Holy Frak! What's Going on With Battlestar?

I am not a geek but I did marry a man who likes shows that take place in outer space.

This union means that for months I was stuck watching recorded episodes of Voyager, a show rivaled only by Three's Company for bad acting.

In a desperate move to save myself from yet another episode where Captain Janeway goes Renaissance, I bought the first season of Battlestar Gallactica,a show most nerds I know claim is the greatest series ever made.

We've now watched all 4 seasons on dvd, the webisodes where Gaeta turns out to be...gay, and we're now watching Season 4.5.

There have been some ups and downs to the show's arc (the downs being the webisodes and Season 2, Episode 14) but so far this season has been pretty...ney.

As the final season, expectations are high. I wanted Adama growling hard decisions at his crew, the President disregarding ethics, Starbuck having sex. Instead we get Colonel Saulty Dog doing his best Captain Highliner impression at an ultrasound image of his baby with Number Six? Ahoy matey--when the hell did that copulation take place?

And my eyes are still burning from the image of the President naked in bed with Adama. Between her smooth bald scalp and his crater face, there was just way too much scary skin being exposed. It was like a ProActive ad, with old people.

As James Parker points out in this month's The Atlantic, Battlestar is "presenting all the symptoms of an extended-run high-concept TV series in its decadent phase." This doesn't bode well for viewers like myself, who appreciated the earlier fusing of good special effects, scary alien robots and relevant philosophical discourse (the parallels to 9/11 have been noted duly by all for years).

The most pressing question entering the final season of Battlestar was set up to be: who is the twelfth Cylon? But so many strings have been unravelled and left unaddressed that the plot is becoming tangled in the small annoyances. Like, what does Gaeta's sexuality have to do with anything? Why make Cally an unfaithful wife? And who the frak makes all the plastic replicas the Captain uses to plot out attack strategies?

Ultimately, Battlestar may turn out to be as whimsical and flip-floppy as Gaius Baltar's morals. Let's hope the end of Earth's promise doesn't signal the end of good television.

Colic is Hell

When I was pregnant and reading baby books, there was one word that lurked in the literature like an evil menace: colic.

The definitions of colic were varied, vague and sometimes conflicting, but I always skipped over the sections on it because, well, there was no way I was going to be cursed with a colicky baby.

Let it be said that I am now a self-defined scholar on the matter. So, what is colic?

Colic is hell.

Colic is what takes over your baby so that you and your husband stop referring to your son by name. Instead you says things like: "How was colic today?" and "We can't go out because we'd have to take colic with us."

Colic dehumanizes your baby, thieves your nights, and makes you feel like a really, really bad mom.

While other new mothers are joining yoga classes and going out for lunches, you are googling "gastro-intestinal" for the thousandth time and wondering why a baby sedative hasn't been invented.

Colic leaves you so delirious with exhaustion that you start scratching itches that aren't there.

After three months, you and your colicky baby are still only wearing sleepers for days on end and you constantly feel guilty because you spend what little energy you have willing away the days until your baby is eight years old and able to make you pancakes while you sleep in.

Colic convinces you that your baby's insides are shredding apart, that his farts are sharp as knives and that when he grows up he will have a weak disposition and complain frequently.

If your baby has colic your pediatrician will tell you "it will pass" and you will fantasize driving a pen into her eyeball.

Colic is being able to rock 16 pounds of distressed flesh in your arms for hours on end. Colic is denying your own physical agony, dislocating your thumb from so many hours of back patting, staying up for hours, days, on end.

Colic is nearly giving up a hundred times but always finding that little extra bit of resolve you need to keep on going.

For coping with colic, see www.fussybaby.ca, askdrsears.com, or visit a naturopath who treats infants.

If you are reading this because you googled "colic," my heart goes out to you.

Biggest Loser Returns With Profanities of All Kinds

A new season of Biggest Loser and new dramas.

Last season went the way of bad reality television, with undeserving alliances and immature rivalries. However, this season has all the makings of awesome reality entertainment.

We have Bob screaming at Joelle to "shut the f** up!"

We have partners being split up with one half of the team checking in from home (does someone want to tell orange team David that fried chicken and fries do not a healthy meal make?).

And best of all, we have the weekly weigh-in spectacle of tit-tych brown team daddy Ron. I have never seen a man with six breasts before. Dude's got a man udder. He's a human titadactyl. I don't know whether to scream when he takes his shirt off or start throwing dollar bills at his chests.

Speaking of cash, my money is on the black team. With both big boys still on the ranch, they're going to be posting numbers that the ladies won't be able to catch up on.

Back From the Near-Dead

Four months ago I had visions of writing this blog, my new baby snug against my chest, snoozing peacefully.

Yeah, right.

So, there's been four months of radio silence. I rarely get more than 90 minutes of sleep in a row but for my own sanity I thought I'd take some time to blog.

My entries will be sporadic, probably rife with typos, and after four months of colic, my sense of humour may be stretched, but I promise in all sleep-deprived earnest, to keep up with the site.

Time will tell if this is a threat, a pipe dream, or a promise.