In August, I’d read about the lunar eclipse and thought- what the hell. We need to break up the routine and this could even quality as an ADVENTURE. Usually our idea of an adventure is feeding more than 300 tickets into the Chuck E Cheese ticket muncher then standing in line for 30 minutes watching children choose between a rubber ball or a spider ring. Woo-hoo!

As a pilot’s daughter, I’ve always romanticized the sky. I remember getting up in the middle of the night with my Dad to see Hayley’s comet in 1976 . I can still see a splash of chalky milk against a dark Sacramento, Calif. night. I felt both in awe of the universe and also very safe under his arm. He bought a telescope and always knew the right time to see a constellation or even Jupiter.

In my adventure with the stars, there was little planning, no telescope - not even binoculars. It was a clear night and the alarm worked so at 3:30 a.m. kiddo and I backed out of the garage and into our adventure. We drove up and down streets looking like we’re trying to find a lost dog. I think my child even called out, “moon, where are you, moon?” I started to worry after 15 minutes or so and anti-climatic thoughts started to crash the moon party. Then, we caught it.

I pulled over on the 91 freeway and she crawled over the console and sat in my lap. The shadowed moon was the color of Alabama clay–appropriately enough, sitting in the Southern sky. We identified cloud shapes- I saw an animal and she saw a butt and we laughed a lot.

Tucking her in, I was so proud of myself. Now, Claire and I had our moment under the sky.

I’m a more productive writer when I’m wearing thong underwear. There’s something about sitting on a tight rope that makes me sit up and concentrate. I’ve heard writers speak about going to great lengths to create a cozy, warm safe environment. I picture them wearing 100 percent cotton sweats, fuzzy “lucky” socks that have never been washed and lighting some type of energy candle to clear the aura to get the words out. For me, ass-splitting anguish is most effective.Perhaps this is my Catholic upbringing calling me to martyrdom through lingerie. I’m bargaining with God here– pain and panties for productivity. Because the fabric juts into the skin, I can only sit for about two hours at a time without having to get up, go to the bathroom and relieve the pressure. I challenge myself to complete as much work as possible in this short amount of time then I reward myself by removing my panties for a 15 minute break.

Opening up about my ritual of self-flagellation “lite”, I fantasize about taking it on the road. The methodology is simple and could work for many athletes and executives. Baseball players are infamous for rituals. The Los Angeles Dodgers’ Nomar Garciapara teaches a new group of youngsters how Velcro works at every at bat. Think about how free he would feel from public scrutiny if he just walked up to the batter’s box, kicked the dirt a few times and hit the ball. No more touch the right arm band, tap plate with bat, open and chose bathing gloves, touch helmet with bat, make sign of the cross, kick feet back like cat covering poo in litter box, then repeat three times. I see myself convincing Garciapara.

“Nomi, dude, it makes perfect sense. The pressure of the thong up your butt crack takes your mind off of thinking too much about hitting the ball. Every time you’re at bat you crack one. Hey, that’s like, the perfect name. We could call it, ‘Bat Crack.’”

I collect a retainer for hush money, swearing that under no circumstances will I reveal our secret. Sort of like Barry Bonds’ personal trainer but without the illegal substance part. But when “People” features Nomar as one of the most intriguing people of the year, he jokes about his lucky underwear and then it happens. Calls come in from professional athletes all across the country. I launch a web site and a blog, Cracked Up. I dine at 5-star restaurants while showing off the latest packaging for Bat Crack. I hire a PR agent to deal with the barrage of questions left as voice mails.

“Are you tracking the success of batters who wear Nylon verses cotton?”
“Are you talking to MLB about a licensing deal?”
“You mention that this trend helps you to be more productive as a writer. What have you written since you started wearing Bat Crack?” Uh…

I’m sitting at Duke’s Restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, Calif. waiting on Dr. Phil’s producer. Seems they’re doing a show on underwear as outer confidence or something like that. I stare out at the horizon and think how cool it is that I might be on Dr. Phil. My mom will email all her friends in her Catholic choir and then 60-year-old women with my branded underwear will be singing “I will raise you up on Eagle’s wings” and get a certain twinkle in their eye with the words ‘raise you up.’ Maybe they’ll leave a few behind for the priests or I could design a specialty line for them: The Temptation Tickle with feather trim, Supple Sinner in velvet- that might rub too many people the right way though.

First athletes, then church-leaders and perhaps next, the politicians. “Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come.” I know Victor Hugo was probably talking about the French Revolution but what if I took Bat Crack and made it biodegradable? Al Gore would love that. How about cooler-packed thongs worn just before debates to keep candidates alert or medicated ones for those days when they’re taking it in the ass in the polls?

I could go on and on but, ouch, wow, time for me to take a well-deserved break.

Photo Credit: We can thank Gabrielle for this tacky thong image and the sad news that thongs are going out of style.

I believe that I’m too critical of people on TV and that I’ve turned into some type of appearance police. Two events led to my acknowledgment of this badge of shame. First, when the U.S. was focused on Olympic women’s ice skating and Sasha Cohen bringing home gold, a Japanese skater swooped in and stole the competition with a flawless performance. The skater’s face glowed with pride and disbelief. Her coach and her family wept in each other’s arms and reporters talked about how she was the pride of Japan.

“Glad she won,” my husband Mark snapped, seeing all too clearly that the skater’s smile was NOT as white as the ice. Now maybe she can get her teeth fixed! Ouch. Of course I acted shocked that Mark could be so shallow but the truth is, I was thinking that she could use some white strips too.

Recently, I watched CNN senior international correspondent Chrisitane Amanpour reporting from Afghanistan. She once-again placed herself in grave danger for her work, this time to report on Bin Laden’s continued significance in the Muslim world and I knew this was important but I only partially heard what she said because I was distracted —when WILL she grow out those bangs?!

Appalled at myself for dispensing yet another critical citation, and THIS one to the world’s most respected journalist, I had to turn off the TV and ask, how did I get here? It’s like I’m going all Microsoft Word on people and whenever anyone on TV has different hair or funky teeth I shoot them with the dreaded red or green squiggly line. Then, I imagine the spell check.

Last night in line at the grocery store I think I figured out where I got these critical handcuffs. Staring at me from the cover of almost every magazine was Angelina and Brad, Jessica Simpson or Tom and Katie. Actually. I want to know if Angelina has another baby if Brad will marry her, so I might just buy that one.

But if I don’t buy the magazine, then I just turn on the TV, check my mail at Yahoo, or ride the elevator with someone who gets text-messaged from Entertainment Tonight and I’ll find out. It’s all celebrities all the time and I’m buying it, ingesting it and expecting it not just on TV but also in my every day life. I wish I could get MY teeth as white as Jessica Simpson.

The good news is that I decided to arrest my own behavior. My sentence includes the following:

• Taking a good look in the mirror. Tyra Banks is not calling me to be on “America’s Top Model.”
• Next, I’m LISTENTING to TV.

Oh, I still tune into CNN and Amanpour but for the time being, I turn OFF the actual picture and listen to the news through the receiver. My husband thinks I’m crazy lying on the floor staring at the ceiling with a slate gray TV on the wall but it doesn’t bother him as much as my final punishment…

“Hey. uh,” he asked. “What did you do to your bangs?!”