And be happy you can: Chucky’s creator speaks.

The way you folks like to grab a tangent and run with it, I’m surprised no one galloped off with Nigella, after I mentioned her yesterday. (Yes, you’re thinking; of course it might have helped if you hadn’t embedded it in such an extra-boring passage.) We watched more Nigella than was absolutely good for us yesterday — a long lull when 2/3 of our family was capable of little else — and I thought the same thing I did the first time I saw her: This woman is sexy. She’s sexy not in the Victoria’s Secret mold, but in the real-woman kind of way. She can bring home the bacon, and fry it up in the pan, and unlike the Victoria’s Secret girls, she won’t stick her finger down her throat and barf it all up later.

She does like to stick her fingers in her mouth, though. She’s always sucking ecstatically on her fingers, rolling her eyes and — I believe this is the point where Alan’s eyes glaze over with lust — separating eggs with her hands, because she so enjoys the feeling of egg white slipping through her long, slender fingers.

While I can appreciate her looks, what I really appreciate is her kitchen. The gas range, the fabulous accessories…the one-handed pepper mill! I want one! Her kitchen is so clean, but she slops food everywhere, wipes it up with her finger and licks it off.

I bet she likes to do it on the butcher block.

Not much to report today. Monday, bleah. I go to work so damn early they don’t even have a word for it. For a while there, we had a string of mild mornings, and I rolled to work with the jazz station on and the sunroof open. I’m very susceptible to music at certain times, and the moments between 4:45 and 5 a.m. are some of them. The DJ on whatever satellite feed our jazz station uses went through about a 10-day period when he was always playing something with vibes at that hour, and I switched to hip-hop. It got my mind perked up for eight hours of shoveling copy down the sluice, but then the station went through a stretch of playing some god-awful R&B power ballads, so I switched back to jazz. Thankfully, the programmer had regained some semblance of sanity for the pre-dawn hours, and we were back to trumpet, sax and piano.

Vibes. What are they thinking?

Speaking of hip-hop. ODB died Saturday. I remember these acts mainly for the headaches they caused my husband, the entertainment editor who had to try to ramrod these names through the copy desk. ODB was, of course, Ol’ Dirty Bastard. He was 35. He had a heart attack. At 35.

Too much rich food, maybe. Someone tell Nigella.

This isn’t about Iraq. It’s this week’s open “Wire” thread, and anyone who watches the show will get the above reference. Up for discussion today:

1) Monster mama Brianna, brought to her knees — or tears, anyway — with the recitation of a simple truth: She sold her own son down the river.

2) Hamsterdam, Major Bunny’s tar baby. I think the writers, in trying to distract us from asking a fairly obvious question — “Why doesn’t anyone else in the police establishment know about this place?” — keep throwing Bunny new balls to keep in the air. I know “Deadwood” is supposed to be about how societies find their way toward law and order, but I think David Simon is doing it much more economically (and with fewer uses of the C-word) in the evolution of Bunny’s free-fire drug zone. First the cops were hardasses, then social workers, and now we’re seeing a health-care system creaking into operation to serve the prostitutes, addicts and other lost souls lurching around like zombies. I love how Hamsterdam isn’t the violence-free utopia envisioned by legalization advocates. I like that it’s hell. I love the “five-acre Petri dish” line.

3) Stringer Bell, moral puzzle. Who is he? Joe Kennedy, or just a thug in an expensive suit? (Yes, you can argue Kennedy was that, too.) Does he want out? Respectability? I think so. Which is why he went all playground on his ign’ernt-ass partner last night, who is married to the street. Crime evolving into respectability is not only a great theme for drama, it’s a time-honored way for poor people to find a workaround for their lack of advantages. This is an interesting guy.

4) And oh my, Marlo and Cutty.

Discuss.

Well, now, that was a nice weekend. A little work, a little play, a new bike for my darling daughter on the occasion of her birthday, even though it’s two days away. She needed it; the bike she got in the year five was starting to look like something a clown might pedal in the circus. Her new one? Does not. It’s a multi-geared, hand-braked dream, and she’ll be riding it until she’s 12, unless she grows even more than I think she will.

Growth charts are amazing. When she was still a toddler, Dr. Mitch told me she’d top out around 5-foot-7 or so, and that’s what I’m planning on. Not too short but not taller than me, either.

We had spaghetti and meatballs for the birthday dinner. I confess, when Kate was born I had every intention of raising her to be an urban, hip child who eats black beans and capers and smelly cheeses without flinching. Man plans, God laughs, etc. Kate eats…nothing. Bread, cheese, peanut butter, all forms of junk, mandarin oranges, carrots, pasta and that’s about it. (I’m watching a “Nigella Bites” marathon on the Style network as I write this, and every time I see Nigella’s kids tucking into one of her mozzarella Monte Cristo sandwiches I want to throw shoes at the TV.) So spaghetti becomes our default OK-with-adults-and-kids birthday meal, most years. I try to fly under her radar by adding stuff like roasted red pepper and red wine, but it’s always touch and go: “Did you make these pancakes in the same pan as the bacon?” she’ll say, curling her lip in scorn, and I think: Five-seven? If I don’t kill you first.

