Among the information spewed forth by nanny K. yesterday:

� The number, style color and estimated value of K.�s mother�s fur coats. This piece of information was tacked on to a discussion about a friend�s chinchilla �they have the rarest, softest fur in the world��

� The carat weight of assorted items of K.�s mother�s jewelry (value mercifully left to the imagination). This was tacked on to the end of the fur coat roundup.

� There is something in tap water that exacerbates anxiety disorder. Really? Also, she said �our anxiety disorder,� which I took, at first, to be something like a royal we, but then realized K.�s incredible tendency to refer to herself and her mother as a single unit, a fact which I have tried not to psychoanalyze too carefully.

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Most uncharacteristically, I�ve been camping out in front of the television every night at nine (central) this week to watch Sex and the City on TBS. It�s rather pathetic, but it�s been kind of comforting in a way, given my current lack of girlfriends to be girlie with, even though I have never been known to be girlie in quite that way. I�ve been seriously feeling the testosterone bias in the household, a situation that is only likely to worsen as AJ ages. An hour where I�m watching Sex and the City is an hour where I�m not avoiding watching a ball game of some sort or another. I�ll take what I can get.

I watched the show occasionally when we had HBO and I can�t say that I�ve noticed a serious loss with the obvious changes they�ve made to put it on regular cable. In some ways, it is because the nudity and �adult language� was so pervasive that you don�t really notice when it�s gone. If it were used to a more singular dramatic effect, the alterations would be more irritating.

My reaction to this show is rather like my reaction to the Gilmore Girls. They are both programs that I�m not entirely sure I like. But I think I watch both of them because they banish the males in the household as effectively as a Bears game banishes me. I think it�s about declaring time and space for myself without requiring any overtly anti-social action. Would I have watched shows about anxious single women when I was one myself? I�m not entirely certain.

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The magazine article I mentioned here has come out. It appears that my complaint about the art may have been registered == they swapped the bra top for a belly shirt. Maybe somebody told them about my stretch marks.

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