Cranky Up

Sanity? Fear? Fanity? Sear?

2010-10-29T23:08:00.002-05:00

How to tell the difference between the faux rally this weekend, the pea tarty rally this summer, and a real political rally?

1. Is the leader credible?

2. Are the people incredible?

3. Is the rhetoric believable?

4. Is the myth edible?

I wonder where we will end.

One-Hit Wonders

2010-05-02T21:47:00.002-05:00

I'm watching One-Hit Wonders for Prom on VH1 Classics.

Now I have a pretty good memory for music. This is because I spent my childhood glued to Top 40 with Casey Kasem and AM radio (before it was all screaming talk radio). Eventually I parlayed that interest into radio DJ gigs at college.

I listen to a few bars of a song and I know what it is and who sang it.

Up to a point.

I know songs from the 60s and 70s practically by heart. Then in the 80s it starts to break down.

About the early 1980s I went to graduate school. During this time my brain apparently did not take in any new music.

Because all of these one-hit wonders from the 1980s are completely unfamiliar to me. I'm watching bands I've never heard of in godawful 80s fashions (who ever thought up those hairdos for men and those THINGS in women's hair? It's like they're all Desperately Seeking Madonna), beaming and bopping to unfamiliarly arranged four chord melodies that were run through homogenizing synthesizers.

The songs are completely forgettable. How is that possible? There wasn't any musical inspiration and genius in the 80s? What happened in the 80s? Where were people's brains? Taste? Weren't they thinking?

Ah wait. The late 80s. The Reagan years.

OK, never mind about the thinking....

Thank You Facebook

2010-03-09T23:43:00.002-05:00

I have a confession to make: I am a Facebook stalker. I created a Facebook account just so I could Friend my children and see what they're up to.

I don't know that this really provides significant insights, however, because they spend an inordinate amount of time in a place called Farmville, tending to virtual gardens. These are gardens that produce nothing, you understand. Nothing you can eat. Nothing you can smell. Nothing you can touch. Just brightly colored, fake-plastic-looking unreal plants.

Call me an old fogey, but I don't see the point. The younger child tried to get me to set up an account so I could give her virtual gifts and I threw a tantrum. As in, "I DON'T WANT TO WASTE MY TIME CREATING AN ALIAS AND TELLING IT WHAT TO LOOK LIKE!!!"

Yes, this is embarrassing to admit, but that's why I'm anonymous, except to selected people.

I like being anonymous. Especially when I'm lurking on my children's Facebook pages.

SNOWMAGEDDON OMG!!!!!!

2010-02-10T19:20:00.002-05:00

WE LIVE IN THE DC METRO AREA!!! WE ARE INUNDATED WITH SNOW!!!!

PLEASE, WHOEVER WE HAVE OFFENDED TO SEND US SO MUCH FROZEN PRECIPITATION, WE'RE SORRY AND WON'T DO IT AGAIN!!!!!

Christmas Comes Every Year and I'm Never Ready

2009-12-11T23:52:00.001-05:00

This is a very sad title.

Not sad because I can't organize my excrements in time for Christmas, which comes every year and for which I have twelve months to prepare.

No.

It's sad because I looked at my blog's draft list and I started this post last December. Which means I couldn't get my act together a year ago and it continued throughout the year.

How does this happen?

The same way you spend the days running after them -- while you're not paying attention.

This year, I am going to send gifts before two days before Christmas so they have to be FEDEXed.

Oh wait, I just found another draft from last year that said the same thing.

I AM FEELIN' CRANKY!!!!!

2009-10-06T19:42:00.002-05:00

YEAH BABY!!!!!

I am feeling cranky. I don't mean cranky in the grumpy sense. I mean cranky in the crank it up, gear it up, rev it up sense.

Is it time to crank up the Cranky Blog?

Oh My Poor Abandoned Blog

2009-04-24T22:56:00.003-05:00

How many blogs are there like this in the world, neglected, abandoned, forgotten. Lonely, shivering, wondering what it did to deserve this.

I think that people just hit dry patches. Well, no, make that ENORMOUS bumps at work. New job, new responsibilities.

And a huge mess to clean up. I have never walked into a job that didn't have a huge mess to clean up.

But back to writing. I'm just glad I don't have to do it for a living, forcing my brain to create ideas, images, people out of nothing; the synapses screaming as I put them through their paces.

Recently we went to the Martinsburg WV Book Faire where we attended a dinner after which two bestselling authors spoke about their books. (We also met a Pulitzer-winning author who was unlike any image you might have of a Pulitzer Prize winner. Remember back in college, the party girl who you could always tell when she arrived and where she was in the room because of her raucous laugh? Yeah, her.)

Anyway, one of the authors gave a signed copy of her latest book to everyone at the dinner. This woman is a NY Times bestselling author of 16 books.

I read it in a few hours.

And all I could think was, millions of people shell out $27.95 to read this? How is it possible that such awful writing, a contorted plot, and skimpy characterization could possibly sell so many books? What is the matter with people?

Of course I might feel very differently if I were trying to write a book myself, which I'm not.

I can barely keep up with writing a blog, which, since I haven't posted since February, shows I haven't been keeping up with it.

So I won't knock the bad books. Everyone's a critic. Not everyone can create something compelling enough to get people to pay cold hard cash for it.

(Which reminds me, does Newsweek pay for it My Turn column? I need gas money.)

Clueless Dads (Even in The Highest Office in the Land)

2009-02-08T00:42:00.003-05:00

I write today about clueless dads.

In the past weeks, there have been two instances of dads behaving cluelessly. One was close to home (in fact, in our home). The other occupies the most famous white house in the world.

Scene 1

Our wonderful new President Barack Obama hails from Chicago, where it starts snowing right after Halloween, doesn't stop until Mother's Day, and the temperature dances around zero (Fahrenheit) all winter. In Washington, DC, we go into full disaster mode at the sight of one snowflake because here snow turns instantly to ice when it hits the road.

But President Obama doesn't know this. In Chicago, it gets below freezing and stays below freezing all winter. Snow never gets the chance to melt and glaze.

So when the Washington area schools closed, he was, to put it mildly, surprised. And he did what everyone from cold climes does at Washington's snow panic -- he made fun of it.

"Schools are closed, for what, some ice? Washington's got to get some of Chicago's flinty toughness."

This caused a furor in DC.

But, I could imagine, nowhere could be worse than at his daughters' school. Imagine that the President of the United States questioned your school's closing. Now imagine that POTUS is your father and EVERYBODY knows it.

I imagined a scene like this:

"Mommy!"
"What's the matter, honey?"
"Daddy said they shouldn't have closed school and now we'll never have a snow day again so everyone in school hates me!"
"BARACK!!! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!!!"

Scene 2

We are out, in public, somewhere, surrounded by people. Father looks at teenage daughter's face (hormonally-affected, i.e. acne), and exclaims at the top of his lungs, "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?!!!!"

Mortified daughter hides her face while mother says, "She's breaking out, which happens in adolescence, DEAR! No need to draw everyone's attention to it!"

Clueless? Yes.

I will now wait for Prez Obama to say something like, "What are those funny Ugg boots? They make feet look like Muppets feet."
"Mommy!"
"BARACK!!!"

The Commitment Gene (and How to Give It to Your SO)

2009-01-28T22:26:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I changed my mind about ending the blog.

That's because I read a story about a gene that determines whether men will be committed, loyal partners, or players.

Men with this gene are more likely to be faithful and dependable than those with it.

So, the question is, how do you give it to your commitment-phobe of a boyfriend?

Some women must have figured this out. You know the ones. Some guy is going along, a player, moving from one woman to another, then BAM! he settles down with whatever woman he's with and starts producing children right away.

You know that old song, "Love The One You're With"? For these guys it's "Marry The One You're With."

So how have these women figured out how to get these guys Gene (as opposed to Religion)?

However they did it, if they sold the technique to women all over the world, they'd be rich!

2009!!! Starts With A......Septic Tank Overflow.

2009-01-02T22:31:00.002-05:00

Does this have auspicious portents for 2009? Will the Happy New Year be replaced by the Crappy New Year?

How else do you explain the sudden rebellion of the septic tank which has decided it's quite full, thank you, and pushed out excess content into the downstairs toilet?

I walk in from work with gifts for the cats -- spider plant babies -- which they promptly chewed up and spat out (in the worst sense). I say, "Your cat threw up," and my daughter says, "Mom, I walked in crappy water today, I can't clean up cat vomit!"

The hubby is walking around ordering everyone to "Just hold it in!" Easy for him to say. He can just visit the nearby dense bamboo patch. ("Ew," says the youngest child.)

Myself, I did the civilized thing and visited a nearby store.

I wonder if this is truly an ominous portent for the coming year, inviting endless awful puns about how the stock market, housing market, everything, everything, everything is going into the toilet.

Actually that's the problem. Everything went into the toilet and now there's just no more room for crap.

Time to clean out the crap!!!

This is one cleanout I'll leave to the pros.

The Wait is Over!

2008-12-17T23:15:00.003-05:00

She knows! She's been accepted! She's going! Next fall! She's planning her dorm shopping!!!

The question is, will she survive high school until graduation (and will we survive her)?

The Wait

2008-12-12T23:01:00.002-05:00

Moses wandering 10 years in the desert is nothing.

Nothing compared to the angst of a high school senior waiting to hear from the college of her choice whether she was accepted Early Decision.

This child has been in love with the School of Her Choice since we went to Chicago a few years back. She came home from our trip, went on Facebook, and said, "Mom, I found my people."

A summer class only cemented her desire to attend this institution. She bought a sweatshirt. She slept in it.

She came home and every day said Chicago. Every other sentence contained the word Chicago. She listened to Chicago.

She applied. She waited. We waited. Every day I came home to That Face. That plaintive, long-suffering, long-awaiting Face.

Today is supposedly The Day that The School tells her Yes or No.

It hasn't happened. We wait. We wait. We wait.

I don't want to see That Face again.

Hurry up, Chicago. (If you leave her now, you'll take away the greatest part of her....)

The 1000-Mile Kimchi Run or Happy Thanksgiving

2008-12-02T21:47:00.004-05:00

I feel like I've come full circle in a way.

I started blogging way back about the holidays and how they turn quirky families into bands of fully raving lunatics. Except for me, of course.

We had a family reunion this Thanksgiving. We had so many things to be thankful for.

My parents celebrated 50 years of marriage, my father celebrated his 80th birthday, the hubby and I celebrated 25 years of marriage, and there are 7 happy healthy grandchildren. We celebrated by converging on a quiet, beautiful island in Florida with little commerce, no highrises, and sand like finely sifted white sugar that literally floated when I shook it out of my shoes.

With five children under the age of seven, it was definitely bedlam. But not drama (not so much anyway). I think it was because we recognized that being able to be together, all 16 of us, was a rare gift that we don't often get to enjoy. And given all of our ages we may not have long to repeat.

Our families traveled from CA and DC, and FL.

We, the DC contingent, drove. This was to avoid flying, to bring stuff including boxes of slides (remember those?) of our family history, but most of all, to bring kimchi to the deprived.

If you've ever had Korean food you know what kimchi is. It's a pungent, spicy cabbage dish which is the core of Korean cuisine. Koreans cannot live without kimchi for long.

So, on top of the turkey, the spiral-sliced ham (which mysteriously continued shrinking while NO ONE was near it) we had kimchi.

Was it worth driving 1000 miles to bring kimchi to the deprived?

Oh yeah.

The Wash(ington) Post

2008-11-02T20:20:00.002-05:00

Should I, or shouldn't I?

I had a piece published in the Washington Post. My name is there. Should I link it here or not?

If I link, then my name is out. It's not something ubiquitous, either, it would be easy to find out who I am, where I live, where I went to school, etc. Not that I think anyone would be interested.

I'm not ready for the exposure.

(The editor said they'd pay me $75 but I won't hold my breath. Newspapers are the next industry to go under.)

Farewell, Hollywood

2008-10-27T12:43:00.002-05:00

Sometimes we are given the opportunity to take a trip down Memory Lane. Or Nostalgia Lane, or What-Might-Have-Been Lane.

I took a walk recently down What-Might-Have-Been Lane.

A long time ago, long, long, long ago when platform shoes, hiphugger bell-bottoms, long straight hair and peace signs were in vogue for the first time, I did a TV series. I will not mention the name of the series because my sister also did a series and some enterprising person with lots of time on their hands has digitized the episodes and posted them on Youtube. Why anyone would want to see a 40-year-old educational film on nutrition -- really, really old, before the food pyramid -- is beyond me, but someone has taken the time to do it. I have no interest in having images of my teenage self being posted on Youtube. It was bad enough that a decade ago, some cash-starved TV station in LA ran my series during the day (cash-starved because it was cheap, of course none of us got residuals).

This period of my life I gave over to exploration of what I might want to do when I grow up, so I thought I'd give acting another shot.

Turns out, I knew someone who was planning a training video (an industrial film, in the lingo). She also has an acting background, and we'd talked about reviving, so she gave me a call. I went and got a new headshot (wow, what a contrast with my old headshot), pulled together an acting resume (nobody puts dates on their acting resumes. it's a good thing.) I auditioned. I got a speaking part.

A speaking part is pretty big in film-land. I was expecting to be cast as an extra. You know, those background/wallpaper people who sit around not doing much, not talking, and get paid a pittance (well, okay, in major films if you're on enough days I suppose you could make a living).

We shot for three days. At the end of those three days I'd had a chance to assess everyone's acting chops.

Most of the actors I met were professionals. They did it for a living. They'd had bit parts or been extras in movies, done commercials, done theater. Many of them did theater.

One guy had just turned professional, left a job as an economist dealing with international issues. He told me that Asian actresses were in high demand; Tyler Perry was especially interested in finding new Asian talent.

Some of them did theater, did other things on the side, had day jobs.

At the end of my first three days of shooting I came to some conclusions. Some of these professionals were really good. Very good. Excellent. I understood why they were professionals.

On the other hand, some of them were really bad. High school play bad. Like reading a book aloud badly bad. Cliched expression, cliched speaking, completely not believable way of speaking in conversation. If they had an American Idol for drama auditions, they wouldn't have got past the first round.

For the first time, I understood why 95% of all actors don't make any money. It's not because there are too many actors and not enough jobs. It's because they're lousy actors.

I thought the three days of shooting was it for me, then they rethought some scenes and had me come in for another half-day (I understood why that particular actor had been replaced in these scenes). We shot a half day to do two lines and walk down some stairs. Say your line, walk down the stairs. Say your line, walk down the stairs. Eighteen times. We had to stop for a little while because we were outside and a guy started blowing leaves on the next block. We had to stop for the garbage trucks. We had to stop for the ambulances and police cars. Say your line, walk down the stairs. The boom is shadowing us in our closeup. Say your line, walk down the stairs.

One guy in the scene, one of the top-notch professionals, had been acting for 20 years. He had to hurry to an audition for a commercial for auto insurance.

After we finally finished the shot, I came back to my office, contemplated the experience and concluded:

I can do still it. The money is decent (not seven figures, but I wouldn't starve). I am still good enough to act with good actors.

But I don't want to. I simply cannot get excited enough to rush off to do an audition for car insurance, no matter how much they're willing to pay, and commercials pay a lot. At the end of the day, I am not jazzed enough about acting to make me get up and rush joyfully to work to do some part on Tyler Perry's House of Payne.

One thing crossed off the list.

Dreck vs Dross

2008-10-07T17:01:00.002-05:00

As a parent who grew up in a certain era (bell bottoms, platform shoes, long lank hair, morphing into nylon shirts, big hair, and boomboomboom discomania), I noticed these influences creeping into current society.

Seriously. Last week I ran across a high-necked, sleeveless, A-line dress in DOUBLE-KNIT. Now I ask you, is that necessary? Is it really necessary to inflict the worst of certain decades onto impressionable young minds? Those clothes were ugly back then. I'm speaking of those geometric designs splashed across baby-doll tops that women of all ages insist on wearing, even though it makes each and every one of them look pregnant. Not a look to emulate.

I noticed also all the films are remakes or sequels of TV shows or cartoons from that era. Speed Racer. The Incredible Hulk. Batman and Robin. I hear they're planning to bring back the Partridge Family. AAAUGH!!! Even Lost is a takeoff of Danger Island, a live-action serial embedded in the Banana Splits, a kids show featuring large plush animals who played in a band.

In an effort to counteract this dreck, I decided to show my children movies and shows from that era. Mork and Mindy. WKRP in Cincinnati. MASH. Cosby Show. Nine To Five (which turned out to be a hit, mainly because chauvinistic male bosses apparently still abound). The Princess Bride. Of course all the Star Wars flicks.

Then I started thinking, well, what about the other stuff? You know, like Flashdance. It really defined an era, and had all of us swaddling up in fuzzy leggings. It's not really quality film, but is it dreck? How about dross?

