Friday, September 28, 2007

rigged erections

I need to totally change gears before I blow a gasket.

The Cialis commercials are really creeping me out. I guess now with football season upon us, so, too, will be more and more Cialis commercials.

The generic name for Cialis is tadalafil. As in, "Hey, honey, I have an erection. Ta-da!"

According to its website, Cialis improves the chance that a man will at least have one successful intercourse attempt. Multiple attempts per dose have not been studied.

Now, how would they study that? Wouldn't that be like watching porn? How would the conversation in the study lab go?

"OK, Steve, you've made a successful attempt at intercourse. Congratulations. You didn't....quite...get there, but you tried. Ok, now, I want you to keep trying."

"But I'm tired. I don't want to."

"Keep trying! You can do it, big guy! Millions of women worldwide are depending on you! C'mon, Steve, women love this stuff. C'mon, give it another shot. That's good. A little more to the left."

According to the website, Cialis has many benefits:

  • Works for up to 36 hours.
  • And, it also works fast.

How do you control that?

"Well, I don't want to have sex now for crissakes, but look: here's an erection. I wanted an erection 36 hours from now. What the HELL am I going to do with this? I'm in the frigging beer line at the ball game!"

It also

  • Works effectively. As opposed to working ineffectively.
  • No need to plan around meals. Great! You won't have to buy her dinner first!
  • Lets you choose when the moment's right (for both you and your partner)

Believe me, your partner wants nothing to do with it.

I think the commercials creep me out because the guys all seem like these lecherous, horny old men. And their women are all fawning over this magic, mammoth hard-on. Then there's the porn movie music playing in the background.

And then, in one commercial, the spent, happy, post-coital couple is inexplicably lounging around in his-n-her matching claw-foot bathtubs on the rocky shore.

Him: "Ahhh, wasn't that a fabulous ROMP, dear?"

Her: "Whatever." Rolls eyes, heaves big sigh.

Him: "Let's try making multiple attempts, shall we?"

Her: "Hmmmm. I don't think so. That hasn't been studied. I wouldn't want you to break anything."

I feel like I need a bath after watching these commercials. I'm not sure who they're designed for: guys don't pay attention to this crap on TV. As for me, well, the only horny, middle-age guy I want to see running around naked with a hard-on is Viggo. (And he does in Eastern Promises, but he gets beat up in a Russian bath house knife fight. What a waste of full frontal nudity.)

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

more yelling

I'm not sure how the discussion came around to dead jews and slavery...according to one lady, we have a choice. Yay!

Yup. "Nobody likes war, but sometimes it's necessary." I'd like this gentleman to explain why, exactly, this particular war in Iraq is "necessary."

And then Bush has the nerve to say we still--still--need to be patient, and he needs $200 billion to fund more "necessary" war...yet there's not enough money for the SCHIP program? He's a fucking lunatic! Can't we just...coup, or something?

Ok, I've effectively raised my blood pressure for the day.

Monday, September 24, 2007

hi. i'm a friend of osama's...

...he said to say "hi," and to please return his jock strap when you're done with it. He only has the one and winter's coming.

What's that about Bush being a "uniter, not a divider?" Delusional neocon twits.

The only Osama picture I saw was one that said: "Osama's free. Are we?"

Still working on the video; may repost ..

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

this is what democracy looks like

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Boo and I took the train to DC; his first trip on a “real” train. We hoofed it to the Capitol and then to the Mall. I didn’t think to look online to find out exactly where the anti-war protest march would be. I thought, hey, it’s DC. There’s the Mall. Where else would it be?

So we saw some folks gathered around a stage, flags flying…but there were only maybe 200 or so. THIS didn’t look like some grand protest march! My heart sank. Then I looked closer and saw the Harley jackets, the gnarly, mostly middle age white men milling about, and heard a faint whiff of country music, then I knew: it was a protest to protest the protest march!

We hightailed it from there to Lafayette Park, in front of the White House, where many more people had assembled, somewhere between 60,000 and 100,000 altogether. I felt tingly—no kidding, I got goose bumps—when I saw the signs. It was electric. People of all ages, colors, religions, political leanings, galaxies, genders (two, possibly three), and species (dogs and children) had gathered to protest the war and the Bush administration. Spontaneous chants of “Hey Hey, Ho Ho, Bush and Cheney have got to go!” and “Impeach!” and “Shame!” filled the air.

