I love Easter, and I had a lot of fun doing these this year. There’s a vase from Urban Outfitters that’s modeled on those bird water whistles we had as kids. At first I thought it was just a ceramic water whistle, and I was so excited. Then I was surprised that no one makes those yet. How cute would that be worn as a necklace? Get on it, Etsy.

In the meantime, go have a look at my picks for your baskets.

1. Twitter.
2. Crowdsource a Costco takeover.
3. Secure entrances.
4. Neutralize Costco undead in increasingly cinematic ways, using only products at hand.
5. Clean off that food processor. We might want to use it later.
6. Set up Wifi.
7. Update Facebook status.
8. Organize a yoga class.

Attention reference-guide addicts! My genius husband’s company, Small Batch Inc., just built an awesome tool called Wikirank, and you should go play with it. Wikirank shows you which Wikipedia topics are the most popular, and which ones are seeing the most action on a particular day.

It also lets you compare topics against one another and embed pretty graphs on your Internet website, like so:

As you can see, monkeys are kicking robot ass, but ninjas are still a contender. I feel smarter already.

I was having a drink on the patio in the tourist district of Boston, watching the wildlife with a guy friend. Every girl who passed us was kitted out in spike heels, clingwrap skirts, smokey eyes. It was a Saturday-night sea of sex.

Then a girl passed by who looked refreshing.

“What’s going on there?” I said.
“You mean how she doesn’t look like she’s advertising?” he replied.
“Yeah. I mean, you can practically see her underwear in that skirt, and her cleavage is hanging out. Why doesn’t she look slutty?”
“She’s wearing flats,” he said.
“Oh my god. She’s comfortable.”
“Yep.”

Wear whatever you want, ladies, but be at ease. If you’re tugging at your skirt, worrying about being judged, or limping up the street, you’re hobbled.

Hobbled girls may get laid, but only because they’re the weakest ones in the herd.

I’m laying on my back with needles in my limbs, trying to relax. The ambient music in the acupuncturist’s office is massage/day spa/yoga music — the kind where the singer repeats a single foreign phrase endlessly, and when she’s done, she does it again. The problem with such music (she said, as though there were only one problem) is that my brain cannot focus when there’s something to translate. Of course I have no idea what language this is (which somehow makes me feel slightly racist?), and so my brain approximates.

I breathe in through my nose; out through my mouth.

“BANDCAMP!”

In through my nose…

“Bandcaaaaaaaaamp!”

…out through my mouth.

“BANDCAMP!”

Awesome.