My kids are tolerating my trip into nostalgia, but there are limits. Last weekend I watched Crybaby, the musical with Johnny Depp and Ricki Lake. My oldest daughter said, "This is ridiculous!" and walked out.

Okay, so strange musicals produced by weirdo artists (John Waters) would probably qualify as dreck.

Is that really any worse than say, the latest Hilary Duff movie?

That would be another D-word: dreadful.

WAAAAH! I miss it!

2008-09-15T22:38:00.002-05:00

I miss verbally burping onto the Web.

Why a verbal burp? It has presence in the virtual, no substance, and makes its presence known for the time you experience it.

Sort of like the memories of people you know in life.

The End

2008-08-21T15:12:00.003-05:00

I think this will be the end of the Cranky Chick.

Mainly because I have to get serious about my book, since my colleagues are out there broadcasting to the world that I'm working on it (which I have not been, at least not seriously).

This was just an excuse not to crack down and get to work, so now I will.

To the (very) few readers of this blog out there, thank you, and I will still check in on your blogs to see how you're doing.

And if something gets my cranky gene firing up again, who knows, maybe I'll start up again.

Never say never.

Bye!

Never Use "..." Ever Again

2008-07-31T14:02:00.003-05:00

I have just come back from watching Mamma Mia.

I was not interested in the theater production but I will go see Meryl Streep in anything.

In almost the first scene, I had one of those "AAAAUUUGGHHH!!!!" moments:

The daughter is reading from her mother's diary of 20 years ago. In it the mother describes the three men she met on an idyllic Greek island, and how she got carried away with emotion and ...

Yes! "..." is a euphemism for being overcome with emotion and ...

I think about all the times I ended my emails with ... or interspersed my sentences with ... and want to shriek (or at least go back and see how hysterical the meaning might be with that interpretation...).

I will NEVER, NEVER use ... ever again in any text, written or virtual.

Also, I am thanking my lucky stars that I decided long ago not to keep a diary, especially after reading accounts of famous people's historical diaries dug up and splashed all over the Internet. I didn't want anyone down the line to know how exciting or boring my life was.

Let me tell you, those diaries were really worth reading...

The Female Comb-Over

2008-07-24T23:04:00.000-05:00

I am an expert at comb-overs.

Comb-overs are usually associated with bald men who can't come to terms with the fact that they no hair on the top of their head and grow their side hair long, which they comb over their bald pates.

When I noticed the first gray in my hair I yanked it out. After a while there were too many to do this without risking bald spots.

I had to contemplate (gasp) coloring my hair. I don't know why the prospect bothered me so much. My younger sister has been doing it since her twenties. My youngest sister started years ago. And my mother, well, that's a given. At this point I am the only female in my family who doesn't color her hair.

Still I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I got some support from a hairdresser. She had beautiful dark hair. Then she had her first child and suddenly a patch of gray erupted right at the top of her head which she promptly colored burgundy.

I asked her professional advice about coloring my hair.

"DON'T DO IT," she advised. "If you start, then you always have to do it. The color has to be adjusted, the roots have to be touched up, you're a slave to the colorist."

"But you did it," I pointed out.

"I had to," she said, "the white came out right on top. But yours is UNDERNEATH, you can COMB OVER it!"

And so my comb-over was born. It's served me well for many years, but I think it has been overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of my scalp for white hair. There is no longer any point at which I can part my hair to have enough brown to cover the white. I have to cave to the inevitable.

So, time for a trip to the Hair Color Wall at the drug store, which is adjacent to the Wrinkle Wall.

I am a complete novice and terrified I will somehow end up with orange hair.

Anyone got any advice? I need all the help I can get.

CIT: College-In-Training

2008-07-12T09:11:00.006-05:00

We are in Chicago, the older daughter and I, to get her to her summer college writing class.

Chicago is a lovely city in the summer. Chicago is a nice city anyway, big, clean (in the tourist-encouraged spots), full of friendly, polite people. It's sort of like New York on good behavior. New York doesn't have to behave, and it doesn't.

We are staying at a Kimpton, a "boutique" hotel. Kimptons are targeted toward women, and IMHO, overdecorated. That means that every surface is covered with a different color and pattern, down to the pillows. This particular one, the Hotel Monaco, is pet-friendly, so much so that if you miss your pet they will provide a complimentary pet goldfish in your room during your stay. It's also nice seeing dogs going out for their walks.

The other civilized thing about the place is the wine reception every evening.

I love the Museum of Contemporary Art. Especially Puck's cafe. It is the best deal going. We had an amazing lunch, especially the dessert.

It was a half a hollow chocolate egg, the size of a large lemon, filled with coconut foam. Underneath was a yellow citrus cream and milk chocolate. I'm going to ask my daughter to post the photo on her blog. I wish, though, that we had a video of us eating it. After each spoonful we licked the spoon clean, then dove in again.

The summer class seems like college in training to me. Intro to Dorm Life. Getting a roommate. Institutional food. And 9AM class.

It will be a source of good posts for a good many weeks.

Are You a Geek Mom?

2008-07-08T15:02:00.004-05:00

I was scheduling annual physicals for the offspring.

I pulled the pediatrician's phone number from my memory bank and started dialing, then wondered, are all moms like this? Do they all memorize phone numbers important to their children's health and well-being so they can pull them out at the drop of a hat?

I remember the pediatrician's old number, and of course the new number. I remember the dentist's number even though that's officially the Daddy's domain (that's how we split up healthcare delivery duties).

On the other hand, I don't remember the number of my physician. Or my dentist.

What does that say about me?

Computer Keyboard is the New Necktie

2008-07-08T13:20:00.003-05:00

Apparently guys have been using something new to catch the drips, drops, blobs, plops, crumbs and crumbles that fall off food they're eating.

Their computer keyboard.

Used to be, a guy could rely on his necktie to catch the bulk of his lunch as it fell in pieces from his mouth. There even used to be a commercial where a guy in a restaurant gave his order to a waiter pointing to various stains on his necktie, "How about I start off with a little of this, followed by that, oh, and a lovely this to accompany the meal."

Now people eat at their desks. And with that, comes the inevitable crumbs and spills that coat the keyboard. So the keyboard has become the catchall.

BusinessWeek reports that a major source on tech support calls are about problems caused by food on, or in, computer equipment. One guy said the scariest thing he ever saw was a sandwich in a computer tower. With a bite taken out.

What, you take a bite of your sandwich, are too lazy to walk to the fridge to stash it, then forget it when you have a meeting?

On one hand, this is a move forward for equality, since only guys wore neckties (those little cravats women wore in the 1980's trying to dress like men don't out, they weren't long enough to catch anything). Now everyone can benefit from the keyboard as napkin. We all have general crud, or crud particulates, sprinkled all over the keyboard.

Are you sitting at your computer right now? Of course you are. Take a good look at your keyboard. Is it completely disgustingly covered with crumbs of unknown origin? Worse, can you detect the original source of the crumbs, i.e., animal, vegetable, or mineral?

Do everyone a favor and clean your keyboard. Then go out and get lunch. Don't bring it back to your office.

Pharma Ads, or, Pop a Pill for a Hangnail, Enjoy the 100 Side Effects

2008-07-05T16:48:00.003-05:00

I'm always amazed by the ads for drugs on TV. (BTW, should they be pushing drugs on TV?)

These are the oddest ads around. Whenever some ad starts that I don't know the point of, I assume it's for some drug.

There's the ad that shows the wandering adventures of a colorful butterfly. You don't know what variety of butterfly flies around in the dark, and then it flies into a darkened bedroom and you wonder if it's an ad for some kind of voyeur or ED website, but it's about a sleeping pill.

The ED ads are in your face about what they're for, but also for mentioning the potential side effects. I don't know about you, but if I were a guy, the warning about going to the hospital if I were "alert" more than 4 hours would be a turnoff. As a woman, there's nothing I want to stay "alert" for 4 hours.

I saw an ad recently where the side effects were scarier than the problem itself. Potential side effects included cancer, heart disease, stroke, and significantly increased risk of death.

What was the problem? It wasn't on the order of a hangnail, but it wasn't cancer or stroke, either. What could possibly be worth the risk of these things?

Recent data says that half the US population is on chronic medication. I don't mean self-medication with chocolate, either. Half of all Americans are popping pills for some condition. Is there any condition for which there isn't a pill that the pharmaceutical industry will happily supply?

A little bummed out today? Pop a pill, you might be depressed. Feeling a little chubby after over-indulging over the holiday? Pop a pill to block fat absorption. Tired because you partied like a demon? Pop a pill, be awake.

Stop. Go out and take a walk. Go to bed a little early. Don't watch TV beforehand.

All this pill-popping is doing nothing but fattening the bottom lines of Big Pharma. Not to mention all the undisgested pills and excreted by-products that are polluting the planet.

When Nancy Reagan launched the Just Say No campaign, I'm sure she didn't have Big Pharma in mind. But they've certainly earned the right to be designated as Pushers. We need a new public awareness campaign.

Just Say No to Pharma.

Hats Off to SAHMs!!! (The Laundry Story)

2008-07-03T15:11:00.004-05:00

This is a tribute to Stay At Home Moms everywhere.

I had no idea what you guys went through on a daily basis. Until my nanny went to visit her family for a month.

We, by a stroke of great fortune, have had a wonderful family nanny for many years. I say a family nanny because from the beginning she saw that we were completely incompetent when it came to running a household and took over several functions, including the laundry and tidying up. (Yes, I know, we're ridiculously spoiled.)

I always thought she went a little overboard. Why did she need to do laundry every day? Geez, we didn't generate THAT much laundry, there were only four of us, right?

And then she went away and the blinders fell off my eyes. Or rather, a heap of laundry attacked me.

I noticed the heap of laundry in the corner was getting bigger and thought I'd better do something. I walked by it, thinking I'd do it at night, when I noticed it seemed to shift slightly. Looked at it again. It wiggled. Scary sight.

I grabbed the hamper and put it all in the laundry room. I asked my husband to get the hampers from the offsprings' rooms. (He attempted to do so, promptly rupturing a disc, and has been at the mercy of the acupuncturist since.)

Later that night I peeked into the laundry room. There was the pile leering ominously at me. Did I say leering? I meant leaning, but it felt like leering, like "MUHAHAHA!!! Come in if you dare!!" There should have been a sign, "Dante's Inferno" over the door.

I stepped into the room and the pile toppled onto me, smothering me in dirty towels, sheets, PJs, and lastly and most horrifyingly, my husband's undies and socks. I swear I could hear sinister laughter from the pile.

I grabbed as much of it as I could and stuffed it into the washing machine, setting the dials at whatever.

This led me to an important discovery. There is a conspiracy by the laundry detergent manufacturers of America to get you to use cold water in your wash. This is to make you buy fancy cold water detergent, stain removers, soakers, bleach pens, etc., etc., etc. DON'T BUY IT. Literally. Use HOT water and the cheapest Tide detergent. It gets out all stains. (I used to wonder how my nanny got out strawberry stains from white Onesies and adorable smocks. Now I know.)

I loaded the washer. Unloaded the washer, put wet wash into the dryer. Loaded the washer. Unloaded the dryer, put wet wash into dryer. I did this oh, maybe ten thousand times in one evening. I really understood what Prometheus faced when he was trying to roll that boulder up the hill for all eternity.

This led me to a new discovery. Laundry multiples. By itself. You leave it in a corner, it ferments and pop! out comes new dirty laundry. The pile of dirty laundry in the laundry room never went away.

Now I know why our nanny did laundry every day, to keep the multiplying pile in the laundry room from getting so large it smothers you. It could be a horror movie, or a tagline in Odd News at Yahoo! News: Smothered by Laundry.

Anyway, by the end of the month, I finally saw the floor of the laundry room. Just in time for our nanny to come back.

She said, you look tired. I wanted to say, Sob, yes, I did the laundry.

I know, the world's tiniest violin is playing just for me.

I learned something very important. Running a house is a full-time job. What with laundry multiplication (wonder if I can use that in homework help), dust bunny mating and reproduction (do NOT let your children see this, they might mention it to someone and you'll be arrested for exposing your child to indecency), and the confused dishwasher that thinks it's an oven -- bakes, doesn't wash -- at the end of the day, I was exhausted.

So SAHMs, hats off to you.

And a piece of advice. Think of Forced Child Labor. I indulged with gusto.

The Incredibles

2008-06-23T14:44:00.003-05:00

The kids are watching The Incredibles. The short, dark-haired, crabby Mom is yelling at the big, hulking, sheepish Dad.

"Boy, she sure is cranky," I say.

Oldest daughter turns to me.

"My friend thinks the Incredibles were based on our family."

Hubby speaks up, "Yeah, someone in my office told me that I'm like Mr. Incredible."

Hmm.

I watch the Mom character -- acted by an uber-crabby Holly Hunter.

She's short (check). Dark-haired (check). Southern accent (well, sometimes). Incredibly bossy and cranky personality who barks orders and runs the household (..........).

I consider the Dad. Big (check). Disappearing hair (check). Trying to control his waistline (which is under the impression that he is aiming for the Hulk, check).

Oldest child does keep things to herself (a relief, since most of those thoughts are of how lame people/things are).

"What?!" says younger daughter. "That means my character has a sex change. I have to be a boy?! EWWWW!!!" Yes, she's quite like the younger character.

"Wait," I say, "there's a third child, a baby."

"NO," comes back in unison. "NO BABY."

Is this true? Are we like the Incredibles? The oldest daughter's friend also believes that things happen around our family that are not unlike a fantasy movie.

But what I really mean is, am I really that crabby? After all, Lucy Van Pelt is my heroine.

Fortunately, this is a rhetorical question and I have the sense not to pose it to my family. Doesn't matter though. I can see the answer written all over their faces.

The Far-Flung Family, Cont'd

2008-06-19T20:38:00.003-05:00

In my last post, I posited that the reason for humans' tendency to wander all over creation isn't because they're curious or looking for a new world. It's to get away from their Annoying Relatives.

I made a stab at this early in life -- I went far away to college, only to return to the family compound (and I mean that in the insane asylum sense) as a matter of guilt for trying to get away. My family got revenge though: they moved away from me.

So how do you cope with families who come after you with all the resources of technology when you're trying so hard to maintain distance?

You distract them! Ideally you distract them with cuddly little creatures that need doting. I'm convinced my sister paid off our neighbor to give us a kitten she "found" so I would stop asking her how her life was going. (So I was asking her twice a day, big deal.)

I know my daughter is trying to figure this out as she prepares to go off to college next year.

(I tried separation from my kids once. A couple of years ago my kids went off to sleepaway camp for the first time ever. They were gone for one week starting Monday. I was a blubbering mess. And then it was Tuesday.)

I'm not a helicopter parent but I might contact her frequently (all those rollover minutes!) to ask her how she was doing, how her classes went, what she ate for breakfast, did she take her vitamin and did she need any fabric softener sheets in her next package.

She can try to head me off with preprogrammed bright, happy notes about how wonderful things were: HI MOM!!! I'M HAVING SUCH A GREAT TIME!!! TONIGHT A BUNCH OF US ARE GOING OUT TO AN ICE CREAM SOCIAL!!!

I would know right away that this was not her and she had been replaced by a Stepford College Student because her usual communication is "Grunt."

But I see her thinking about this, and plotting things with her Incredibly Irresponsible Aunt Who Encourages This Kind of Behavior, as she makes plans to go out into the world Sans Parents.

To cope with this loss, I am practicing Doting on our cats, who look alarmed as I descend upon them, cooing.

I'm pretty sure that one day soon, a "stray" dog will wind up on our doorstep, bedraggled, pathetic and adorable, while she shouts out, "Bye Mom! I'm off to college now!" and runs out the door.

Distraction Tactics 101.

The Far-Flung Family

2008-06-17T16:06:00.002-05:00

Americans have always moved around. The pioneers headed west with all their belongings tied up in a wagon, rifle slung over one shoulder. We learned about their movements, all the places they went -- Cumberland Gap, the Ohio Valley, crossing the Mississippi River in winter across the ice, crossing the Rockies, braving Death Valley, racing to find gold.

Why did they do this? Was it the pioneering spirit? The drive to seek out a New World? The desire to make their fortune?

No.

All these people took off for one reason and one reason only: TO GET AWAY FROM THEIR FAMILIES!!!

Because there is nothing so aggravating as families and their doings, and all reasonable people wanted to get away from them as far away as possible, to the ends of the continent, where their flight was stopped by the ocean.

Then and only then were they safe from their families and news of their doings, because mail was slow and apt to get lost or waylaid by highwaymen.

But now, through the miracle of modern technology aggravating family members can persecute their absconding brethren. We have phones. We have email. We have Youtube!!!