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If you can't read it, the Hitler button quote is: What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.

This is what it felt like when I was in DC for the Million Mom March several years ago. That electricity you feel when you’re part of a large group with a common bond. And you're all pissed.

We listened to Ralph Nader (who was actually quite good), Cindy Sheehan, and some Iraq war vets, who were, to me anyway, the most moving. These guys are not only courageous, but are taking a risk by speaking out. They’ve frigging been there; they KNOW what it’s like, unlike our Chimp-in-Chief. They led the way as we moved along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol.

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…to be continued. Maybe with video!

Friday, September 14, 2007

dubya's got company

Boo and I are headed to DC Saturday to participate in the "big" protest march against...well, everything Bush has ever said or done. Perhaps it might not be quite appropriate to bring a nearly 13-year-old to a protest march, but he's willing and I think it's important for kids to know what's going on in their world. In 5 years, if there's a draft, I'll be damned if my boys will participate in Bush's war. We'll leave the country, like Alec Baldwin threatened to do.

Oh, wait. He's still here.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

yay, more bloodletting

After finally getting off the coumadin and wolfing down a bunch of meat, I was able to give blood again recently.

My bloodletter was a guy named Josh (or Justin, or Jesse, or Jake, or some other J-name that many 20-something boys seem to have). He was nerdy but cute enough. And chatty.

We talked of many things. The air circulator thing in the church was howling and making all this racket, and at one point it settled down. At which time he said, "Yay, it stopped."

"You said 'yay'," I said.

"Yeah. I say it a lot."

"I do TOO!" I exclaimed, my blood filling the bag at a record pace. "Just yesterday, I called about some x-rays, and they told me they were done, and I said, 'YAY' they're done!'"

"Yeah, but do you say it sincerely, or sarcastically?"

"Hmm. Good question. I'd say about 80% sincerely. I say it a lot."

"I'd say I say it about 70% sincerely. But my friends seem to say it more often sarcastically."

We talked about "yay" for awhile. And I do say it a lot. But it's not just me; more and more people are saying "Yay" for various reasons. "Yay, I'm going shopping, yay!" "Yay, I just put on 5 pounds." "Yay, the stupid trash men left the cans in the street again!" "Yay, we'll be in Iraq forever!" "Yay, I found a $5 dollar bill in my pocket!"

Listen, and you'll hear it.

I filled the bag in less than 5 minutes (Josh told me they like an average of 5 to 7 minutes), because I constantly squeeze on the squeezy thing to keep the flow going. He seemed impressed.

"Wow, NICE," he said. "You can lay down for me anytime."

At this point, after talking about "yay" and music and the Titanic, I wondered if he was just flirting with me. I overlooked the common grammatical error(lie/lay) and I took the bait.

"Only if you buy me dinner first."

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

falling trees

Another 9/11, reminding me that I can never hang my laundry outside without looking up at the sky, remembering how clear and blue it was that day six years ago; a kiss of autumn in the air.

I think God's probably pissed at us humans because we're mostly such horribly idiotic stewards of the earth and each other. For some reason, he decided to take a little terrorist action on my laundry line.

Yup. Nothing like a huge limb inexplicably dropping off an even more enormous oak tree to make you wake up and smell the fabric softener.

I think the national psyche will always be a little on edge on 9/11. But I don't waste a lot of time worrying about terrorists "following" us here. We've got quite enough local terrorists to go around.

The psycho neighbors, for example, and these mysterious late night prank phone calls we've been getting.

Or, today, some misanthrope decides to call in a few bombscares to the local county courthouse, thus putting one's children in "lockdown" mode at school.

Or, today, a homicidal escapee from the nearby mental hospital is reportedly roaming the local streets.

See? I don't need to look for terrorists abroad. They're literally in my backyard.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

no surprises here

Another one of those dorky tests, but according to the results, taking it does not make me an uncool nerd. says I'm a Cool Non-Nerd.  What are you?  Click here!

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

what's a colorado bulldog?

The rest of the Viagra Falls trip was mostly uneventful, except:

1: We didn't fall from the gorge-spanning, 100-year-old aero car and plunge into the swirling rapids below us, as I expected.

2: We didn't pay for a second day of transportation aboard the people mover, which was, well, illegal to do. We spent the day nonchalantly sneaking on and off, wearing hats or taking them off to confuse the drivers.

3: We saw aliens.

