtled myself through space and time, there it was, staring back at me. Ye auld laptop. It was as if not a day had gone by, not an hour, not a minute. With breathless anticipation, I logged on to the blog. (Naturally, I had kept up with Texas politics via BurkaBlog on my husband’s blackberry. It’s because I’m married and don’t have any things of my own.)

I think TJ showed everyone that he’s much more than just an Assistant Editor — he’s OUR Assistant Editor. Effective immediately, he will be knighted and shall be known as Sir TJ, and all the Shroatlings will stake claim to the throne. Fled, Lawrence Collins, Best Ever… you’ve earned those Big Ben snow globes. I don’t think that anyone could have written such poignant tributes to Ann Richards as Fled and Lawrence. And the Kinky post? Pure gold. But then, what do I know. I am simply an unwilling cog in Rick Perry’s opposition research-fueled negative campaign.

I’m proud of In the Pink Texas. How ’bout you?

I have been known to take vacations from my blog in the past. I admit it. Each time I feel a pang of guilt, I remind myself, OH YEAH. NO ONE PAYS ME TO DO THIS.

Last week, the Wall Street Journal ran a story (‘No Day at the Beach’) about how certain bloggers struggle over whether or not to take a vacation due to a possible decline in readership in their absence, or due to the fact that, like any other addiction, they just can’t help themselves. People who can’t help BLOGGING?! Seriously? Go get a real addiction like alcohol, crack, thuggery, or stalking politicians.

According to John Amato, the blogger behind Crooks & Liars, “You become your blog. It’s John Amato. They’re used to John Amato.”

I have to say, it’s increasingly difficult for me to separate ‘Eileen’ from ‘Pink Lady.’ Some people would call that a ‘borderline personality disorder.’ I prefer, ‘the willingness to lose your identity in the hopes that readers will stay loyal to a completely manufactured personality.’

Defamer blogger Mark Lisanti doesn’t even take one day off from his gossip site. “My plan is to die face down on the desk in the middle of a post.” My plan is to be carried away mid-post by The Rapture.

Although some bloggers resort to guest bloggers when they take a sabbatical, this might not always work, according to WSJ. “Much like a guest host on a late-night talk show, people have specific expectations for a proven brand. Without some creativity or flavor from the new writer, postings sound stale.”

OK, granted. Not everyone would consider TJ’s sperm bank deposits very flavorful. Some might even call them stale. However, I am fairly confident (mostly because I have no other choice) that Assistant Editor TJ Shroat and the rest of the ITPT staff can carry the blog when I’m ‘on vacation,’ or ‘convalescing at a safe place,’ or ‘drying out.’

This seems as good a time as any to mention that I will be out of the country in the near future, also known as ‘sooner rather than later,’ also known as ‘I can not disclose the exact dates because I don’t want to face reader backlash.’ My vacation destination will remain, for obvious security reasons, undisclosed.

However, I can tell you that I’ll most likely be downing pints and singing at pubs and not brushing my hair AT ALL. Also, when I come back, I will most likely be blogging with an affected British accent.

I said Good Day!

Fellow Patriots,

The 4th of July is upon us, and I trust you have made plans to 1) wrap yourself, your cats, and your neighbor’s cats in the American flag; 2) stop reading the NY Times to boycott its investigative journalism that has fueled the terrorist movement; 3) further disenfranchise Texas Hispanic voters by moving into another district (make your vote count!); 4) conduct your OWN military tribunals; 5) display the Ten Commandments on the hood of your car; 6) dress as Betsy Ross; 7) blow second-hand smoke in your baby’s face while feeding him/her formula; quit your job to become a stay-at-home mom; 9) invite Mexican illegals to your BBQ in order to help the Attorney General’s office deport them; and 10) conspire against non-breeders as being ‘un-American.’

Since most of you will be off on Monday and Tuesday (and possibly Wednesday, if I know you and I believe I do), I have decided to take off the entire week. (But have I really gone on vacation or has The Rapture swept me up, leaving you behind?) It’s only fair, as I will be in Galveston with my in-laws. The entire week. I try to never discuss politics around my in-laws as they already keep their kids away from me. So, while you’ll be forced to talk to ‘real people’ as opposed to your ‘blog buddies,’ take this opportunity to connect with the outside world. It’s not as scary as you think it is. Go have a couple beers, swim at Deep Eddy (but beware the lap swimming regulars), eat out at Pink Taco and stay off of your computer for a couple days. Just don’t forget to lock it up as I will be out of town and unable to help you track down the perpetrator(s).

And I’ll go ahead and say it. Yes, those are my Palmetto jeans. No, I haven’t brushed my hair. And yes, my nephew is running away from me.

Oh just say it. I’m a natural. And that’s just ONE of the babies. Yes, I’m wearing a Baby Björn. Yes, the nephew is reaching out to the person taking the photo, imploring him/her to remove him from the arms of the crazy childless aunt. (Awww, is it because you don’t have babies?) Yes, I’m tilting my head in a casual way and giggling as if I do this all the time. Look at me! I’m easygoing and lighthearted and I’m carrying a baby! Give me a chardonnay and no one. gets. hurt.

Shroat beat me to the punch. He becomes drunk with power as soon as he hears I’m leaving and delegating him with Assistant Editor responsibilities. And JCBT is already writing about pickup lines when most of you are just making your way to your cube. Writers. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em.

Yes, I’m off to Virginia again, not to visit triplets and take five years off my life, but to stalk Tom DeLay as the little gnome trolls the back alleys of Old Town Alexandria. Why yes, I will have my laptop with me and yes, I expect to be posting, but in case I am abducted by disgraced aide Michael Scanlon and his ruthless brothel of Delaware whores, I have secured my staff writers to post more than usual, as in ‘to post.’ Of course, I have to excuse Smooch as it is the off season for ‘The Bachelor’ and it is QUITE TAXING to dream up anything else but desperate slutty women hoping to be Mrs. MD. Speaking of which, I believe Tickled Pink owes us another dating column: ‘Is it because you’re not married?’ or alternate title, ‘There’s Nothing Cute About a 30-year-old Bride.’

I’ll be back just in time for the special session (read: for the Pink Party next Thursday). Until then, be nice to the writers but do not feed them. They are like stray cats and you do not want them hanging around your house. Believe me.

Don’t panic. Having reached another milestone, Eileen has gone to visit her sister in Virginia. By my reckoning, she takes a vacation after every 50,000 hits. This habit isn’t as egregious, however, as the mini gala awards ceremony that she puts on for herself after every 125,000 hits. (Attendance by all ITPT staffers is compulsory.)

Actually, Eileen plans to post/edit later in the week, just not today as she travels (control freak). I’m just not sure how she will find time to do so while wet-nursing her sister’s triplets. Yes, they’re one of those families. In the meantime, Eileen’s blackmail grip on JCBT is not abated by distance, as he will continue to move units down at the ITPT mill.

Since Eileen is out of town, we’ll probably be hacked this week as well. Let’s go ahead and pre-assign the blame to umm… I don’t know. Fine Bottled Water? Sorry.

Many of you have asked to see pictures of the triplets. Mostly because you’re curious to see whether I did any permanent damage. Aside from psychological distress, they all appear healthy. And they’re so damn cute, even when they surprise me by projectile peeing on the curtains when I’m trying to change their diapers. Their big brother is taking things in stride, meaning he no longer asks his parents to ignore the new babies.

Would you like to see how tired I was while I was there? Would you like to guess how often I showered? Would you like to know if I ever changed out of my fleece and sweats? See for yourself.

But it was worth it.