Yes, there is no way to escape learning about your 80-year-old Uncle Norman's hernia operation, your Aunt Tillie's fifth marriage, your cousin John's commitment to the latest cult, your sister Sarah's journey being a groupie of the Beatles impersonators.

Even if you think you have escaped, someone will hunt you down with their grievances, their tiffs, their latest grocery bill and how expensive eggs are now.

How can you avoid this?

Strategies to maintain good relations and your sanity next.

The Wedding Reception, or When the In-Laws Realize Just What Kind of Family They Married Into

2008-06-10T19:33:00.003-05:00

My cousin (the clueless one) got married on last Saturday.

As always, I kept my fingers crossed that the ceremony would be over, and the wedding well on its way before the new in-laws discovered what a pack of zoo animals their daughter had married into.

My side of the family is not quiet. I used to think all Korean families were like this but discovered, no, it's just mine.

At the last wedding, the reception had got off to a lovely start. The bride's family was greeting their friends, eating, talking quietly.

Then the music came on and my family erupted. The bride's family and friends sat aghast while they watched my family morph into a writhing, wriggling conga line around the tables, arms punching the air, kicking their legs and screaming with laughter. The bride had a fractured smile on her face as she watched her future father-in-law (my uncle) dancing around.

Fortunately, somebody must have given her the right Kool-Aid right away because she's still part of the family.

At this latest wedding, the wedding ceremony was over and the bridal party was taking photos of the traditional Korean ceremony.

The new in-laws, a beautiful mother and dignified father, severely jetlagged from their flight, were sitting quietly in traditional Korean dress.

Korean folk music came on. My mother stood up. I bit my lip. She looked across the room at her sister and sister-in-law, both in traditional dress, and shouted, "One of you should do a traditional Korean dance!" She started swaying, moving her arms up and down.

She's dancing in her dark blue St. John knit outfit. My aunts just look at her and say nothing. I look at the in-laws, praying, "Please, don't let them run away and take their daughter with them, leaving our cousin on our hands!" Either they're too jetlagged to be taken by surprise or they're too polite to notice the antics of this crazy Americanized family or they think all Americanized Koreans act like this.

The music stops. My mother sits down. I breathe a sigh of relief. "Just let it end before she has a chance to discover what we're really like!"

As we're leaving, I call out to my new cousin-in-law, unable to hold it in any longer, "THANK YOU for marrying him!!!"

My cousin, finally getting a clue, says, "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

We hustle out. Another male relative safely palmed off.

The Bikini Year

2008-06-05T22:45:00.000-05:00

My goal for this year is to get fit enough to wear a two-piece bathing suit, something I have not been able to do for, oh, 17 years.

What a coincidence, that's when I got pregnant! Silly me!

Why am I going for this? I don't know. Maybe it's a mid-life (or mid-section) crisis. I'm tired of wearing bathing suits from the "matronly" section. I miss seeing my belly button. Mostly, I'm tired of tugging off a wet one-piece whenever I have to use the bathroom when I've been swimming.

Which brings me to a reality check: I don't swim much, and when I do, I use a skinsuit, one of those things you use for scuba diving. Why? Because I get cold easily.

This desire to show off the belly button has also afflicted my daughters, both of whom are auditioning two-piece suits.

What none of us want to see is our middles jiggling. But cute teenage tummies jiggling is not as objectionable as middle-age spread jiggling.

There is a guy in our neighborhood who jogs without a shirt. Every time my daughter sees him she says, "People should wear clothes!"

I don't want to trigger a similar reaction, as in: "Middle-aged women should wear one-piece suits!"

Don't worry, I won't post any photos.

Cluelessness Without (Cultural) Borders

2008-05-28T20:31:00.002-05:00

If there is one thing that I can be sure of, it's that all over the world men are men and women are women.

By this I mean that some gender differences are genetic; tied, sadly, to that short shrimpy Y chromosome that men have instead of the robust, full-size X that women enjoy. Women have a pair of these robust X's, while men have to deal with the single robust X towering over the Y. I know what these look like because I took a cytogenetics course in graduate school -- basically, what chromosomes look like in all their varied splendor.

Why am I bringing this up?

Because I had one of those male-female difference experiences this past week.

A cousin is getting married. (Thank God! I rejoice whenever we palm off a male relative on some poor unsuspecting girl, shouting, "YAY!! Somebody's marrying him!!").

He and his beloved are moving into a new townhouse. My mother calls and asks if I have any extra furniture lying around because my aunt says they have nothing. I immediately round up a five-piece bedroom set from a neighbor's garage sale and force my husband to transport all five massive pieces for temporary storage to our garage.

I call up my cousin:

"Hey, I heard you needed furniture. I have a bedroom set with a queen size bed, big dresser with mirror, armoire, and two nightstands."

"Oh, no, we just need a sofa," he replies blithely.

"Wait, my mother said you had nothing and needed everything!" I say.

"No, no, we just need a sofa for the living room."

The hubby, overhearing this conversation, immediately sets his eye-lasers to Smokin' and sets out to pierce as many holes in my body as possible ("I wanna see a thousand points of light!!" he's shrieking in his mind).

I am panicked. I may be stuck with a maniacally ticked-off husband AND a massive bedroom set.

I call my aunt. Maybe she needs some furniture, or my other cousin can use it, or she needs some wood to burn for the coming winter.

"Hi, I thought you told my mother Jimbo* (*names have been changed to protect the clueless) needed some furniture," I say.

"He does, they have nothing!" she replies in a mixture of Korean and English.

"I just talked to him and he says all they need is a sofa," I claim.

"Oh, that boy!" she laments, in full Korean-mother mode (this is similar to every Asian mother mode, and to Jewish and Italian mother mode.) "He knows NOTHING! You have to talk to his fiancee! She knows! He knows nothing!"

In other words, he is exhibiting, in all its glory, his completely male cluelessness. That endearing quality that extends across cultures to affllict all men.

I call his fiancee. She says, yes, they do need furniture and would be delighted with whatever we have to offer.

We drive the stuff to their townhouse. The hubby and cousin unload while I take a tour of their very nice place.

(AND? WELL? WELL? IS THERE FURNITURE OR NOT?!)

In a four-story home they have a small dining set, a bed, a futon, a desk, a TV/stereo stand, and an assortment of side tables.

So yes, technically they do have furniture. However, they can only sit in their dining area because they have no other chairs in the entire house. There is no clothing storage except in the closets (and I'm sorry, but however long I've been married, I don't want to see the hubby's undies hanging from my padded satin hangers and I'm sure my future cousin-in-law won't either).

They finish unloading. I look at my cousin. He is smiling benignly. Completely clueless.

I look at his fiancee. She is beaming. She's thrilled there will be someplace to stash the undies.

Cluelessness. The one commonality that transcends cultures and nations.

Boob Arranging, Cont'd

2008-05-19T22:42:00.006-05:00

Boobs, the ultimate fashion accessory.

Newsweek magazine had an article last week called Building the Perfect Bra. A perfect bra will arrange and present your assets without making its presence noticeable. In other words, the girls naturally stand up, look forward, and proclaim their presence with no support whatsoever. (There's also reference to the 100 Ways Bra, which has been discussed previously.)

Women know this isn't true. The many ways to arrange the girls require significant infrastructure. Some women need the kind of engineering support that would put a civil engineer through his/her paces. Others can keep things under control with little more than a stiff command.

I am fascinated with the fascination with boobs. Not all cultures have this. And even in this culture, boobs weren't always in style. In the Roaring Twenties of the last century, women made sure the girls made their presence scarce. In the movie Notting Hill, Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant discuss the male fascination with female boobs. He inspects them to make sure they really are as fascinating as he thought.

The fascination starts at an early age. A young friend of my daughter's suddenly seemed to sprout C cups. Apparently she has bra-stuffing down to a science, including the proper way to fold tissues so the girls look "natural."

The French seem to be able to take them or leave them. The beaches are topless, and no one seems to bat an eye whether the girls are spectacular or withered.

Boobs have their uses, the primary ones being milk delivery devices, which they do quite well. (Except for the spraying out of multiple openings part. One father I knew made sure he was all the way across the room before his wife started breastfeeding to avoid being hit in the eye by spray, and even then he sometimes got wet.)

Another use is to protect your face from bumping into things, although some of us have lesser bumpers than others.

My primary requirement for a bra is that it keeps everything soothed and smooth, that nothing is perking up with pointers anywhere. I understand that some women use protheses to give their girls pointers.

The appeal of boobs is here to stay. And the work to keep them appealing in hundreds of ways will keep the industry going for another hundred years.

Otto Titslinger, the bra inventor, would be proud.

Women's Blogs, Men's Blogs

2008-05-19T16:41:00.000-05:00

There is apparently a gender difference in what men and women blog about.

Women blog about their personal lives. Men blog about technology, politics, and money. This is the finding of a study, Effects of Age and Gender on Blogging .

Does this surprise anyone? Anyone who knows men and women, for example?

In the way that women may have used journals to express their thoughts and feelings, they are now using blogs to share thoughts and feelings. And opinions, of course, because women weren't always encouraged to express their opinions, or have them at all.

Men, on the other hand, were used to thinking and talking about their interests, and blogs are a natural outgrowth of that.

Blogs are also used to provide information and it turns out that some information is more highly sought after than others.

What does this mean for the blogosphere?

Those who are using the blogging world and Internet in general to link with others with similar interests, find a community of friends, probably don't care.

For instance, Absolute Write, a writers forum, hosts thousands (dare I say millions) of readers interested in writing, and on which my daughter, the Sopha Loaf, spends hours interacting with people she has never met and probably never will. Still, she considers them friends.

Is it so important that we catalogue gender differences in everything? How does this information help us, except perhaps the marketers who are trying to exploit every piece of social networking data possible to sell us products we don't need or want?

Not the usual Cranky Missive.

The Zillion Calorie Diet (Thanks, TGIF; Don't Mention It)

2008-05-09T12:56:00.004-05:00

Mike Phelps, the six-time Olympic gold medalist in swimming, eats 8,000-10,000 calories a day when training.

So, what's your excuse?

My excuse is that the restaurant industry is colluding to trap me into eating the most calories possible at one time by piling fat and calories into one eensy-weensy portion of fries: Outback Steakhouse takes the prize with 2,900 calories stuffed into its Aussie Cheese Fries.

This article in Men's Health magazine is guaranteed to scare the pants off your patootie and possibly keep you from opening your mouth in any restaurant ever again in case the chef comes out and pours goose fat down your throat. For the record, that's what some top restaurants poach fish in. Healthy, low-fat, low-calorie fish, poached in a gallon of goose fat. No wonder it tastes so good and you can't duplicate the taste at home.

The link goes on to tell you what you should avoid eating altogether when you dine out.

Even salad isn't exempt, since there's so much meat (fried chicken Caesar salad), fatty dressing (300 extra calories per 2 tablespoons), cheese, and croutons. Your basic restaurant chicken Caesar salad is packing more fat and calories than a Big Mac.

The best thing to do is to cook at home, so you can control what goes in, and see how it's prepared (instead of Top Chef, they should have Restaurant Horror Stories as a reality show).

But you can't cook at home all the time ("I don't wanna...").

So, despite all the information out there about fat and calorie laden food, at the end of the day you cave and order two large pizzas -- sausage and mushroom and sausage and black olive.

Yep. They were delicious.

Pet Rhino Speaks: Grumble, Grumble, Snort

2008-05-06T14:21:00.004-05:00

Our Pet Rhino would like to file a formal complaint with the operator of this blog.

"What is this, pick on me week?" he grumbled, reading through the latest posts.

Well, I say go for where you get the best material.

There are, of course, the offspring, but since one plans to be a novelist, I have no desire to wind up as the evil mother character in any of her future works, which would prompt endless enquiries from future audiences, "Were you really that disturbed?"

The younger offspring has another 5 years left before she leaves the nest, so I'd like to keep that period potentially stress-free.

There is, of course, our wonderful nanny, who has been with us for many years and is like a member of the family, like a grandmother living with us. The downside is, it's like having a grandmother living with us -- she puts everything away in a safe place, dangerous things like scissors and staplers. I believe we have hidden within the confines of our house, something like fifty scissors and twenty staplers. Whoever moves into the house after us is going to wonder about us, just like we wonder about the previous tenants who wallpapered the garage with the sides of a wading pool.

And of course, there's moi, but I seriously can't think of anything to complain about, except the parts of the body that want to enlarge but shouldn't, the parts that should enlarge but won't, and the parts that should stay still and keep quiet but insist on partying at the top of its...that's more information than you need.

So the Pet Rhino is the designated subject of the week, especially since we are coming up on 25 years of marriage (AIEEE!!! Twenty-five years of bickering!!)

Bread Stabs Man: Believe It or Not!

2008-05-02T14:55:00.004-05:00

This is a true story.

I noticed that the hubby has a gash on his foot, specifically, on one of the toes.

"Honey, what happen to your foot? That's a pretty nasty gash," I say.

"The french bread fell off the counter and stabbed me," he replies.

"What?" I ask.

"I was breaking off a piece of the baguette, a big piece fell off and the sharp edge of the crust stabbed my foot. I couldn't believe it, it was so painful," he says.

I look at him carefully. He does not have pinpoint pupils indicating he's on drugs. He doesn't look like he's hallucinating, having visions, about to shout out, "Look! It's Elvis!"

I modulate my voice carefully so it's not sarcastic, or likely to instigate a psychotic break.

"Are you telling me that you got a half-inch gash on your toe from a piece of bread?"

"Yes! I couldn't believe it!! The crust was really hard and sharp! It really hurt and bled a lot!" he maintains.

Do I believe him? Is this possible in the realm of reality we inhabit?

(After all, this is a man who drove to a restaurant for lunch, walked back to his office, went out to his normal parking space at the end of the day, and, seeing it empty, called the cops to report his car stolen. The cops called at 6AM the next day and invited him to go over his schedule the previous day. When he got to the part about the restaurant, they stopped him and said, "and that's where we found your car, sir.")

If we are to believe this man, who is truthful for the most part but sometimes has revisionist (i.e., bad) memory, we must believe that bread, that staff of life, can be wielded as a weapon. (Can a CSI episode in which bread crumbs are found in the slashed throat of a victim be far behind?)

In the meantime, I'm opting for that sponge we call Wonder bread.

Environmentally Correct But Smelly

2008-04-29T15:33:00.002-05:00

I'm a Recycle Nazi. I recycle everything: paper, cans, glass, plastic. Even the tiniest pieces of paper, like price tags, get recycled. I ask for paper bags at the grocery store -- handy for holding newspapers, magazines, and all that junk mail that won't stop coming no matter what we do. The hubby and I both drive Priuses.

So when I saw the environmentally friendly cleaners, dishwashing liquid, and laundry detergent, I bought them. (I couldn't bring myself to buy the recycled toilet paper. "Recycled" and "toilet paper" shouldn't be next to each other, don't you think?) I also bought those dryer balls that supposedly replace Bounce sheets.

The dishwashing liquid was okay. It was just like any other dishwashing liquid.

The laundry detergent was another story.

I took the clean laundry out of the dryer and inhaled for that sweet, clean laundry smell and GAAKK!!! choked.

The T-shirt still smelled like the hubby (aka Our Pet Rhino).

Hmm. The goal of washing clothes is to get out those idiosyncratic smells and have the clothing take on the uniformity of (artificially scented) fresh springtime breezes.

I took a whiff of the offspring's "clean" clothes and my eyes started to water: 7th grade gym class, oy.

The clothes looked kinda dirty, too, like they had swished around in dirty water for a few hours, and didn't get rinsed.

I was sure it was clean -- after all, it was labeled detergent. I let it pass.

A few days later, the hubby dropped a huge pile of "clean" laundry in my lap and said:

"Look, I have to wear these to work! People are walking in a wide circle around me. I want to walk in a wide circle around me. Face reality! This stuff can't handle my stink!!! Get some REAL detergent and some Bounce!!!"

I caved. The world shouldn't have to deal with Eau de Rhino in an office environment.

Back to Tide and Arm and Hammer dryer sheets.

A Cranky Colleague!

2008-04-24T15:59:00.003-05:00

Yay!!! A cranky compatriot! We are not alone in the Cranky World!

Cranky Fitness is a fellow Cranky! Hurray!!!

Bra Buzz: The 100 Ways Bra Revisited

2008-04-24T12:49:00.005-05:00

I have officially been Buzzed. Apparently some woman has sued Victoria's Secret for copying her design for a bra that can be worn numerous ways.

I blogged about this last year 100 Ways Bra and it has landed on buzzfeed.com which I find hysterical.

Most of the links on this site are actually about the lawsuit -- the bra, a discussion of the design, technical, and technological differences between the two bras, the story about the woman who's bringing the suit.