But the spaghetti was good. The sun was out all weekend, the temperatures chilly, but I took a bike ride anyway; I need to toughen up my wind-chill resistance for winter’s long slog. Hardly anyone was on the path, one of cold weather’s very few advantages. I was free to pedal hard and sing along with the iPod without fear of appearing utterly ridiculous — the older women get, the closer we skate to the crazy-lady-in-purple-with-a-metallic-gold-tote-bag archetype.

Bloggage: Every so often I follow a link off of Amy’s blog, just to see what people on her end of the social-conservative spectrum are up to. Most of the time, I’m not surprised. Other times, I’m merely astonished: I have been through the horrors of post-abortion stress syndrome as a result of my sister’s abortion ten years ago. My symptoms were so severe that I had to quit my job (I worked around children, and would break down and cry on a weekly basis). As my sister’s actions were and remain a secret known only by me and her, I couldn’t explain to anyone what was wrong with me, why I was goiing through such a terrible bout of depression, crying fits… It was a terrible thing to have to live with, and it has only been in the past few months that the symptoms have begun to lift and I have found myself able to begin putting myself back together.

It goes on, and it gets worse — at one point, she fantasizes a “visitation” from her sad aborted niece, and yes, she knows it was a girl, God knows how, although I guess that visitation helped. And then it gets better: I have told my sister about my experiences and while she regrets the abortion she has also told me, flat out, that I am “crazy” and “overdramatic” for having been so effected. At least one member of the family still has an oar in the water. But if you want to know why so many people seem to talk past one another on this issue, this may give you a clue.

Also, remember the Anne Hull WashPost story about the gay teenager growing up in Oklahoma? Here’s a follow-up. Yes, Fred Phelps makes an appearance, but the ending’s an upper.

What did I say the other day about November? Today I made some calls and, in waiting for them to be returned, thought I might read a few pages of “The Plot Against America,” which I can’t recommend highly enough. Because it’s November and because my alarm goes off at 3:45 a.m., I drifted off for about 10 minutes. When I woke up, I could have sworn winter arrived in just that 10 minutes — the room was dim. The clouds had stacked up the way they like to do in winter, preparatory to cementing themselves in place until, oh, March 15th or so.

I looked at the clock. Four p.m. God help me.

Our new governor-elect wants to bring Indiana kicking and screaming into the 20th century — he wants us to adopt that dangerous idea, daylight-saving time. But with a sick twist: We’d move to the central time zone. If he pushes this, I will…I will…I will be very angry. Central daylight time is essentially what we’re on in the summer, which means nothing significant would change in the warm weather, but in the winter? It would get dark at FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE GODDAMN AFTERNOON.

Why not just pass out cyanide capsules at Thanksgiving? It would make as much sense.

Let’s brighten up with some bloggage:

Carl Hiaasen is not only funny, he’s brave:

The hero (of “Basket Case”) was a muckraking reporter busted down to the obituary beat after publicly embarrassing his paper’s new budget-slashing corporate owner, Race Maggad, head of the Maggad-Feist newspaper chain. “These days we buy the loyalty of readers with giveaways and grocery coupons, not content,” Basket Case’s protagonist laments. Meanwhile, Maggad’s mandate was to “strive for brevity and froth, shirking from stories that demand depth or deliberation, stories that might rattle a few cages and raise a little hell.”

Hiaasen leans forward, all the humor drained from his voice. “How could I not write about him? I grew up with this newspaper. I’ve put my life into it! It was the paper that landed on my doorstep every morning. So I have a right to be pissed, just like any reader. Anyone who can look you in the eye and tell you the Miami Herald of 2004 is as good as it was in 1984 is out of their skull. It’s palpable, the difference is palpable.”

(You only get away with that when you write a best-seller every 24 months, by the way.)

Oh, have a good weekend. I plan to.

Tomorrow is Veterans Day, and Kate has the day off school, so her dad is taking her to see “The Incredibles.” Grrrr. I guess I’ll take her for the dollar-theater screening in eight weeks or so. I’m starting to feel the cosmic pain of the sole breadwinner.

Not that I am complaining. Life is just easier when one person has the homefront well in hand. During our married life’s next-to-last incarnation, I was that person. Now it’s Alan. It works. It’s just new to me.

I guess I should spend some time in mournful contemplation of the price of liberty. My dad escaped WWII unscathed, while Alan’s got the shit shot out of him — three Purple Hearts and a long stint in VA rehab. My brother slipped Vietnam’s net in his own way (never mind, although I think it was more honorable than George Bush’s) and I’m glad he did. Tomorrow we’ll surely hear about our current war, and that’s fine, but if anyone calls it “Operation Iraqi Freedom” I’m going to reach for my pistol. I hate these latter-day marketing names for what boils down to the same old stuff: Bullets tear through human flesh for good and bad reasons, and people die. Call it what it is. There are only three letters.