4: A hotel fire alarm awakened us at about 2:30 am Saturday; this ear-splitting, beeping warning coming from the ceiling speaker, with the rather vague announcement that, well, the alarm had been sounded, and they're "investigating." Just in case, you know, we might have been SLEEPING and couldn't fully understand what this horrifying sound was. They were "investigating." Well, what the hell does THAT mean? A FIRE? Should we EVACUATE? A terrorist attack? What the HELL is happening?

After some discussion, I decided we ought to evacuate, at least give the boys a chance to see responsible adults in action. Fortunately, many other people chose to do the responsible adult thing and we all stood around the hotel grounds...looking up at the other suckers still in their rooms with the smug certainty they were going to be overcome by some poisonous gas or something.

And we stood. And stood. Finally, after no official word from anyone, we collectively shrugged and went back in. Those still in their rooms pointed at us, laughed, and promptly went back to sleep.

5. My purse was stolen. I swear, it was in the desk drawer, cleverly hidden from the maid, but then we saw a strange guy hovering around the cleaning cart as we were leaving for the day, and when we returned, my purse was GONE!

I immediately reported it to the hotel manager, who was patient and kind and worked with me on it. He brought up a guy who collects data from the key cards, showing when the door was opened. He patiently asked me to go over my morning activities and if there was any other possible explanation. There was none, as far as I was concerned.

Clearly, he recognized me for what I was: a dumb American middle-age blonde caught in a perimenopausal fog. They found the purse later that evening. I had left it in the dining room at breakfast.

Other than that, just the usual stuff:

Saturday, September 01, 2007


While in Niagara Falls, the boys hounded us about going to Hooters.

“We’re on vacation. Puh-leeze?”

“I’m not sure Hooters is…uh, appropriate for boys your age.”

What was I thinking? Of COURSE it’s appropriate. Hooters is appropriate for boys of any age!

So we trudged off to Hooters. It was nearly empty. A very pretty blonde Hooter greeted us warmly and showed us to a table. She was wearing the Hooters uniform of a tight white top and tight orange short shorts, made of some unforgiving space age latex/nylon/polyester material. And then the heavy, camouflaging pantyhose under the shorts—a timeless look since 1983. She took our drink orders.

A minute later, another Hooter--this one brunette with a schnozz like Jimmy Durante—asked us for our drink orders. She was rather buxom, but we were hoping for the blonde.

“We just told the blonde,” I said.

She looked puzzled. I’d confused her.

“Uh, well, ok then.” She then left for a good long while, and eventually, after we started twisting our heads around the room looking for her, she returned.

The kids ordered. The dh and I weren’t hungry, but in the spirit of Hooters, ordered 10 wings.

She looked concerned. “Are you sure? That’s not a lot of food.” Judging from her muffin top, I could understand her thinking that.

“Well, we just ate not too long ago,” I said.

“But that’s not enough for two people.”

“It’s ok. Really.” She looked at us like we were insane. Then she changed gears. “What can I get you to drink?”

Again with the drink order. I'd had a bad raspberry daquiri before, and now I wanted a Pepsi. I asked for a Pepsi.


“A Coke. A Pepsi. Whatever you have.”

“Ok.” She walked away. She returned 10 seconds later.

“I’m sorry. What did you say you wanted to drink?”

“Coke. Pepsi. Whatever.”

Five minutes later, she returned with our drinks. I got water.

An eternity after that, during which time people who had arrived well after we did were halfway through their own meals, our food arrived.

Boo’s hot dog was twisted and brown. Remy’s fries were cold. The plate of 10 wings looked like they had been sitting under a heat lamp for the last week or two. We didn’t want them fried, but that’s how they arrived. Fried under a big hot sun, so very, very fried. Arguably the worst wings I’ve ever had anywhere. In fact, the entire dining experience was probably the worst I’ve had in a long time.

We ate them anyway. We picked at the crispy fried skin and fat. In the spirit of Hooters.

The boys begged me for Hooters shirts, and I reluctantly bought them so they could get them autographed.

“Can you ask them?” Remy asked me.

“Nope. You wanted the shirts, you ask for the autographs.” Remy got all giggly and awkward, but joined his older brother to get autographs from these lamely famous Hooters.

“Breast wishes!” wrote Miranda.

“What’s up, hot stuff?” wrote Nicole.

“These Hooters girls think you’re a cutie!” wrote Jasmine, to Boo.
Yeah. Guess now the boys are big Hooters fans.