Me, I was just interested in how to arrange my breasts 100 different ways, because one of those ways might be an improvement on the way they're arranged now. Alas, that wasn't the objective of the bra (I was going to say point, but it was too painful). The bra's 100 Ways claim is focused on how to wear it under different types of clothing so no part of the bra shows, if for example, you're wearing a halter top.

I was disappointed because I thought this might set off a great new trend and fashion craze for displaying your assets. Think of all the great ways you could showcase those babies, especially if they're a little hard to spot in their current configuration. This challenge faces many women after childbearing and nursing.

A bra option is especially important if you are not a surgery advocate. (My motto is, surgery should be a life-saving option, nothing else.) I'm not interested in having certain parts of me look perky way after everything else has given up. (Also, I hear that while breast implants come in handy as bumpers, sometimes they get ornery and decide to settle in one place or another, or refuse to associate with each other, or get very firm in their desire not to move around.)

I don't know anything about the lawsuit (and hope never to know much about any lawsuit). Good luck to all parties involved.

If, however, they're planning on say, giving demonstrations, posting video on Youtube, then I might be interested.

Our Pet Rhino

2008-04-22T21:42:00.001-05:00

We have a darling pet rhino. Surprised? Don't be. You might also have a pet rhino.

Our pet rhino is uncontrollable in terms of curbing when on a walk. If he takes it into his mind to go off in a certain direction, we're all off in that direction.

We're in a store, a hotel, somewhere public, and our pet rhino decides he's not happy with something and suddenly veers off toward a desk or customer service kiosk to lodge a complaint. So much for making it to the restaurant on time.

We're in a mall and have to purchase specific things. The pet rhino beelines to the nearest Barnes & Noble or Apple store.

"Where are you going?" we shriek. "Grunt," he replies.

Do you recognize this pattern? Does it seem familiar? Can you visualize a loved one in this scenario?

Look closely at the hubby when you're out. Scrutinize your dad's wandering tendencies. Does he plow through crowds, push aside the masses, head lowered, shoulders hulking, feet stomping, grunting and growling at obstacles in his way?

Welcome to the Pet Rhino (Support) Club.

Whining: The Universal Language

2008-04-09T21:17:00.002-05:00

There is a universal language that everyone indulges in. Even animal species.

I'm talking about whining.

You can be anywhere, hearing any language, and once you hear that special nasal, sliding tone, you know what's being said.

"I don't waaaanna."

"Sto-op it."

"Why no-ot?"

"It's not fay-er."

When I hear a family speaking another language, and I hear the kids' wheedling, whining tones, I smile sympathetically at the parents. I know what they're going through.

You can even interpret what animals are saying.

Dogs and cats for example.

Dogs who sit by the door, looking up at you beseechingly, with their melting eyes, whining softly. Translation: "I wanna go out. You never let me out. All the other dogs are outside."

Cats who come in at 4AM, whining, "Mreo-ow." Over and over. Translation: "I wanna go out. It's not fay-er. You never let me do what I want."

You don't need the Dog Whisperer. (Notice how no one claims to be able to "understand" cats? HA!)

Whining: the universal language that unites us all, across cultures, races, ethnicities, national origins, and even species.

Chicago: Nirvana Cloaked in Snow and Sleet

2008-04-01T12:24:00.003-05:00

On with the vacation diary.

Note: This isn't quite as bad as the slideshows we used to have to to sit through, for those old enough to remember slides. For those who don't, it was sort of a PowerPoint presentation, except that the "slides" were made out of actual pieces of film framed by paper, which would sit in a "carousel" -- a round wheel with slits at the top to hold the "slides," which dropped through to a lighted projector. The slides always got stuck or fell in sideways. No, I am not making this up. Ask your grandparents to see their slide projector, or visit the Smithsonian.

Fortunately, after we left the Empty World of Cleveland, we headed to Chicago, a REAL CITY.

BTW, Indiana countryside was quite pretty, with rolling hills and dips and sways in the land.

As you can tell by this, we were driving. My motto is, no more flying unless a continent or ocean is involved, or it's a life-threatening situation. Between the airlines that lie to you constantly about the state of your flight (and plane, for that matter), and the TSA run by power-hungry fascists just looking for a reason to pull you aside for "special treatment" I will keep my feet on the ground, thank you.

Anyway, Chicago.

What a great city. Friendly people, great food, stunning architecture, maniacal drivers, the rhythm of the El, and freezing, wet weather. Everything a great city should be, and more.

We went to museums and saw exhibits that took our collective breath away. We ate at fabulous restaurants. Even the restaurant in the museum was great (Museum of Contemporary Art, a must-see). The older daughter fell in love with the university of her choice (the purpose of the trip). The hubby fell in love with the university too, wishing he worked there. I fell in love with the lake.

I'd absolutely go back there and stay for months. Maybe when, you know, the oldest offspring goes there for (ahem!) college. (Do I hear distant shrieking from the psyche of the oldest offspring? Stop reading this at school!!!)

I was thrilled for her, actually, having found a place she wanted, peers she wanted to be among, a place where she felt she belonged, a place to start her own, independent life adventures. And thrilled, too, that she had picked such a wonderful place to do it. She clearly has fabulous taste.

(Thank you, I'm taking my bows in private.)

Vacation Sagas Continued: Alien Scapes

2008-03-31T21:20:00.003-05:00

We went on our annual spring quest to collect strange vacation experiences and vignettes to our burgeoning collection.

As vacationers we have endured all kinds of strange and kooky situations, especially involving animals (birds in distress are a specialty). The Paris restaurant that took orders for different food and brought out nothing but spaghetti and acted puzzled when we pointed it out (we speak French). The car that burst into flames right next to us on I-95. The pony who exhibited his extreme maleness on Chincoteague (I mean really! What did he expect us to do about it?)

But nothing prepared us for Cleveland.

We arrived in the evening. It was kind of quiet, especially for a Saturday night. But we chalked it up to the holiday weekend.

The next morning we headed off to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. On foot, so we could enjoy the sights of the city. And walked into the Great Quiet Void.

There were no people on the streets. There was one car on the road. No cars were parked on the streets. We walked for blocks, seeing no signs of life. No stores or restaurants were open.

The kids were spooked, being used to cities that were, well, cities, with life, action, traffic, noise.

Finally, on the plaza for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, there were a few straggling tourists, like us.

It was one of the most bizarre experiences we've had on any vacation.

My question to the Ones In Charge: WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, PUTTING THE ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME IN A GHOST TOWN?! WHOSE IDEA WAS THAT?!

To Cleveland Powers That Be: I understand wanting to put an attraction to bring tourists into town, but once they're there, they want to be able to go out on the town and enjoy themselves and maybe get something to eat besides Fritos from the hotel vending machine!

A city means life, action, scary traffic, panhandlers, restaurants that are open on Sunday night, and a wine shop that has wine tastings!

Want to visit an alien planet on your next vacation? Go to Cleveland.

How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth

2008-03-28T17:35:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, the way you are viewed by others becomes crystallized in a single moment. It always comes completely unexpected, catching you in the gut and you're frozen, not knowing what to do.

Such an event happened this week.

We were visiting a museum, and decided to have lunch. The hubby went off to get a table while I and the offspring finished up our viewing of masterpieces (okay, we went to the gift shop).

We entered the restaurant and made our way to the table, which was next to a table with a rather boisterous trio of youngish hipsters. One of the guys, being, apparently, a heterosexual red-blooded male, did what all such types do to women who aren't obvious grandmothers, grade school students, or candidates for a Rosie O'Donnell look-alike contest: he checked me out.

Mid-way through our lunch, they left, whereupon the guy took the opportunity to check me out again.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the hubby said, "Thank God they left! They were the most annoying group to be seated next to."

"They were kind of loud," I agreed.

"And before you sat down, they were talking the most awful trash. It was disgusting," he continued.

"Really? Well, you know, one of them checked me out as I was coming over," I said.

The younger daughter (twelve years old) turned to look at me. She said, "What guy would check out a __-year-old woman?" (My age is on a need-to-know basis, which you clearly don't.)

"Well, he probably didn't know how old I was," I replied.

"God, he must be DESPERATE!" she said.

My husband instantly turned purple with the effort of trying not to burst out laughing. I glared at the offender blithely eating her lunch, wondering if looks could really kill. There was no point threatening her with a spanking since she'd never been spanked with anything more than a Q-tip. I just sat there, steaming: the desperate man's check-out material (is there a support group? Maybe I should reconsider that look-alike contest).

There was only one thing to do. I ordered the plate of assorted cookies and ate most of her chocolate mousse cake.

Decaf, Half-Caf, All-Caf Delusion

2008-03-26T18:00:00.003-05:00

I love coffee. But I wanted to cut back on my caffeine consumption.

Slowly, I cut back my caffeine intake. I stuck religiously to decaf. It took half a dozen cups in the morning for me to feel awake.

A couple days later, I was at Starbucks, I said, Oh, why don't you put in a splash of caf in my decaf. It was great. It only took 3 cups for me to get going.

The next time I asked for half-caf. It was great and I needed only two cups.

Then I read an article that said that dark roast coffee had very little caffeine because the extra roasting burned off all the caffeine (okay, so it was in an airplane magazine, I should have known better). I immediately switched to french roast. I sucked down 3-4 cups no problem.

My decaf delusion was going strong. Until I was staying in a hotel and ran out of the decaf coffee packs (which I was, of course, adulterating with the caf-pack).

I made full-strength caffeinated coffee. I sucked it down. Made another one. Couldn't feel the caffeine kick.

My decaf delusion is officially at an end.

Pass the Kona coffee.

Clueless Guys Can't Read Women

2008-03-20T14:45:00.004-05:00

It's official!

There is scientific evidence of why guys are totally useless when trying to get signals from women (or anyone else, for that matter).

Guys are officially Clueless! They literally cannot get a clue!

This article presents data that states that men cannot tell when a woman is being friendly or sexually attracting. In other words, they can't tell the difference between:

Woman: "Do you have the time?" and "Do you have the time, big boy?"

They also can't tell the difference between sadness and regret:

Woman: "Oh, (sob, sob), she lost her baby!" and "Oh, she lost her makeup bag."

Part of the reason, the story explains, is that men have a lower threshold for viewing actions as sexually attracting. So, "Do you have the time?" becomes, literally, "Do you have the time, big boy?" to a lot of guys.

In scientific terms:

"She's looking at me" = "She's interested" = "She wants me."

Ah ha! you say. That explains it, you say. This is why women no longer ask men for the time, or directions, or make eye contact. Because we have all learned from past experience that turning up the corners of your mouth while looking at a guy can lead that guy into thinking you're madly in love with him and want to be with him forever.

This also explains why, many, many years into marriage, women still say, "You just don't get it!"

Men don't. Because they never had a clue.

The Kids' Revenge

2008-03-17T15:14:00.003-05:00

We parents spend a lot of time dressing our kids up in "adorable" outfits and taking pictures to store for all eternity.

This is not because we want to ooh and aah over baby and toddler pictures when they're all grown up. This is to ensure blackmail material when the kids get old enough to catch you in 1) fibs, 2) screaming fits, 3) a stuff-your-face marathon at a buffet, 4) first thing in the morning, before coffee, hair- and toothbrushing, and 5) compromising positions.

Of course, kids have their own ways of engineering revenge.

We have just fended off a baldfaced attempt by our oldest daughter to catch us in a compromising position. What was this potentially awful situation?

She bought us, as a token of her love and affection, a souvenir from her recent trip to Disney World: coffee cups shaped like Mickey and Minnie Mouse's bottom halves.

That's right. It's a cup that if you were to drink out of it, would look like you were drinking out of the hind end of a mouse wearing a polka-dot ruffled petticoat (for me) or skin-tight black Spanx (for hubby).

Did we fall for it? Of course not! I knew she was planning to catch us drinking out of these perversions to polite society, take a photo, and post it on her Facebook account for all the world to see.

This was so she could chuckle privately whenever she saw us, or heard us, attempting to give her marching orders ("Go to bed! Clean your desk! Feed your cat! Rake the leaves!") In her mind, she could secretly envision our ridiculous poses, sucking coffee from a mouse patootie, talking intellectually about the current fiscal crisis.

HA! Foiled you again!

Cash Only! Just Say NO To Gift Cards!

2008-03-12T22:35:00.001-05:00

Did you get a gift card over the holidays or your birthday? Well, go out and spend it RIGHT NOW because if you wait, the store may go out of business in the next five minutes and you will be left holding a worthless piece of plastic.

This past holiday season, I did not give gift cards, check cards, or gift certificates. I read too many stories about gift cards that started to tick down in value as soon as you got them, that expired as soon as you walked out of the store, that got lost.

I gave cash. Good old fashioned cold, hard cash.

Well, modify that, I gave checks.

Is giving money tacky? Why? The recipient can use it to get whatever they want or need.

A couple of years ago, I suggested to my extended family that we (the grownups) not exchange gifts. We can get what we need, and I felt we didn't need to receive more stuff that would end up in the Donate pile (or worse, the Re-Gift pile).

Well, one person had a fit and insisted we get each other gifts. (This person, we believe, actually used the item she intended to give as a wedding gift before sending it, a year later.) Result, huge pile of new items to Value Village.

What I really wanted, and still want, was to be able to get my antique wind-up watches cleaned and serviced, which costs, oh ~$100 a pop. That would have been a true luxury, and such a great present.

This year I gave checks, so my siblings could 1) hire a babysitter and go out for dinner, 2) get a massage.

Cash, baby, cash. It is only a vehicle for giving what I can't give from far away -- my time.

B - - - H is the New Black!

2008-03-11T14:23:00.004-05:00

Tina Fey said it best!

Check out the SNL site for the Weekend Update sgment with Tina Fey, in which she proclaims proudly that she, like Hillary Clinton, is a b---h. "So is this one," pointing to Amy Poehler, who says, "Yeah. Deal with it." It's good to have them running things because "b----hes get stuff done."

"B---h is the new black."

Add me to the list.

Where's my 'B---h is the new black" T-shirt?

Kids Who Say No, Parents Who Can't Say No

2008-02-29T14:28:00.003-05:00

At some point in your parenthood, you encounter a situation that makes you go, "HUH? What do I do now?"

Having two daughters, this has happened many times. Sometimes I had to stop myself from laughing out loud. Other times I just shook my head at the irony of it all. There are times you feel you must say no, put your foot down, but are torn because there's some good aspects to what's happening. Other times your child does it for you, in an eerie foreshadowing of what may come when you're both 20 years older.

Scene 1:

Outside an Asian restaurant. It's not open yet. Suggest to (at the time) young daughter that we go somewhere else. She promptly throws a fit, screaming, "I want spinach! I want spinach!" Can't make myself stop her because she's yelling for something healthy. I am a total wimp. I don't curb her. I don't haul her off to the car. I cave.

Scene 2:

It's 10PM. The five-year-old is STILL watching TV. I want to tell her it's bedtime but I can't.

Why? Because she's watching opera. I can't bring myself to say, "Stop watching that opera and go to bed!" Wimp out again.

Scene 3:

Mid-week evening. Got itchy feet, want to get out of the house, walk around a mall or see a movie, get a bite to eat. Suggest it to the kids. "No, Mom, I have homework." Grumble. Grumble. Mutter under breath about "responsible kids". Watch reruns of Law & Order.

Scene 4:

Next to HUGE donut display. HUGE describes both the size of the display and the size of the donuts. Daughter steers you past, "Donuts are bad for you, Mom."

At some point, this will all turn around.

We're visiting my parents. The phone is ringing off the hook. All invitations for my parents to go out and party hearty! My parents, in their seventies, are cackling and planning blowout festivities.

We can only hope this is our future.

The Leap! Do It!

2008-02-29T14:26:00.003-05:00

This is a very special day. A day that we save and savor every four years, to give us an extra day to think about life, love, and the pursuit of pursuit of happiness.

So do it! Whatever it is you're searching for, go after it! And just in case it's sitting right next to you and you're too blind to see it, stop, take off the blinders, and look around.

The Schlub and The Hottie

2008-02-27T15:12:00.000-05:00

There is only one kind of couple in Commercial-Land: Dweeby Guy, Hot Girl.

And of course, Dweeby Guy always gets Hot Girl because he used Fill-In-The-Blank Product! (I last blogged about this in Male or Female Commercial Makers, and I'm happy to say, none of the offending commercials are still on. I'm sure I had a LOT to do with their demise.)

Trouble is, this kind of couple is prevalent in Real Life.

A guy once described this phenomenon to a bunch of people in this way:

"A girl actually looks beyond the physical characteristics. If she likes you, then she thinks you're cute, too."
To which his friend replied, "Is that what happened to you?"

It's true, women do look beyond the physical characteristics and look to the inner person.

That has to be the explanation for so many shall we say, lopsided couples we see. For every Brangelina, there are two like Ric Ocasek/Paulina Porizkova. Just one look at the Oscar red carpet shows you this.