I don’t keep track of my stats anymore, so I don’t know how my traffic will fare on a day many people stay away from work. I have no idea how many people use NN.C as a time-waster on the job and how many check in from home, but if you stop by, feel free to leave a Veterans Day comment. I’ll be thinking of my few appearances at last summer’s History of War class at the U of M. My attendance coincided with WWI’s battles, and there’s one to queer you on the whole idea of fighting it out.

Did Zell Miller really call Maureen Dowd a “hussy”? My God, he is a lame duck.

If you have QuickTime, this is funny.

If you just have spare time, this is interesting. Thanks, Ashley.

I wish Yasser Arafat would make up his mind, so to speak. You wonder why journalists are so cynical? Try being around a newsroom during a deathwatch. The first wire-service bulletins move: Famous Person is “near death.” Eyes move immediately to clocks, to triangulate this news, and the inevitable next step, with the nearest deadline. Space is cleared. Videotape is edited. Advance copy is edited. A headline is roughed in. Graphics are commissioned. And then we wait.

Deadline passes. Another day passes. Pretty soon the mood of grim respect begins to crumble. “Is Famous Person dead yet?” you ask your next-desk neighbor. “Not yet,” he says. And you wait some more. A certain gallows humor emerges. “No, he’s not dead yet. But Francisco Franco is still dead.” Ha ha ha.

I have no idea what’s going on in Paris. It sounds like Mrs. A is having a teensy freakout, perhaps waiting for her husband to wake up long enough to spill the Swiss bank account numbers. “He’s going home,” she said sometime today. (Well, yessss, in a manner of speaking…) Everyone else says he’s “near death,” the same as last Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and then, today, he “worsened.” Worsened! I thought he was as bad as you could get and still be alive! Gruesome updates move on the wires and web. Today’s NYT: As Yasir Arafat lay in a deep coma on the verge of death, one of his top aides described his condition as “critical,” but said that his brain, heart and lungs were still functioning and his removal from life support systems ruled out. Yeesh.

I don’t know why, but I’m reminded of Ted Williams, who died pretty quickly, but had to suffer the indignity of having his children literally fighting over his corpse. There was Ronald Reagan and his monthlong funeral. Princess Diana. All things considered, I think Edward Abbey had the right idea. His friends spirited his remains to his beloved desert, where they carried out his orders, to wit:

He wanted his body transported in the bed of a pickup truck. He wanted to be buried as soon as possible. He wanted no undertakers. No embalming, for Godsake. No coffin. Just an old sleeping bag… Disregard all state laws concerning burial. “I want my body to help fertilize the growth of a cactus or cliff rose or sagebrush or tree.” said the message.

Listen to me. So grim. Of course, it is November now, which always reminds me that life is an unending parade of misery and strife and then you die in your own arms, not that I am being overly dramatic or anything. Check back with me in February, when I start feeling sort of human again.

But. We will not let that get us down. I didn’t tell you what the highlight of our trip home from M’waukee was: A stop at Trader Joe’s in Northbrook, just off I-94, where we gazed upon the amazing sight of…a tower of Two-Buck Chuck (three bucks in the Chicagoland area)! And a sign! $35.99 a case! A case!

We bought three. November has only 30 days, but still.

Today Kate and I took a walk together. “Tell me something funny that happened in school,” I said.

“Nothing funny happened in school,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Mommy. What’s yours?” By this time we were speaking in English accents.

“Me.”

“Me? That’s an unusual name. I’ve never met a child with such an unusual name.”

“It’s always been my name. My name is Me. Very unusual, I grahnt you.”

I keep asking if she wants to take acting lessons. She keeps saying no. When she’s plainly ready to take her place in Hollywood and start pulling her weight around this dump. Not to mention move her parents to a milder climate where the sun doesn’t go away for five months straight.

They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love…

Is it your contention that Christians have been too tolerant?

Ryan Dobson: Lee, I hear this thing so often. Someone says, “I believe this very strongly for myself, just not for anybody else.” I really believe they don�t believe it strongly for themselves. I believe that Jesus Christ is the only way to Heaven. I believe it strongly for myself. I believe it for everybody else, too. And I tell people, “If you don�t believe that you�re going to go to hell.” Being the president of the National Council for Churches she ought to preach that. She ought to tell everybody that. Muslims are not going to Heaven. It is a sad fact, but it is also true. And you�ve got to tell people that, not out of pride or arrogance, but out of love. Because I care about people, I�ve got to tell them what is true. And the truth is the only way into Heaven is through Christ.

Here we go again: Not only are blue-staters immoral and selfish and otherwise bad people, they’re not even curious about the world around them.

So, let me make sure I have this straight: Suburbia, or “exurbia” is a vast, vital, endlessly complex place that people flock to because, well, it’s perfect: They leave places with arduous commutes, backbreaking mortgages, broken families and stressed social structures and they head for towns with ample living space, intact families, child-friendly public culture and intensely enforced social equality. That’s bourgeois.

But it’s not like “American Beauty” at all. It’s clean and perfect and complex and interesting. Oh.

The last word on David Brooks.