I’m talking to one of my Jeff Demo friends today and I say, You know last year, when I thought the Demos weren’t going to take both titles (men’s and women’s, 5-A b-ball), I’m not saying that I would have died, had they lost, but I would have died if they lost.

And now I’m feeling like, if Mr. Obama loses, I’m gonna die.

She says, He’s not losing and you’re not dying.

With that in mind, I taped the debate today between Mr. Obama and John McCain and… here we go. I’m fidgety, I’m a little aggravated, I’m having trouble watching this, because my heart is pounding so loud.

Lady from the audience: How can we trust either of you, when both parties are the ones who got us into this mess?

Me: That’s what she said!

Tom Brokaw: How can we all stop getting drunk?

Me: Don’t drink and drink!

My husband: I was really hoping to watch this.

Me: Yeah.

That reminds me of a joke Zip-Zip told me:

Sitting behind a couple of nuns (whose habits partially blocked their view) at a Toronto Maple Leafs Hockey Game, three men decided to badger the nuns in an effort to get them to move. In a loud voice, the first guy says: “I’m moving to Manitoba, there are only 100 nuns living there.” Second guy says: “I wanna go to Nova Scotia, there are only 50 nuns there.” Third guy says: “I want to go to Newfoundland, there are only 25 nuns living there.” One of the nuns turns around and says: “Why don’t you go to Hell, there aren’t any nuns there.”

Back to the debate:

Mr. Obama: …we need that money at home!

Me: Tell it like it are, Barack!

And… one more from the Anti-Christ:
Mr. McCain: If it’s left up to me, we’ll win this war.

Me: We’re not leaving it up to you.

Go, Mr. Obama, go. Win this race. (McCain didn’t do well in the debate, in my opinion. How can you tell he’s lying? His mouth is moving.)

Go, Mr. Obama. Win it.

First of all, girls only. Boys gone? OK.

Cannie’s back! Fans of Jennifer Weiner’s awesome first novel, “Good in Bed,” will remember Cannie Shapiro well. “certain girls” picks up thirteen years later, with Cannie, her husband, and Cannie’s about-to-be-bat-mitzvahed daughter. (Atria Books, $26.95, 386 pages.) The chapters alternate in voice, first Cannie, then her girl, and Weiner digs right into the drama. I was lucky enough to score an advance reading copy and was thrilled because it gave me the best excuse to ignore my Psych 311 textbook.

Who needs Psych? I’ve got Cannie. What to know how it ends? Psych! Won’t tell you.

I was also happily distracted by Bridget Asher’s book, “my husband’s sweethearts.” (I kinda like writing out the titles very ee cummings exactly how they’re written on the covers.) “my husband’s sweethearts (Bantam Dell, $22, 271 pages) opens with a little “what would you do about this one?” scenario. What would you do if your adorable, sexy, estranged husband was dying, and you found his little black book? Would you drunk dial? Sober dial? Dial at all?

Lucy decides to call each and every one of them, and what she discovers isn’t exactly what she thought she would find. Great book, and hard to put down. (And speaking of chick lit, since we are — I love these books because they satisfy my need for a girly, drama-filled book that is down to earth, but at the same time, the writing in both of these novels is so good. The storylines go zipping along and you find yourself getting really attached to all the various characters, major and minor. Nicely played, you two.)

Did I have a date to go with my sister to see Sex and the City: The Movie? Yes, I did. Did dear, dear Felicia send me an advance copy of the sister book, so I could pair things up a little? Yes, she did. Did I do my reviews? NO. But I am right now.

I ordered the DVD on Netflix. It arrived. I shipped the kids off to Grandma’s. I fixed a quite lovely brunch for my sister and now, even though it was just a short week ago, I have no idea what we had. Oh, wait! Some kind of coffeecake? Fried eggs on toasted homemade cheddar biscuits, with butter and sweet-hot chili sauce. Fruit salad. And an entire pot of strong, good Stumptown coffee. Because watching those skinny girls brunch, brunch, brunch makes me want to devour a lot of food.

No Aidan, though, sorry. And the men were given pretty skimpy storylines. So were the women, come to think of it. But the movie was still pretty fun, although we found ourselves screaming, “Grow UP already!” at the TV several times.

“They’re still doing stuff we stopped doing in our early 30s,” my sister noted.

“Or late 20s,” I noted.

The book is shiny and perfect for the coffee table and looking through it is just like watching the movie all over again. (Amy Sohn and Melcher Media, Collins, 176 pages.)

Today’s books:

here you go…

I like baby books, because they help make it so you (mostly) can’t remember all that goo. You just remember the goo-goo. “Baby’s First Year,” (Lydia Ricci, Random House, $19.95) a “milestone journal” that comes with its own nursery banner and stickers, is a lovely book. Compact, but not too compact. Precious, but not so precious that you’ll feel too intimidated to scribble in it. The pastel colors and backgrounds are unisex, and the book is accordion-pleated with space for photos, cards or whatever else you’d like to tuck in.

Now, on to something completely unlike all those pastels: “Coraline.” (Written by Neil Gaiman, with illustrations by Dave McKean.)

“Lunchtime, Coraline,” said the woman.
“Who are you?” asked Coraline.
“I’m your other mother,” said the woman. “Go and tell your other father that lunch is ready.”

That’s when my chills started. And the rats hadn’t even shown up yet to sing. The kids and I are looking forward to the movie coming out.

“Write Before Your Eyes” (by Lisa Williams Kline, Delacorte Press/Random House, $15.99) just came out. I knew I would love it the minute I read the opening quote, from “Half Magic,” by Edward Eager:

“If you have ever had magic powers descend on you suddenly out of the blue… You have to know just how much magic you have, and what the rules are for using it.”

Ain’t it the truth, Ruth.

Gracie Rawley picks up an old journal for a quarter at a yard sale. It has old, crackly pages, that are water-stained, with thin lines.

“Not that one! She mustn’t take that one!” a tiny old woman calls, as the woman’s son sells Gracie the journal anyway. Then what she writes in the book begins to come true — a kiss, a date, a Cheshire Cat… How is she going to deal with this one? Great for middle-school students.

Reviewed this evening:

“One should count each day a separate life.” — Lucius Annaeus Seneca, philosopher (BCE 3-65 CE)