In commercials, of course, every woman is hot, while every guy is ordinary. This is probably because the guys writing the commercials are projecting (which may mean, shudder, that the writers are even dweebier-looking than the actors in the commercials).

I would like to demand parity for us dweeby girls. Why not Hot Guy, Dweeby Girl? I read about this type of pairing once in a magazine. The upshot was that the female half of the couple always got a lot of assessing looks from other women, as in, "How'd you land this guy?" Then the woman starts to wonder herself, which eventually leads, of course, to divorce court.

I say, Dweeby Girls unite, and demand equal time with the Hot Guys.

Grandma's Gift (cont'd)

2008-02-19T22:45:00.003-05:00

I'm not quite finished about the Chandelier. (Sensing hostility? You're right!)

I am now worried about the other things we might get saddled with. (Once we were at a large dinner, and my daughter told the chandelier story to the people at the table. On cue, her younger sister chimed in, "I'm glad Grandma didn't give ME anything.")

What will we do with the near life-size statue of Cupid? The black and gold metal plates with Egyptian pharaohs? The brass flamingoes? Yes, I know it's painful to contemplate all of these in one room. I didn't mention the faux-French provincial lamps with little ball-fringe lampshades.

Oh, sorry. Guess that was the tipping point, huh? In more ways than one.

Okay, I think I've discharged my hostility. That, and I'm about to eat cookies into oblivion.

The Grandmother Loophole

2008-02-19T01:13:00.000-05:00

As a parent you try to oversee what your kids get into, what they eat, what they play with, etc.

This all goes away when grandparents are involved. Basically, grandparents, especially grandmothers, figure grandkids are when they get revenge for the grief you caused when you were a kid.

Like when one of the grandmas decided that her granddaughter would have the most Barbies of any child she knew, and set out to ensure this. Every "event" was reason to trot off to the Walmart and buy another Barbie. Finally, she got to the point where she announced proudly to all who would listen that her granddaughter had 26 Barbies.

In the meantime, my daughter had long stopped playing with them (basically girls seem to grow out of Barbies by the time they hit six years old) and the Barbies were piling up in a closet.

But this, in the grand scheme of things, was not a big problem. I ended up giving away the Barbies to a friend who suddenly had nieces move in. Problem solved.

Much worse was the other grandma's ploy to force me to decorate my house according to her taste.

This grandmother (oh okay, it's my mother) has interior design taste that is reminiscent of the 1980s show Dynasty, compounded with an unfortunate preference for cherubs, and Chinese in-laid lacquer furniture. (God, stop screaming, I can hear you from here.)

They decided to sell their house and move to warmer climes. They took some furniture, put some into another property. The only thing left to deal with was a chandelier. A five foot tall, four foot diameter crystal chandelier. It would look nice in the foyer of a large colonial-style home, the banquet hall at a country club, or perhaps the lobby of a Holiday Inn.

She wanted me to hang it in our foyer. In the foyer of our mid-century modern, contemporary house.

I said no. No, no, no, no no. And again. No, no, no, no, no.

"Why not?" she asked. "You don't like it?" I wanted to scream, No, it's hideous, I hate it!

"It's the wrong style Mom, and it's too big for the foyer. Why don't you just include it in the sale of the house?"
"It cost so much money! I don't want to give it away."

"Well, I don't know what you can do, because we're not putting it up in our house."
"Okay, then I give to my granddaughter. One day she can put it up in her house."

Her granddaughter, at the time, is thirteen.

When my daughter hears this she looks horrified. "Mom, do I have to put that ugly chandelier in my house?" "No, no, honey, you don't," I reassure her.

But, in the meantime, we'll have to keep it. We can't get rid of it because we'd never hear the end of it. We have to store this thing until my mother no longer cares (HA! which is never).

The ultimate irony, or insult, is that the following year, we were visiting, and she said, "I don't know why we didn't ask our builder to raise the foyer ceiling to accommodate the chandelier. They did it for the neighbors."

I looked at her. Thought of the chandelier. Thought about craigslist and eBay. Thought about all the grief I caused as a teenager.

Yup. She got her revenge.

Kissing

2008-02-11T16:12:00.003-05:00

I just read about a research project that studied men and women's views of kissing.

This is one of those studies that just confirms and puts numbers to what everyone already knows. You know, facts of life stuff.

Like, women put a high premium on kissing. Women remember their first kiss. Women would never have sex with someone whom they hadn't first kissed. Women would never have sex with a bad kisser.

Men don't put as high a premium on kissing. Only 15% of men believe kissing must be involved before sex happens. Men would have sex with someone they had never kissed.

But the finding that made me think, "I HOPE THEY DIDN'T WASTE TAXPAYER MONEY ON THIS!!" was the finding that, to quote one of the lead authors:

"Men tend to think that kissing should always lead to sex."

This is earth-shattering news? What activity do men think shouldn't lead to sex? Basically you could white out "kissing" and fill in the blank with any activity and men would think it should lead to sex.

I can think of a million things:

flossing your teeth
taking out the trash
changing the oil
doing the dishes
commuting
walking the dog
getting a haircut
doing taxes
shoveling snow

You catch my drift.

This is the most ridiculous statement of the obvious I've ever heard.

Either these are the most naive people ever, or they're not romantically involved with men.

Difference: Gender? Father vs Mother?

2008-02-08T16:47:00.000-05:00

Scene 1: Mother and Daughter

Daughter tells a heartwarming story she'd followed on AbsoluteWrite, the writers' forum.

Due to the tornadoes this past week, one member was stranded during a business trip. No car, no access to an airport, no way to get where she needed to go, which was Rhode Island.

People, random strangers, formed a Car Pool String, driving her from one place to the next, and ferried her from the tornado-devastated location to Rhode Island.

When she told me this, my heart just swelled and I teared up. People are so wonderful in times of crisis.

"People are so great," I said. She agreed, "People are cool."

Scene 2: Father, Mother, and Daughter

Father comes home. Daughter repeats this heartwarming story.

Father looks at daughter, says, "Honey, you are never doing something like that. Get in cars with all those strangers? Forget it."

Mother and daughter look at each other, speechless.

Daughter says, "That's not the point! It's how wonderful people are!"

"You are never doing something like that. That's it." Father stomps away.

So what is it? Fathers' immediate sense of protection for daughters? Men's general cluelessness and failure to get the story? Women's complete gullibility for things like this, which is why so many of them end up as victims of crime?

I'm flummoxed.

Deploy the Comment Filter, or Relationship Quicksand

2008-01-31T14:55:00.000-05:00

Men really need a Comment Filter implanted in their brains. Especially men in Relationships.

Either that, or a leprechaun that sits on their shoulder whacking them with a tiny stick to keep the stupid comments from escaping their mouths.

Because it is so easy to find yourself in relationship quicksand, flailing away, with no hope of getting out.

Example:

Hubby is looking through old photos.

"Oh look, honey, look how cute and young you were." DANGER, DANGER!! DEPLOY COMMENT FILTER IMMEDIATELY!!

"What do you mean by that?" the wife snaps. "What, now I'm old and ugly?"

"No, no," he demurs hurriedly. "Just that it was so long ago and you know, you were youthful."

"Oh, so now I'm oldful and not appealing?" she shoots back.

"No, it's just, looking at these photos made me remember why I fell for you so long ago," he tries helplessly.

"So the way I look now, you wouldn't fall for me?" she moves in for the kill.

He's trying desperately to salvage the situation, not realizing that it's way past that point and he should just throw himself on the mercy of the court (or figure out how to launch a fast-onset carb-fog with bakery products).

If he had had a Comment Filter, this would never have happened. This scenario would have looked more like this:

"Oh look, honey, look how cute and young (REMOVE 'YOU', REPLACE WITH 'WE') we were."

Wife, smiling happily, "Yes, we were pretty adorable weren't we?"

"Yeah, we (REPLACE 'HELD UP WELL' WITH 'SURE HAD GOOD TIMES') sure had good times, huh? Came out okay," he grins.

"Not too bad for an old chick, huh?" she flirts.

"You're never too old me," he winks and moves in. Fade to black.

So, where can men get such a Comment Filter? Well, some men have finally learned to do-it-yourself install one, i.e. have endured many years of the first scenario and learned their lessons.

Yes, men can learn, just like Pavlov's dogs, with conditioning. Just learn the Danger Words and Phrases, which I will happily send you.

On second thought, just watch Home Improvement and see if you get why the audience is laughing at Tim Taylor.

Life: Do You See It Coming?

2008-01-29T21:21:00.003-05:00

Sometimes you see things coming. Sometimes you don't.

Sometimes you ought to have seen it coming. Sometimes you suspect it's coming. Sometimes you know it's there, waiting, but think it's not going to happen to you, not today, not now.

I just want to tell you that it will, just as you suspected. And because you don't know exactly when it might happen, take time, take care, and take a sip of the joys of life.

Because one day, suddenly, it's the day, and it's in your face.

I Know Why The Cows Come In At Night

2008-01-23T18:04:00.000-05:00

Oh, such cute pics of babies!

This, and the new niece photo from cyn really got me.

This brings back wonderful memories of my daughters' babyhood.

Of all the memories, those most indelibly etched in my mind are those about breastfeeding. Lactating. Producing nourishment for your infant. Being a human cow.

I remember like it was yesterday (try 16 years), and still have the lingo down.

"Latching on": the process of making sure your infant was attaching to the milk delivery port (that's nipple to you) correctly. Having to toughen them up so they could withstand being attached to a human vacuum every three hours.

I remember telling a group about how I toughened them up by walking around topless to expose them to air. Did I care that the audience was a mixed one, of whom one was my friend's elderly father? Of course not.

The best part was when he turned to my husband and said, "They never tell you about that when you're around, do they?"

"Letdown": nothing to do with being disappointed. It was just that pins and needles feeling in your breasts when the milk lets down. Your boobs feel like they've gone to sleep, which is infuriating because you sure haven't had the chance.

"Breast pads": not for the purpose of augmenting your cup size. Just to make sure that when you were in public and a baby cried (or a cat wailing sounded like a baby crying), you wouldn't suddenly develop on-shirt pasties.

Discussing breastfeeding strategies, lactating help, etc. with people you would never in a million years discuss bodily functions.

Once I was talking about breastfeeding difficulties with people at work. Suddenly I realized we were three Asian people, generally reserved about personal matters, a Japanese guy, an Indian woman and a Korean woman, gesturing at our breasts and talking about nipples, holding the baby properly, milk production. After one particularly graphic gesture at his own chest, the guy caught himself and was embarrassed.

But what I remember best is expressing milk at work. Every three hours. Any longer and I would dry up.

And the milk. The first time I tasted some on my wrist I thought, "No wonder we're all addicted to sugar, human milk is full of it!"

And I finally understood the term, "cream rises to the top." My milk was one-third cream. It would separate if left in a bottle in the fridge too long. I finally got why in the Little House books, Laura Ingalls would leave fresh milk in a cool place overnight, and could skim off the cream the next day.

Once we were on a long drive. When I took the milk bottle out, it looked kinda funny: thin, with lumps in it. The cream had shaken so much it made BUTTER. That was when I really felt like a cow.

But the thing that's tattooed across my brain is what I learned about being a milk producer.

I used to wonder why the cows would come into the barn at night. Why didn't they just hang out in the pasture and enjoy themselves? Why would they come into the confines of a smelly barn?

Well, any lactating woman knows that you have to express (be milked) regularly, 'cause it hurts when you wait too long.

This was the epiphany I had driving past a dairy farm, seeing all those cows with their bulging udders, crowding the barn. I got it! I felt solidarity! I had learned something new!

I know why the cows come in at night.

The Closet Raid

2008-01-22T10:06:00.000-05:00

When you have daughters, you know a certain day will come.

That's the day when your daughter enters your room with a gleam in her eye. She's not looking for shampoo, or a Band-Aid, or a signature for a permission slip. She has discovered Mom's Closet.

Not necessarily as a source of clothes, mind you, because she is not interested your suits.

It's the shoes. Especially those shoes at the back of your closet.

You know which ones I'm talking about. Those pairs you bought a long time ago, when you had high hopes and tighter thighs, when you were willing to endure excruciating pain so your legs would look killer with that special skirt.

For me, those special pairs are boots.

Specifically, copper-tinted, bronze color pointy-toed suede boots with 4-inch stiletto heels.

Yeah, I know.

I confess that to learn to walk in them, I had to rig up two ropes and hang on while teetering along.

Well, my pre-teen but tall daughter discovered them.

"Mom, can I try these on?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"Well, they're kinda high, but I guess you can."

Zip. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

"Wow, these are great."
"You can walk in those?" I'm amazed. "Your feet are too big!" She wears an 8, I'm a 7.
"These fit. They're amazing."

Clomp, clomp, clomp.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THOSE?" The hubby and father is transfixed at the sight of his twelve-year-old daughter in what are clearly come-hither boots. He hasn't looked like this since The G String Incident last year.

"You are NEVER to wear those ever again. Do you understand? Never."

"Okay, okay!" she scuttles out of the room.

He glares at me. I wince. Stash the boots at the back of the closet. Cover them with a pair of Rockports.

The Closet Raid is over before it began.

Real or Surreal? (Really!)

2008-01-18T20:05:00.001-05:00

The kids have gone to bed. Really.

We're watching TV.

I click on Project Runway. I wait, expecting the whining to begin any second.

Silence.

"That dress is just nothing! Look at it."

I'm breathless.

My big macho husband is commenting on PROJECT RUNWAY.

"Where's that guy with the hair? He usually does pretty interesting stuff."

I'm speechless.

On TV the models come slinking down the runway.

"Now that's a nice dress. That's avant garde."

"That's so boring."

I'm sitting there clutching my throat, stopping the shriek of shock that's fighting to erupt.

"Oh, that one's awful. She should be voted off."

I look at him carefully. He doesn't seem to have suffered any head trauma since the day before. There's no spot where an alien might have inserted a probe. I wonder if hanging around three females (not to mention the two female cats and constantly breeding brood of guppies) has affected him.

He keeps talking.

"God, look at that! That dress looks like a rag. Oh, that's nice. That one should win."

I wonder if I've entered an alternate universe. Maybe he's been replaced with a Stepford Husbands replicant. Or infected by a fashion-friendly virus.

Is this good? I don't know. I just know he's freaking me out.

HELP!

Trust But Verify

2008-01-14T15:01:00.000-05:00

Sunday night. Time to get ready for school the next day.

Our kids do not buy school lunch. Every night there is lunch assembly for the next day.

Imagine this:

Dad: Hey sweetie (to younger daughter), why don't you make your lunch tonight?
Daughter (sweetly): Okay.

Sounds of fridge opening and closing. Rustling of plastic. Crinkling of aluminum foil. Zipping of lunch pouch.

Child happily skips off to take shower.

Mom notices lunch pouch on bench, not in fridge. Picks it up, decides to take a look inside.

Hmm. Aluminum foil-wrapped sandwich, check. Small container of fresh fruit (strawberries), check. Lemonade drink, check.

Wait a minute, what's this? HALF A BAG OF MINIATURE MARSHMALLOWS?

Mother stomps to child's bedroom, where father is supervising clean-up and other daughter is across the hall (already in bed).

Holds up bag of marshmallows. Glares malevolently.

Mom hisses, "Did you really think you'd get away with this?!!"

Child giggling sheepishly, trying to act as though it was an oversight.

Mom stomps back to kitchen. Removes all but 8 marshmallows (okay so I'm a softie).

The moral is, Trust But Verify.

Low Rise Jeans

2008-01-11T00:25:00.000-05:00

I used to look at the girls in low-rise jeans and tut-tut to myself. Geez, can't they find some decent jeans that covers them appropriately, I'd mutter under my breath.

All that changed a few weeks ago.

Yes.
I caved.
I bought low-rise skinny jeans.

This was not because I suddenly had a change of heart. It's because I bought these fabulous boots that were perfect to wear with jeans, tucked in, of course, and then I found that all my jeans were of the flare or boot-cut variety, which meant tucking was a bunchy problem.

I found myself in a shop at Tysons where my daughters were rushing around in a frenzy, going through all the racks. And there they were. The perfect black jeans for tucking into boots.

But they were low rise.

I sighed. Thought about the belts I would have to buy to make sure no shadows showed where they shouldn't. Took a deep breath, and tried them on.

That was when I made a stupendous discovery. Low rise jeans are incredibly comfortable. Because they don't bind your gut right in the middle. They let it overhang. Discreetly.

They didn't bind or smoosh or squeeze. They just hung there (barely, I had to get a skinnny belt to keep them from falling off my hips).

For the first time in years I didn't dread jean-shopping, and stopped worrying about the Mom Jean section.

Then I thought, oh my god, why have they been keeping this from us?

Who am I talking about? The beer bellied guys, of course! Why didn't they let us know that the reason they let it all hang out and followed their stomachs around was because it was so much more comfortable than sucking it in?!

Anyway, I am now a convert.

I bought two pairs of black low rise skinny jeans at that store and wore them the whole week.

Is this likely to continue?

I'll let you know how the brown jeans turn out. I bought a couple pairs of those, too.

Mom or Maaawwwmmm!!!

2008-01-03T13:21:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed that your title changes according to the mood of your offspring?

For example, when everyone is happy, perky, cheerful, you get a chirpy, "Mom?"

However, when your offspring is annoyed, mad, disgruntled, sleepy, tired, cranky, crabby, whatever, you get "MAAAWWWMMMM!!!" When I signed up for Momhood I did not expect that my title would get so mangled.

I wonder, does this happen in other languages?

In French, there's really only one way to say Maman. You are not permitted to say Mamaaaann!! It just doesn't come out that way. The word doesn't change, just your tone of voice, intonation, and the expression on your face as you indicate extreme displeasure.

How about Italian? Can you do this in Italian?

You can do this in Korean, as well as run your voice up and down like a roller coaster to express your emotions.

I have decided that I will no longer respond to MAAAAWWWMMM. I don't feel that I look like a Maaaawwwwmmmmm, nor do I want to. It evokes images of a large mouth, flabby, stretched out sweatshirts and pullovers, and ratty, baggy, sweatpants.

I will only respond to Mom, which seems to connote happiness, as well as a reasonable pants size.

New Year's Resolutions

2008-01-02T13:04:00.000-05:00

What should I set myself up not to get accomplished this year? More exercise? Healthier eating? Winning the Nobel Prize?

I know one that should not be too difficult. I am going to try to increase my posts. Not that it's critical to world peace and happiness, but my post list shows that I only posted on average twice a week.

Okay, you can give me the weekends off, but this was supposed to help me practice writing, humor, and train myself to compose on the computer. I, being a relic of the pencil and paper age, needed to compose via pencil and paper, which was horribly slow. I am now getting to the point where I can compose meaningful, substantive, technical stuff on my computer. This is a significant achievement.

I noticed, however, when addressing my Christmas cards, that I can no longer write by hand. Scribbling, mangled letters, misspellings galore. There must be a happy medium.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

2008-01-01T13:07:00.000-05:00

2008!!! BRING IT ON!!!

But no shopping! I am never setting foot in a mall again!

Well, except for exercise.

Speaking of which, has anyoneelse noticed that the Westfield Shoppingtowns have become kinda crummy? Montgomery Mall used to be pleasant. Westfield Shoppingtown Montgomery is not.

Let's go back to Montgomery Mall (aka Monkey Mall).

Holiday Fervor, Post-Christmas Letdown

2007-12-28T12:25:00.000-05:00

Everything is bought. The Christmas meal (ham, turkey, goose, whatever) is eaten. The cookies are rendered to crumbs at the bottom of the tin. And your stomach is roughly the size of Santa's sack.

The New Year is coming, and you promise yourself you will do better. More exercise. Healthier eating. No more blobbing in front of the TV for hours, chugging soda and munching potato chips. More time on the treadmill.

Maybe a new piece of exercise equipment to get you fired up.

That's it! A new piece of fancy exercise equipment will really get you going!

In the meantime, as you're stranded in the snowy, wintry North (we're visiting relatives in Canada), you think to yourself, just one more chocolate chip cookie to ward off freezing.

Terrified Driver Alert

2007-12-21T23:46:00.000-05:00

The holiday season brings a new terror to our roads: Drivers driving in unfamiliar conditions, terrified of their new surroundings.

I'm talking about suburban drivers in the city, and city drivers in the suburbs.

You can tell the suburban drivers in the city right away. They're driving a Suburban or Escalade, maybe a Hummer, driving down the middle of the skinny, hilly roads in Georgetown, gripping their steering wheels for dear life, scared that their massive cars will sideswipe the parked cars, the streetlamps, the curbs. They look around at the traffic like, "What are all these people doing here? Where are the parking lots? Where's the highway? And oh my god, there are people crossing the road!! AAAUUGH!!!"

The city drivers are equally terrified in the suburbs. They're in tiny, easy-to-park cars, hemmed in by the Hummers, Escalades, and Suburbans, looking around at the wide open spaces like, "Where are the stoplights and stop signs? Where are the parking meters? Where are the parked cars? Where are the people? Why is it so wide open? Where's the parking lot attendant?!"

I feel sorry for these drivers, who have decided to venture out into new surroundings only to be met by an entirely different and unforgiving driving environment. There's nothing as unforgiving as a suburban mom, in a hurry to get through the grocery store parking lot, out onto the the road, and on their way home with dinner. I know, 'cause I'm one of them.

Similarly, there's no one as unforgiving as the city driver, nipping in and out of lanes, squeaking through the yellow (orange) stoplight, exasperated at the tourists who are cruising, looking at the sights, DURING RUSH HOUR. I know, 'cause I'm one of them.

Will these two driver types ever see eye-to-eye? I've been both for ten years and I still haven't. Some day, maybe we as a society will overcome these cultural differences and get along. In the meantime, stay out of my way.

I'm Not Ready

2007-12-20T17:39:00.000-05:00

It's Christmastime and I'm not ready.

Five more days and I haven't sent my cards. I haven't finished shopping. I haven't finished my Christmas list.

This happens every year. After Christmas I think, oh now I have time to send my Christmas cards. Why can't we hae a few days before Christmas to do that?

My friends and family have sent their cards, gifts, etc. I haven't opened any of them. If I don't actually see them they haven't actually arrived. They're just in my cognitive limbo.

I have wreaths to hang. They're on the floor. I have ribbons to hang. They're in the bag.

Someone send me an elf who will do this.

Have him bring a Whitman's Sampler chocolate box while he's at it.

Amnesia in the Bakery Aisle

2007-12-14T14:05:00.000-05:00

Recent conversation after grocery trip:

Child: "Mom? What are all these white boxes and bags?"
Mother: "Huh? I don't know. What are they?"

(Rustle, rustle)

Child: "Mom? Did you buy these holiday cookies?"
Mother: "Huh? What holiday cookies?"
Child: "These, right in the white bakery bag, the snowman, Christmas tree and star shaped cookies."
Mother: "Wow! How'd they get in there?"

(Rustle, rustle)

Child: "Mom? Did you buy this chocolate cake?"
Mother: "Chocolate cake? What chocolate cake?"
Child: "What about these pies, apple, and blueberry?"
Mother: "Omigosh! How'd they get there?"

(Rustle, rustle)

Child: "Mom? Did you buy these donuts?"
Mother: "What? Are you kidding? Donuts? What donuts?"
Child: "These, right here in this box, the one that's been opened and has one missing."
Mother: "What? How'd that happen?"

Child: "MOM!!!"
Mother: "WHAT? WHAT?"
Child: "Are you seriously claiming that you don't know how they got in there or how you managed to buy an open box of donuts with one missing?!"
Mother:

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Male Performance Anxiety Commercials continued

2007-12-10T16:26:00.000-05:00

I have blogged before about these annoying commercials, and I haven't found a way to make them disappear. They come at you when you least expect it, when you're trying to negotiate a rough turn right in front of a police officer ("Sorry, officer, I was distracted by a Male Performance Anxiety commercial.")

They sound like those horrible commercials from long ago:

"The Heartbreak of Male Performance Anxiety!! You try rubbing them out..." Okay, never mind that analogy.

The entire commercial sounds just so...like they're trying so hard to sound normal and comfortable about blaring out Erectile Dysfunction on the radio. And the commercial just doesn't sound convincing.

First of all, the guy talking doesn't sound like he would be McDreamy (a la Grey's Anatomy).

I can just imagine the conversation the casting directors had when they talked about the appropriate voice for this commercial:

Boss Guy: "Well, not too masculine-sounding, don't want to make these guys feel threatened that they're not masculine enough (which is why they need this in the first place, I'm sure glad I don't need this)."

Yes Guy: "Yeah, but not too geeky either, so it won't seem as though we're implying only geeky guys need this (of course, you probably need this but I don't want to imply you're a geek)."

Boss Guy: "Right, right, someone that's not threatening, but not off-putting, either (yes, kind of like you, you really do put me off my oats)."

Yes Guy: "I've got the perfect guy! He's my wife's cousin Lennie. He's an accountant for Big Insurance Group but plays in a rock band (really a band featuring Barry Manilow retrospectives that I'm sure you would like)."

Please, please, please, Mr. Radio Station Manager, can't you put these commercials on late in the evening, when innocent bystanders aren't likely to be listening to the radio, but the guys who need this product or service might, because they have Male Performance Anxiety and are avoiding intimacy by listening to the radio or watching bad TV?

Danger, Danger! Annoying Relative Alert! It's the Holidays!

2007-12-06T15:07:00.000-05:00

Get ready.

Tis the season for Visits by Annoying Relatives.

Note I said visits BY Annoying Relatives. This is because there is a high likelihood that you, yes, you dear reader, are a member of that Gang.

At some point in the past year, I blogged about watching a young child mature into awareness, which precisely mapped the Annoying Relative Visit.

As in, "Has Aunt/Uncle/Grandma/Grandpa/Cousin It ALWAYS been like that?"

"Like what, honey?" you reply, keeping your face stiff in a move worthy of a Botox ad.

"Well, so annoying!" the child replies.

You look at your child's lovely face, look deep into her eyes, noting for the first time that she is aware that her relatives might be the bearer of more than just holiday presents. The moment that realization strikes her and her face freezes in horror:

"Mom! What if I become like that?!" Then she looks at you and her father furtively. Her father is diligently organizing piles of detritus into an equal number of perfectly shaped piles. "OCD, OCD" whispers in her mind.

She looks at you, and while you're always perfect, that little thing that bothers you is bugging you again and you can't, grunt, do anything, grunt, until you get that last little piece of brownie out of the corner of the pan, DAMMIT!! why won't it come out?!!! Huh? Oh, sorry.

"NO, NO, IT'S NOT TRUE!" she cries, and runs into her room.

Yes, yes, it's true.

Annoying Relatives are here, and they are you.

Writing and Writers

2007-12-05T17:12:00.000-05:00

For all you writers out there -- since I note a number of visitors from Absolute Write (thanks, Sophaloaf) -- a post on writers and writing.

There are good writers and bad writers. There's good writing and bad writing. There are good storytellers and poor storytellers. These all combine in many different permutations in today's popular fiction.

I've read a lot of schlock. That's because I used to travel a lot in my job. The airline magazine only changes once a month and so do the movies. That left either oldies but goodies to read over and over (but reading Miss Marple's version of events for the 14th time got old, and Rumpole seems to get tired of my reading his exploits -- I could feel him eyeing me, small cigar in his mouth, asking hadn't I somewhere better to peruse my time away).

So, lots of popular books from the airport gift shop. Books I can read in short stretches, but not so short I can finish them in one flight to LA (this was my experience with Thomas Friedman's The World Is Flat -- not only is it flat, it's a short distance to The End).

I'm sure people will howl, jump down my throat, whatever, but my impressions of various writers follow (I'm sure they won't care about my opinion):

John Grisham: good storyteller, bad writing. His work is the epitome of having a good story overwhelm bad writing.

Nicholas Sparks: The writing equivalent of Michael Bolton -- big smile, big frothy presentation, thin story line.

Robert B. Parker: clean, concise writing in a plot rut. I can see the people and hear the voices; I'm in the same room. Trouble is, it's a rerun with the people just changing clothes and names. Even the new female main character is just the old main character in drag.

Sue Grafton: usually good story, fuzzy writing. It's like watching a faded, out-of-focus movie with a poor sound system, and you're frustrated because you want to see how it turns out. Sometimes though, the technical difficulties disappear and you get glorious views and sound.

Patricia Cornwell: story caged by over-meticulous writing.

Nora Roberts: if you want the text version of a romantic comic book, this author's for you. One book was enough! I conveniently forgot it in the hotel room.

Any other opinions out there?

Rules for Better Living: Rule Number One- No More Bad Chinese Food

2007-12-05T00:41:00.000-05:00

That's it! I've had it with the Panda Express-ization of all Chinese restaurants in the greater DC Metro area!

Actually, this is true everywhere. Everywhere you go the Chinese food tastes the same: like it came off a steam table in a mall food court.

Sometimes a new place opens and you hurry there to sample the new chef's work. The food's delicious, flavorful, fresh. Fresh Chinese spinach. Baby bok choy. Fresh, not fried-and-dried tofu. Delicately crisp chicken. Succulent shrimp.

Then you go back a month later and it's greasy kung pao, huge inedible chunks of General Tso's, everything covered with the same brown sauce.

What's going on? Is there a Panda Express Mafia that goes around making sure every Chinese restaurant has the same bad food? Is there a Panda Express standard of bad Chinese food to which all establishments must sink?

We have decided that we will better our lives by adopting this rule: No More Bad Chinese Food.

Except when you're starving and faced with bad American food: grey salisbury steak, watery instant mashed potatoes, gluey apple pie, blecch!

BUY NOTHING! Well, maybe...

2007-11-30T11:04:00.000-05:00

Whoo hoo!!! I've made it through Black Friday without buying a single thing!! This is fantastic!

Take back our holidays! Especially the ones where we reflect on what we have to be thankful for, not what we should be out buying.

This Christmas, I am going to (once again) ask for peace on Earth.

Then, to appease my (once-again) exasperated family, I will make a list of TANGIBLE items that are actually useful, such as a gift card to AT&T so I can replace my 5-year-old, sputtering cellphone whose signal doesn't reach one end of the house.

When I got married, I refused to register, saying that would be "asking" for gifts.

Now that I'm older and much more time-challenged, I would throttle a bride-to-be who did this.

We have to buy some things. It's a fact of life.

So, I will be forced to go to the jewelry show to buy gifts for all my female family members and friends. Yes, I know. The sacrifices I make for the family...(I think this "sacrifices" issue was covered in another post, as well as the guilting apect)

Life is Truly Stranger Than Fiction: Glasses in Toilet

2007-11-23T15:06:00.000-05:00

I have a bad habit.

I don't take care of my eyeglasses. My glasses are the lightweight, nearly-rimless, nearly invisible kind. The earpieces are thin, so they slip right out of those eyeglass-holder cords.

This means I often hang them from the front of my shirt, blouse, jacket, whatever. When I bend over, sometimes they fall off.

Since they fall off quite frequently (and they have the chips to prove it), you'd think I would be careful about hanging my glasses from my shirt in dangerous places, right?

Of course not.

After many years of hanging dangerously, life on the edge of the shirt, so to speak, I faced my come-uppance.

We were visiting an animal park in India. Yes, the country, the subcontinent. Not the India attraction at Busch Gardens.

Of course after a couple hours of walking around looking at animals, being blessed by an elephant (it touches its trunk to your head), we needed to use the facilities. As I bent over PLOINK! my favorite pair of eyeglasses fall into the Great Indian Sewer.

There are some things I will do, and fishing for eyeglasses in an Indian toilet is not one of them.

So you think I'd learned my lesson, right?

Flash forward a couple of years. There I am, right before a big meeting. I use the ladies room beforehand because it'll be a couple of hours.

I hang my glasses on my blouse. I lean over, and just as the water goes WHOOSH, the glasses go PLOINK! and disappear.

I wince, NO!!

The biggest irony? The meeting was all about a trip to India.

I could hear God snickering.

It's Diamond Time Again! An Oldie But a Goodie

2007-11-19T15:47:00.000-05:00

The holiday season is rolling around again, and we are being bombarded by ads for diamonds. I blogged about this earlier this year, and it's still relevant!

Since I can't figure out how to put in a link to my old post inside the body of the new post w/o going through all this blogger-lingo and awful html code, I've decided just to paste it into this one. Sorry.

Dude, There's a Diamond Target on Your Forehead

Millions of men in America today are going blithely about their business, leading normal lives, with no idea that they are being stalked by a megapower. I am talking, of course, about the diamond industry.

In the last few years diamond executives decided to expand beyond wedding rings (how many wedding rings can you buy in your life, even if you get divorced a lot? 10? 20?) and really grow their business. They wanted to make diamonds the gift of choice for every major occasion and zeroed in on men as their hapless targets for brainwashing.

Christmas and Valentine's Day are gimmes for the diamond industry. So in the weeks before these auspicious days, the airwaves, printwaves, and our brainwaves are inundated with ads for DIAMONDS, DIAMONDS, DIAMONDS!!!

Underlying the romantic-sounding words and heartfelt emotions are the REAL messages. They are not sweet. They are not subtle. NOOOO. They use mondo Guiltyr (see Martyr or Guiltyr post) tactics to make you run out and buy the biggest rock you can't afford for fear you will smother under the weight of public scorn for your skinflint ways, you worthless penny-pinching, scum-sucking cheapskate.

When the ad says,"Give her what she really wants," the unspoken message is, "Yeah, get it right this time, you jerk."

"Show her how much you really care," means "The size of your love is reflected in the size of the diamond, Mr. Tiny."

"Your love will last forever, like a diamond," translates to, "If you don't buy a diamond, you will regret it forever (a period only slightly shorter than the payment period)."

One jeweler blatantly uses public humiliation in its ads, excoriating guys who didn't patronize their establishment and heaping praise on the guy that did. ("He didn't go to Harried Jewelers! What a loser! Alert the media!")

Now, however, there is a new, ominous development in diamond marketing. They are moving into the exploitation of children, to start the brainwashing early.

In one ad a young boy sees his dad give a diamond necklace to his mom and get a kiss in return. The young boy shows up at a girl's door with a handmade sparkly heart and gets a kiss.

Is this the message we want to send to our young boys? That a diamond will be rewarded with an act of affection? What are they saying exactly? (We heard rumors a diamond company contemplated giving out free samples of Uplifta (use your imagination, geez) with each diamond purchase but decided against it. Too obvious, even for them.)

We can't stand by and let the diamond marketers pollute our children's brains with this kind of filth. We've got to stop the targeting of children in this insidious brainwashing campaign.

Men of America, take back Valentine's Day! Take back Christmas! Take back control of your gift-giving! Glory in your right to give a free-standing bandsaw or a 150-inch HDTV! Assert your right to buy gifts you think she could use around the house! Return Christmas and Valentine's Day to the "clean" holidays they used to be!

This message brought to you by the home appliance manufacturers of America.

Horror Row at the Drug Store...Toothbrushes!

2007-11-19T14:39:00.000-05:00

There is an aisle in the drug store from which small children should be shielded for their protection.

No, not the contraceptive aisle. (They get that in Family Life in many school jurisdictions.)

I'm talking about the oral hygiene aisle, specifically, toothbrushes.

Have you taken a good look at modern toothbrushes? I needed a new toothbrush, so I dropped into the local drug store and found a display of heretofore unimagined dental excess. And ominously threatening devices.

There are brushes of every color, shape, and size. They are weird and frightening beyond measure, because many of them look like instruments of torture.

One looked like a cage of stiff bars, stuffed full of bristles of different heights and shapes, sticking out in every direction. It looked like it was designed to hold down the tooth in question and keep it from escaping while the brushes worked it over (heh, heh, that's right, hand over your plaque!).

Why the cage? Teeth can't go anywhere.

Another had two heads, to trap the tooth from both sides and scrub them simultaneously. Then there was the one that looked like a miniature toilet bowl brush, with additional plastic bristles low, to stimulate the gums.

Note to toothbrush manufacturers: I ain't putting anything that looks like a toilet brush in my mouth.

The replacement heads for automatic toothbrushes were just as scary, the brushes promising to zing, zap, and sonically scare the plaque and bacteria from between your teeth (sonically? what with, a recording of American Idol tryout rejects?).

I think an automatic toothbrush is a good idea. But please, can we keep the scary instruments confined to the dentist's office and not in our own bathrooms? And for goodness sake, don't put them on display in public drug stores where they can scare people of all ages!

Maybe they should put them behind the counter, and you have to sign for them, like the cold medicine they automatically assume everyone is planning to cook into crystal meth!

Exercise Trumps The Wrinkle Wall...Sob!!!

2007-11-14T21:13:00.000-05:00

I've been hearing about how exercise is so important to your health, your memory, your skin, not to mention getting rid of the poofiness around my middle, so I finally caved and got on the treadmill in the basement.

I started trudging along, no rush, because I also heard that you have to exercise for longer than 30 minutes to get any real fat-burning benefit.

The whole time I'm thinking, "Who came up with this scheme? Whose idea was it to force you to go through torture to get something good, the Marquis de Sade? Is Dick Cheney watching somewhere cackling because he knows people are suffering? Why? Why? Why can't fat just melt off the way candle wax does? Then I could just put a heating pad on my stomach and watch it deflate."

I tried the incline to fight the Mom Butt's drooping rebellion.

"Grumble, grumble, grumble...God must be a drill sergeant...grumble, grumble."

Ding! The next thing I know 30 minutes are up and I collapse.

I walk into the bathroom to see how much my tummy's deflated, and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror.

My skin looks fresh, glowing, cheeks are pink, the fine lines have disappeared because the skin is supported with blood flowing through all the capillaries, supporting the sagging skin. I look fantastic. I look ten years younger.

"NOOOOOO!!!!" I wail, and burst into tears. "NOOOOO!!! Why does EXERCISE have to be the magic bullet?!! Why can't I just buy something in a bottle for outrageous sums of money and have it work?!!! Why does it have to be something that's good for me? WHY? WHY? WHY?"

At that moment my husband comes into the bathroom and says, "Honey, don't cry, you look great!"

"OH SHUT UP!!!" I scream, and run out of the bathroom.

He thinks, 'Time for the Estrogen Helmet.'

Buying a Mattress

2007-11-12T13:16:00.000-05:00

One of the oddest social phenomena in modern life is buying a mattress.

Think about it. You walk into a huge room full of beds of all sizes. You lie down on one bed after another, in public, in full view of other people who are also lying down on different beds in public. How often do you see mass people-going-to-bed in public? (If you have seen this phenomenon in other than a mattress store setting, keep it to yourself!).

Of course, you have to be on good bed-lying behavior when you do this. You lie down gently on the mattress. No flopping on the bed like you do after a hard day. You lie straight, feet together, arms at your sides. You roll to your side, making sure not to splay your limbs across the bed. Your Significant Other also lies straight, making sure none of his/her limbs encroaches into your area because that wouldn't be appropriate in a public setting.

Who sleeps like this? What if you're cuddly sleepers? You can't really do a trial cuddle in public, can you?

The other problem is the lack of sheets and blankets, a chief cause of sleep disagreements. As in one person hogs all the sheets and blankets and the other person freezes. Or one person insists on sleeping on his/her side, significantly increasing the amount of sheets/blankets needed to cover his/her area side of the bed.

Note that I'm trying to be evenhanded here, using "his/her" (but note that "his" always comes first. We know who really causes all the problems.)

Finally, there are no pillows. I mean there are no special pillows for elevating someone's head so he/she doesn't snore, no soft pillows for people who don't want to wrinkle their face, no favorite pillow without which one can't sleep.

There's only one solution. Take a furtive glance around the store, and when no one is looking, cuddle, splay, toss and turn, prop your head, cover yourself with your coat and kick it around. Do it in under two minutes because all this activity is sure to bring interest and reproving looks from the salesmen (although you never know -- they've probably seen everything).

If you don't do this, you might go home with the wrong mattress. What if, when you get home, the mattress isn't comfortable? It's too hard, too springy, too mushy, too lumpy, whatever.

You're stuck with one choice. Lie straight, feet together, arms at your sides, no blanket, no sheets, no pillows. There, doesn't that feel like it did at the store?

Secret Concessions, Public Concessions

2007-11-08T14:42:00.000-05:00

If you are in a committed, Significant Other type relationship and you want to keep it going, there is a rule you must NEVER NEVER break.

The Rule: Never concede publicly that you're wrong about something. Only concede your mistakes in private, with no witnesses, and no potential for your statement being captured on a recording device such as a cellphone.

So, take the setting into careful consideration before you utter the fatal words, "You were right, dear, I was wrong."

A good time to concede something is when the two of you are in a car and the Sig Other is driving. That's the time to say, "You were right dear, I was wrong about...." This has its own risks, as the shock that the words "I was wrong" is passing from your lips might send SO into shock, causing an accident.

Like all rules, there is an exception to this rule. You can make a public concession when the concession shows how wonderfully magnanimous, kind, and tolerant you are of SO's pitiful quirks.

As in, "You were right dear, I was wrong that you couldn't stuff the sofa, dining table and chairs into our minivan, I should have known that your stupendous visuospatial skills would allow you to estimate the volume of a carspace to the square millimeter. I should NEVER have doubted you." Or, "You were right dear, it does shave 15 sesconds off the trip when you take Route A instead of Route B to get to Point C." Get my drift? Make sure there are witnesses for this kind of Public Concession so everyone will know what minutiae your SO gets into a snit about and how wonderful you are to put up with him (or her, sorry, a slip of the subconscious).

Now as I was writing this, I was trying to remember an incident in which I actually did make a Secret Concession. I couldn't recall one. I know that it happened because the hubby and I were in a car when I made this stupendous statement and he was so startled he nearly ran off the road. However, he can't remember what I said, either. I'm taking this to mean that it was so incredible that we both blocked it out of our memories, or that we both believe the model of No Concessions has worked best in our marriage (24 years and counting) and we shouldn't mess with a good thing.

Mom Jeans

2007-11-04T18:09:00.000-05:00

When you reach a certain age demographic, merchandisers make certain assumptions about you and market items to that projected ideal. For a middle-aged woman, that means you're assumed to be a Soccer Mom whose butt had its last good days in the disco way back in the '80s. Only a few women, with copious amounts of plastic surgery, are assumed to look like the Housewives of Orange County. (BTW, those women should just go ahead and have little advertising stickers on their body parts, a la, Nose by Dr. Jones, Breasts by Dr. Smith, Tummy Tuck by Dr. Slurp, and so on.)

Thus, Mom Jeans were born.

What are Mom Jeans? Look in any sales circular, and you'll see them in the Misses (and Women's) section. They're loose-fitting, usually with words like Relaxed Fit and Comfortable Through Hips and Thighs next to them. The women modeling them look charming, pleasant, smiling happily at the camera, blissfully unaware of the fact that they're wearing Mom Jeans, a euphemism for Jeans Commodious Enough to Accommodate a Wide, Comfortable Mom Butt.

The only other jean choices for women are Anorexic Giraffe jeans, those meant for 7-foot tall stick figure girls who are cloned somewhere on Fifth Avenue.

What if you fall somewhere in the middle? What if your butt hasn't decided on a Major Growth Initiative and is confining itself to the territory you've allotted it? Yeah, it's made some bids for freedom but you've curtailed them sharply and so far it's only decided to droop in retaliation.

Where can a woman find a decent pair of jeans with more room than for, say a couple of croissants but not for a couple of challah loaves?

Halloween!

2007-10-31T22:35:00.000-05:00

Yeehah! It's the best non-holiday of the year! When are they going to make Halloween a real holiday with the day off?

Maybe it's a little too close to reality for some. Wouldn't it be fun to assign people costumes to wear?

For example, your boss as Frankenstein: A thick-headed, non-living oaf who stomps in, grunts, roars, then stomps out, leaving you as confused as you were when he came in.

Your mother-in-law, dressed up as an evil Charlotte, weaving her web, smiling kindly, all the while her sticky web silk is binding you closer and closer. (Disclaimer: this is not my mother-in-law, who is a saint)

Your colleague, the one who has NEVER been on time to a meeting, hopping around as the White Rabbit.

Dick Cheney, as...I can't think of anything sufficiently evil and devious enough. Besides, he's already said that being called Darth Vader was a compliment.

Your kid, a brilliant Nobel-prize winner, who just developed the next web platform and is about to become a googlionaire.

Yourself, a wonderful, beneficent all-powerful being with a strong resemblance to Angelina Jolie.

(Note: your husband says he wants the first half of the previous sentence excised, but the latter part left intact. The power of literary surgery.)

HA! This is a Halloween list, not a Christmas list!

Bathroom Conversations

2007-10-29T10:40:00.000-05:00

You're at home, trying to take care of a little personal business. The bedroom door is cracked open, but the bathroom door is definitely closed. Then this happens.

Pad, pad, pad, pad.

Child: "Mom? Do you know where my history book is?"
Me: "No."

Pad, pad, pad.

Silence.

Pad, pad, pad.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Cat: "mrrrreoww!! Mrrrreowww!!" Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Me: "Will someone come here and take care of this cat?"

Pad, pad, pad. Sounds of cat being scopped up and taken away.

Ah. Peace.

Pad, pad, pad.

Child: "Mom, I can't find my shoes for the rehearsal."

Me: "Why don't you look the last place you dumped all your stuff, like the blobbing room?"

Pad, pad, pad.

Silence.

Pad, pad, pad.

Child: "Mom, the computer's not working."

Me: "WELL WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT WHILE I'M IN HERE?!!!!"

The questions I pose is, why would you want to talk to anyone while they're involved in what they're doing when we all know what goes on in the bathroom? I personally do not want to be talking to anyone engrossed in taking care of that business. Wouldn't you want to stay as far away from that as possible? I mean really! How personal can you get?

(This applies to people talking on the cellphone while in a public restroom. I always think, how are they going to use toilet paper judiciously?)

I have noticed, however, that neither the children nor the cats appear to approach the hubby when he's in the bathroom.

Must be the survival instinct kicking in.

Wrinkle Wall

2007-10-10T21:29:00.000-05:00

Another birthday squeaks by. It's squeaking because it can't get past you without holding its breath for fear that you will squash it against the wall. (Also because the constricting undergarment is keeping you from taking a deep breath.)

You're lurching closer and closer to the mid-century mark. Soon AARP will be sending you a shiny invitation (if it hasn't already). Suddenly a blotch appears on your face. You think it's overtanning and figure it'll go away. It gets darker.

You decide that before the blotch decides to have a party and send out exploratory teams, you will do something about it.

You go to the drug store to see what kind of skin care/sun protection products they have.

That's when you hit it.

The Wrinkle Wall.

This is a wall, 40 feet high, 1000 feet long, that has just been installed in your local drug store. Okay, so maybe it's not 1000 feet, but it stretches almost the entire length of the store. The health and beauty aisles next to the Wrinkle Wall are 20 feet deep.

You get closer and there's an eerie glow emanating from it. You realize that it's the unhealthy fluorescent light installed to make sure that you look awful and you buy everything on the Wall.

Closer, closer.

You see row upon row of miniscule glass/plastic/metal containers that promise to plump, erase, enhance, illuminate, smooth, tighten, firm, support, detoxify, de-creasify, unwrinkle, fill-in, undo, and flatten every single little line on your face. They do this by little molecules, micro-encapsulated eraser-wielding thugs that beat the creases into submission, the way they used to beat laundry with sticks in the old days.

I look at the bottles. I look at my sallow, lined, blotchy face in the mirrow installed helpfully in the midst of all the rows.

Someone walks behind me, glances in the mirror and shrieks with horror.

I reach out and sweep entire rows of bottles into my basket.

I hear a ghostly snicker from behind the Wall.

Wall wins. Woman wrinkles.

Starbucks Collective: Resistance is Futile

2007-10-02T00:32:00.000-05:00

There is an invasion taking over America. It's happened so insidiously that we think it's just normal.

Normal? I ask you, what is normal about paying $5 for the privilege of learning a new language to order coffee?

I was walking along and stumbled into a random shop, which, of course, was a Starbucks which had just hatched at that moment. I walked past the showcase of tempting delights to the order area. There were two women behind the counter, and two men in the barista area.

"I'd like a large decaf coffee," I said.

"Ordering," the woman announces. The three workers snap to attention to hear the order that I just gave a few feet from them. "Venti decaf."

"What?" I say.

She smiles benevolently. "Venti. Venti. You want a venti decaf."

The first barista says, "What?" The other one is busy making a Grande Skim Latte with Extra Foam. It takes as long to type that as it did for the guy to make it.

The woman is still smiling at me. "Venti. Venti." The other woman is busy waiting for this one to say, "Ordering," followed by a food order because that is how this system works.

The baristas can't start pouring coffee until she announces, "Ordering," followed by the coffee order, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE STANDING LESS THAN 6 FEET AWAY AND CAN HEAR THE ORDER THEMSELVES.

How did this happen? When did we all join the Starbucks Collective and start chanting "Venti Decaf Skim Latte with Syrup and Extra Foam" or "Grande Chai Jasmine Latte" like it was normal vocabulary? How did ordering coffee become "an experience" complete with a foreign language? Do they do this in other countries?

(French customer: "Je voudrais un grande cafe." Translation: I would like a large coffee.
French barista: "Un Big cafe. Vous voulez un Big cafe." Translation: A Venti coffee. You want a Venti coffee.)

Will we all soon sprout little Starbucks logos on our temples signifying that we have been taken into the Starbucks Collective? Is resistance is futile?

NOOOO!!! FIGHT THE IRRESISTIBILITY!!! FIGHT THE URGE TO STOP AT EVERY STARBUCKS YOU SEE!!!

Bring back the days of gum-snapping waitresses who ask, "What'll you have, hon?" before bringing you a white mug full of used engine oil from the repair shop next door!

Summer Falls, Fall Springs, Winter Lurks

2007-09-14T23:40:00.000-05:00

It's Unofficially Fall. Labor Day has passed, school has begun, and the leaves on the trees are beginning to turn. That wonderfully hot, hazy summer has decamped without so much as a see-ya-later. We're bereft, folding up bright summer T shirts and shorts, tucking away the faded swimsuits for another year.

Fall has parachuted in on top of us, rattling leaves, dropping acorns and hazelnuts with triumphant clatter.

Before the year creaks down to its harried end, let's stop and ponder:

Where are you?

1) Another year older and deeper in debt
2) Oops I did it again (whatever It is)
3) Looking forward to all the possibilities the new year will bring and preparing yourself to move forward

I'm trying hard for Number 3.

In the meantime, get ready. Winter is lurking, waiting to pounce when you least expect it.

What Have We Learned?

2007-09-13T14:52:00.000-05:00

Another September 11 passes. Finally I let myself think about that surreal day.

I was on my way to a big conference across from the State Department when I heard on the radio that a plane had gone into the World Trade Center. I assumed it was a small plane accident and kept driving. Then I heard there was another plane and thought, what's going on?

I arrived at the conference. We weren't allowed to go into the building. Finally they let us in and let the program commence. We were just into a presentation by the first speaker when we heard an explosion, far away.

Someone said, "Okay, that's it." We stopped, people walked out. Someone came in and announced that there had been a terrorist attack on the WTC and that the explosion we'd just heard was a plane going into the Pentagon.

Those of us who could, left. I drove out of the parking lot and onto the main road. For 40 minutes I inched two blocks.

But there wasn't chaos. Everyone was quiet. No one was honking. No one was trying to push into traffic. We all just sat. I could see that everyone was listening to the radio. We had all given up trying to raise anyone on our cell phones.

Suddenly traffic started to move. I drove onto the freeway, across the bridge, and onto the parkway. I saw a big plume of black smoke coming from Arlington.

I drove straight to my children's school and asked to have them released. We went home and I watched TV nonstop.

Now, after all of the loss, the sacrifice, the grief, and a war that's apparently tangentially related, I can only ask, what have we learned?

The Obesity Virus, or Food for Giants

2007-08-28T19:21:00.000-05:00

The latest scientific news is that obesity is caused by a virus that turns your cells into fat cells that hoard fat. (Yuck! They can have all my fat.) The scientists making the announcement cautioned very strongly against using this as an excuse to not exercise and eat sensibly.

I have an alternate theory to the obesity problem in the US. All of the food-preparers are cooking for giants.

That's the only explanation for my recent experience at a chain restaurant. A nice place, but not five stars in the Michelin. Not McDonalds, either. (I should have known better -- as I was walking into the place I noticed an American Coronary Association sticker on the door. I did a double take -- it really said American Culinary Association. Personally, I think the spirits were trying to warn me.)

We sat down, looked through the gazillion-item menu, and ordered. Then the Giant Food Experience began.

I knew we were in for trouble when the waiter with the food cart was preceded by a guy with flags waving his way forward. Our drinks arrived in glasses the size of oxygen tanks used by scuba divers. The rolls were the size of grapefruits. (Hagrid would have been hard put to wrap his "dustbin-lid-sized hand" around one of those babies.)

Our food came out in dishes the size of turkey platters, overflowing the edges. After an hour of non-stop eating the food looked like it might have been nibbled by a flea. For dessert I ordered layer cake which was accompanied by a signed statement from an engineer certifying that the structure was sound and would not topple over and smother me in frosting.

I looked around and saw other people struggling to eat their dinners, being cheered on by waitstaff: "How is everything? Can I get you more bread? Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

The problem is not an obesity virus. It's the Giant Food cooks in the kitchen, paid by the food industry to push more, more, MORE food on us, then turn around and guilt us into joining Weight Watchers.

I bought a lifetime membership.

Sacrifices for the Family

2007-08-27T13:39:00.000-05:00

Our family is a loving, caring family, concerned about the plight of its members, willing to make the most unselfish sacrifices to keep harm and pain from each other.

So it's common to hear these types of comments around the dinner table and in the kitchen:

Daughter: Dad, I know that red meat is bad for your cholesterol level, so I'll sacrifice myself and eat this hunk of filet mignon.

Daughter: Mom, I know you're trying to watch your weight so I'll sacrifice myself and eat this last piece of strawberry shortcake and save you from temptation.

Sometimes the solicitousness is beyond the call of duty, especially when we're at a restaurant:

Daughter: Dad, I don't want you to feel the heartbreak of being disappointed that this Peking Duck isn't as good as last time, so I'll just finish up the rest.

Of course, the parents reciprocate in kind, but not usually in the presence of the children, mainly because we don't get a chance to snatch tempting morsels from plates when they're around (age slows your reflexes).

Mother: I'll just sacrifice myself and eat all the chocolate covered cherries from this Whitman's Sampler. That liquer-flavored liquid might tempt the children into experimenting with alcohol and we have to avoid that at all costs.

Father: I'll sacrifice myself and eat the last of this ice cream. Eating fat and cholesterol from an early age can lead to heart disease later in life and I want to save my children from that at all costs.

Lately I've learned that we're not the only family that makes these kinds of sacrifices for each other.

A friend of mine discovered that her son might be visiting porn sites on the web.

Mother: (Horrified) Honey, I found these porn sites on the computer! (Suspiciously) They wouldn't happen to be yours, would they?

Father: I don't know. Let me take a look.

Sacrificing for the family!

Way Way WAAAAYYY Past the Fine Print

2007-08-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

Someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I thought, I would like five pounds to leave my body. Preferably from my mid-section.

So I perused exercise equipment online to see what would do that most effectively. There are as many aids to help you lose pounds as there are cookies to gain them. Incredible! Hundreds of things that promise to make pounds and inches melt away like magic! These things promised to give me six-pack abs, jewel-like triceps, rock-hard quadriceps, biceps like Arnold, high, round buttocks -- everything I haven't had for at least 30 years! (Well, okay, things I never had.)

I was all set to order one of these things when I noticed a problem with my computer screen. There was a little haze at the bottom of all of the websites, underneath the fine print that said "Results not typical." So I increased the image to 1400% and discovered that the haze was actually writing. In tiny font at the limit of my screen's resolution, it said:

You must use this machine at least two hours a day for at least six months to achieve results anywhere near what you're seeing. These pictures aren't of a real person but montages of body parts from at least 10 people of both sexes (that explained the unusually hairy upper arm of the woman with incredible biceps! I thought she just needed a wax). Plus, you can only eat dried vegetable protein sticks and cellulose fiber (i.e. cardboard) twice a day during this time.

WHAAAAAATTTTTTTT?????!!!!!!!! YOU MEAN I ACTUALLY HAVE TO USE THIS THING AND GO ON A DIET FOR IT TO WORK???!!! I THOUGHT YOU'D BUY THE THING AND JUST HAVING IT IN THE HOUSE WOULD SCARE THE POUNDS AWAY!!!

I decided to save my money and spend it on something really worthwhile, like a subprime mortgage.

As for the five pounds, they're still there, they've hired a lawyer to contest the eviction notice I gave them. They also recruited a couple of their friends as squatters. Lately they've been eyeing my thighs for future development potential as my mid-section gets crowded.

Men Who Shop With Women

2007-08-19T20:35:00.000-05:00

We've all seen them.

Men sitting outside dressing rooms, waiting for their women to come out and ask their opinion on the outfit they're wearing.

I've seen a lot of men sitting outside dressing rooms, and I would categorize them the following way:

1) Bored Husband: 99% of men fall into this category. They caved once while they were dating and have been paying for it ever since. You know that the first time they said yes, they were thinking to themselves, "Wow, sitting outside a dressing room full of disrobing women, yeah!!!" After they got there they realized there was no way to actually see any of the women, and a lot of those women they didn't want to see in any state of dress, including covered from head to toe in a down coat. When their wives come out and ask, "Do these pants make me look fat?" they answer, "No, dear" while thinking, "Of course they make you look fat, your thighs alone could block for the New York Giants!" They tell themselves it's worth it because, "100 more of these and I get a boat!"

2) Guy on First Dressing Room Date: See above. I want to tell these guys, "RUN!! There's no way out! It's all downhill from here!" But there they sit, a goofy look on their faces, smiling away. When the girlfriend comes out, they say, "Babe, that looks hot! Turn around!" At this point in the relationship, of course, the girlfriends ARE hot, most of them are youthful, so it's entertaining. Alas, this stage lasts a period of time inversely proportional to the remaining hotness of the girlfriend.

3) Guy Enjoying Himself Too Much: This guy is rare. He's so happy to be next to the women's dressing room, holding women's clothes, giving his opinion to anyone who might ask. He beams at every woman who passes. This guy appreciates all women. His girlfriend thinks he appreciates all women a little too much and hauls him off. The last time I saw a guy like this, he was waiting outside the lingerie dressing room while his girlfriend called out, "Honey, that last one was too small -- can you get me a D cup?" He had tears in his eyes as he looked up and mouthed, "Thank you, God." I decided to leave that store immediately.

Me, I took mercy on my husband and gave him a lifetime pass on waiting for me outside dressing rooms.

This isn't because I'm nice. It's because he gives no useful input whatsoever:

Me in a dress that makes me look like Marge Simpson in drag: "What do you think?"
Him: "Nice."

Me in a haute couture gown tailored to my every dimension so that I look like a shorter version of Nicole Kidman (if I were blonde and Australian): "Well?"
Him: "Nice."

He reached this state of No Useful Input because, after many false starts, he learned the First Rule of Husbandhood:

Never Offer Fashion Advice To Your Wife.

Ding, Dong, The Witch Is Dead!

2007-08-14T15:29:00.000-05:00

Ding, dong, the witch is dead
The witch is dead
The witch is dead
Ding, dong, the wicked witch is dead!

Of course I'm talking about Karl Rove.

Who else evokes such an evil image as the wicked, evil, odd-looking...oh, wait.

This sounds very familiar. The evil, wicked, green, misunderstood witch, Elpheba, who really is a nice girl, and whose obsession with shoes has nothing to do with fashion.

Hmm.

Maybe we were all wrong about ol' Karl. Maybe deep down inside he was really a nice guy. Maybe he wasn't really smart or devious. Maybe he wasn't Bush's Brain, the puppeteer, the Evil Force Behind the Mayhem, Darth Vader, Voldemort, the guy doing a heckuva job, all rolled into one.

Maybe it's time for a different look at Karl Rove, the Boy Genius.

It's time for Karl Rove Unplugged: Destiny (KRU:D)

Okay, but tomorrow. Right now I have to brace myself for having thoughts of Karl Rove actually floating around in my brain.

Sedation Dentistry and Spa

2007-08-07T23:01:00.000-05:00

This is a real business. I heard the ad for it.

Sedation dentistry and spa. Think of the possibilities if something went wrong.

The dentist has a bad day. You wind up with diamond-studded gold caps on your front teeth that spell out L-O-S-E-R.

The manicurist has a bad day. You wind up with inch-long porcelain nails, which, viewed in a row, depict a mural of the current presidential candidates, nude, in obscene poses.

Unbeknownst to you, they bring in a hairstylist and now you have Donald Trump combover. And you used to have Jennifer Lopez hair.

They bring in a permanent makeup artist and now your eyebrows are in permanent Mr. Spock mode.

A tattoo artist has inked a beautiful replica of his Harley on your neck. It's being ridden by Hillary Clinton. You're a fundraiser for the Republican National Committee (I can only dream...)

Whenever I hear this ad on the radio, and the perky woman promising HOW MUCH (!) you'll enjoy not being awake for your dental procedure I imagine that she's secretly a dominatrix, and that you will be photographed in humiliating positions (what am I talking about? Being in a dentist's chair IS a humiliating position!!!) for her and her buddies' pleasure.

After all, we all know that all dentists are sadists at heart. Don't believe me? Just watch Steve Martin's performance in Little Shop of Horrors.

In conclusion, STAY AWAY!!! "Sedation," "dentistry," and "spa" should not be used in the same sentence!!!

AAAAUUUGGGUST!!!!!

2007-08-01T20:47:00.000-05:00

AAAAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

It's August already!!!! The summer is running away from me!!! Fall is rushing up and then it'll be Christmas and I'M NOT READY!!!!!

I'M NOT READY!!!!! I'M NOT READY!!!!!

AAAAUUGGHHHH!!! PANIC IN THE STREETS!!! (Oh wait, it's Panic! In the Disco!)

OOOOOOOHHHH GGGGGODDDDDDD.

Stainless Steel Appliances: CSI, Anyone?

2007-07-13T10:02:00.000-05:00

I don't get the craze over stainless steel appliances.

Sleek and shiny, yes. Cool and modern, yes.

But reminiscent of a laboratory and autopsy room, also yes.

Doesn't anyone watch CSI?

Every time I see an ad for a stainless steel refrigerator, I think of the shiny doors of the body fridges in CSI, and every other police crime drama I've seen. What might be behind that gleaming door?

And now they're coming out with drawer refrigerators, just like the kind that slide out, holding you-know-what, at a morgue.

And what about stainless steel countertops, those long stretches of burnished surfaces, just ready to receive a body for autopsy?

Please. Can't we get appliances that don't make the kitchen look like a medical examiner's dream come true?

Mistaken Song Lyrics

2007-07-11T19:24:00.000-05:00

It's a good thing that I don't make a habit of singing in public. Most of my singing is done in the car, listening to the radio.

The trouble is, what with the wind rushing past the window and traffic, sometimes the words you think you hear aren't the real words.

I was listening to Journey:

And now I come to youuu
With bro-o-oken arms
Nothing to fear...

I walk into the house singing and the child looks at me.

She: "Mom? Did you just say 'broken' arms?"
Me: "Yes."
She: "Mom. It's not 'broken' arms. It's 'open' arms."
Me: "Oops."

The Intent Male

2007-07-05T20:00:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed that men have extreme singularity in their vision? They focus with laser-like intensity on the object of their interest. When they focus, anything else, particularly of the high-pitched voice variety (read: female speaking) might as well as be a gnat flying over their heads.

There is an exception to this rule. Any glimpse of female pulchritude makes their heads swivel on their necks like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

This phenomenon has not gone unnoticed by those who understand human behavior: TV sitcom writers.

I saw a promo of the King of Queens the other day. The guy was talking on the phone. The wife comes in and tries to get his attention. She's yelling, "Hello, hello, pay attention!"

Finally exasperated, she pulls up her blouse, yelling, "Hey! I want your attention!"

He does the Linda Blair imitation. The phone drops. The mouth drops. The eyes glaze.

There is one drawback to this method of attention-getting. It has a mesmerizing effect that lasts only as long as the pulchritude is visible.

As soon as the shirt lowered he went back to talking.

Laser-like focus on the object of interest.

One Hand, One Cheek Rule for Obesity

2007-07-03T11:08:00.000-05:00

The government is coming out with a new guideline for measuring obesity. You don't have to go see the doctor or take any excruciating measurements or humiliate yourself with a tape measure. It's a very simple test that you can do in the privacy of your home or in your office.

Here's how to do it:

Take your hand. Spread it open. Place it over one butt cheek.

Now, gauge how much cheek is covered by the hand.

Does it cover the entire cheek? Part of the cheek? By cover, they mean largely across the surface, using anatomical divisions for boundaries.

(What do they mean by anatomical boundaries? Use your imagination! There's a major boundary down the middle!)

If it covers 90% of the cheek, you're thin, or you have unusually large hands. If it covers 75% average, you're on the small side. If it covers 50% or less, you should be headed for the treadmill as we speak! If you can cup your entire cheek, you should be heading for the nearest ice cream store.

You can't get someone else to measure for you. It has to be your hand, your cheek, because the rule is carefully calibrated for each person.

Don't fall for any "Office Government Representative" who offers to measure for you, there's no such thing, even if they're wearing white coats.

So let's all try it.

Stand up. Take your right hand, place it on right butt cheek. Estimate coverage.

Are you obese?

No, you've been punked!

Time to Put the Cranky Chick to Bed?

2007-06-29T15:27:00.000-05:00

I am considering shutting down this blog.

There are two reasons.

One, I don't feel that cranky anymore. I'm just not in the mood to flame about stuff constantly.

Two, the site doesn't get that much traffic, with the exception of several devoted readers, all of whom are related to me or friends of offspring, whom I appreciate greatly.

About the latter, I have a feeling one reason is because I don't know how to set up my counter properly and I'm too cranky to figure out how ("put the code on every page of your blog" -- what does that mean, isn't it on every page already?). You would think that a person with a graduate degree from one of the best technical institutions in the nation could figure out how to do it but I haven't (okay, so it was the Muggle Institute of Technology. I should have known there was something wrong when instead of a computer they handed us a stick and asked us to wave it around to get to the Web.)

Another thought in the back of my head is that I'd like to blog about something that isn't cranky in nature.

But this has been a great education.

We shall see (in booming voice of doom).