more kissing for dummies

Generalization #4: The Pecker. This man—or woman, so I’m told—cannot commit to a real, long, open mouth, soul-stirring kiss. He pecks here and there like a chicken. Maybe he’s not emotionally invested in the other person. Maybe he thinks saliva is icky. Maybe he’s got a plane to catch. Maybe he’s new at this. If he does manage to pry his stingy lips apart and go in for an open-mouther, chances are he will keep his tongue to himself. Which is probably just as well.

Generalization #5: The St. Bernard. We all know one. It’s like kissing your dog after he’s had a long drink from his bowl. There is way too much wetness going on; a little drip out the side of your mouth, that bridge of spit connecting your tongues together when you part lips… when you’re done, your face looks like it’s been bobbing for apples. This is in contrast to Generalization #6: The Deserter, whose kiss is as arid as the Sahara. You know how your mouth gets dry after you smoke weed? That’s this guy: you feel his every taste bud for lack of lubrication, his tongue flipping around like a finger in your mouth, sweeping away seaweed before you are the unfortunate recipient of his mouth-to-mouth.

Generalization #7: The Hard Rock. If you had to kiss a cardboard cutout of a real person, this guy would be that. Every angle in his face is hard. His mouth is hard. He presses it against you at one speed and pressure: hard. His lips are like pencils. Pencils with teeth behind them, which you can also feel, because they, too, are hard. Hard, hard, hard.

No, I'm not done.

kissing for dummies

In honor of the Saint of Chocolatey Goodness, I could only think about one thing to write about.

Kissing.

I hadn’t really thought much about it, because up until fairly recently, kissing was something I used to do, long ago, with a husband I no longer have, and before that, with a collection of mostly ill-suited boyfriends with wildly divergent techniques. In that pantheon of past boyfriends, one-night stands, two-night stands, and other close encounters, there are a few—just a scant few—that I would honestly rank up there as good kissers.

Great kissers are even harder to find. I have found one, and I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit, and naturally it becomes a big fucking science project for me to analyze and theorize about. He tells me kissing isn’t complicated. He is right, of course. We have an understanding, I think, that we are both doing it very, very well, to a mutual melty, trancelike satisfaction. This is some of the best kissing I have ever experienced. I had forgotten how wonderful it can be.

Here’s the thing: everybody goes about it differently, of course, and great kissing is subjective. Some folks might really enjoy someone else’s bloated, fat tongue in their mouth, grazing the uvula. That’s not for me.

Let’s start with the initial encounter. A little awkwardness can be overlooked. But ya can’t both just be standing there one minute, and then zip! the guy swoops in like some unexpected fighter jet to plant one on you. This works in the movies, but in real life, one of you will invariably be knocked off balance, there will be an uncomfortable repositioning of feet and legs as you regain your footing, your teeth will crash together, and your handbag will fall off your shoulder.

Sitting next to each other, say, at the movies, presents its own perils, as you may have to twist your back in one direction while your head tilts in another, or “kisstwisting,” which can result in serious muscle spasms and cramps later on.

I think that a finger or two along the jaw, gently turning your mouth toward his, accompanied by a deep gaze into the eyes, is a rather nice way to start. Or stroking back even a few imaginary strands of hair first. Some innocuous physical touch that indicates that the kissing is about to begin.

If you really have to passionately eat each other up immediately, you miss out on all the gentle exploration that should rightly occur before, and I will bet that that wild, frenzied kissing will not be nearly as satisfying as a slow journey to get to that point.

I think there are a few generalizations that can be made about men who do bad kissing.

Generalization #1: The Man with the Swollen Tongue. This dashing gentleman somehow is able to inflate his tongue to double its normal size. I’m not talking about length here, so much as breadth. It can fill up your mouth and make breathing difficult. He can’t even really move it around in your mouth so much as he needs a tugboat to guide it. There is no room in your mouth for BOTH your tongues, so you can only attempt to keep yours out of the way while he goes on an exploratory mission. There’s a certain panic that sets in and you feel sure you will, in fact, drown in the night air.

Generalization #2: The Darter. This gentleman consistently leads with his tongue, even before your lips have met. This is totally unacceptable, unless it’s in a porno with lesbians. Imagine: your eyes are closed and your lips are slightly parted, you’re ready for that light brush of the lips (that’s where all the good nerve endings are). Instead, here’s this tongue, flipping and darting around like a garter snake. The worst of these is the man who hasn’t grasped the concept of clockwise or even counter-clockwise, but whose tongue is instead stuck in a pattern of rapid, horizontal, back and forth.

That might work on another area of the body, but the inside of the mouth is not the place.

Generalization #3: Mr. Timid. Where an overzealous man can make you wish you had a handy can of mace, Mr. Timid just…isn’t quite sure what’s going on. His lips are flaccid and unconvincing, neither too taut nor too squishy, just…non-committal. He pokes his tongue out like he’s testing the temperature with a vague, skittish, licking motion. There is no sense of urgency or desire, no heavy breathing, no sense that he is really enjoying the experience.

There’s more, but I’ve got a tomorrow to prepare for tonight. To be continued….

lavender and sawdust

It didn't take too long for me to stop giving a shit about being 50. Less than 6 months. Nobody else cares, why should I?

I only care to the degree that every day, the only thing that is guaranteed anymore is that I will get a little bit uglier. Now, before you say, "oh, stop, beauty is on the INSIDE, blah blah," that's not the point. The point is, folks DO just simply look uglier as they age. It's just a fact, and I'm ok with that. Mostly. Sometimes.

I will not be a cute little old woman with a delightful pouf of white hair and porcelain, unlined skin, smelling of lavender. No, I expect I will fall into the Bea Arthur camp of loud, lumbering old women who smell a little like sawdust and indeterminable vaginal secretions. She was nearly 50 when she starred in Maude. Lest we forget, this is what 50 used to look like:

Ok, I guess I'm not ready for camp just yet.

ham chunk

Ok, ok. I'm going to give this another shot. Another kick in the ass. Goddammit. Ok, what inane thing can I blather on about?

The fact that I hate the word luncheon? How it's just a snooty word that implies it's something more special and festive than a simple "lunch"? When in fact, all it means is that somebody will probably get up and say something demoralizing or stupid followed, maybe, by tepid, bored applause?

I recently hosted such an event for my editorial board, comprising all rich old white doctors.

You can imagine the hilarity as they shared a joke about combination therapy for multiple myeloma. Ha!

..no. There were no jokes about multiple myeloma. There were no jokes at all. Just a couple of tables of rich old white doctors telling me how I could do my job better.

The good news is, I didn't embarrass myself, and I was taller than 95% of them, which kind of gave me the gravitas I needed, as a lowly English major in a room full of rich old white doctors. Being taller also placed my cleavage a little closer to eye level, which drew attention away from the fact that part of my chocolate peanut butter tart had made a home in my lap. Ah, yes, what a delicate, well-mannered flower I am.

Anyway, it went ok; nobody got hurt or offended, or choked on a ham chunk--the missing part of the definition of a successful luncheon.

start of the second half

Day 1: If I had a nickel for every time I've heard someone say 50 is the new 30, I'd take all those goddamn nickels and hurl them violently at the person who coined the phrase.

Lots of folks have taken time out of their busy days to wish me a happy bday on Facebook, which is nice.

I took the day off from work, which is also nice, because work just sucks it.

I'm celebrating today by dropping my van off at the shop, so they can investigate this jerky phenomenon in what I believe is the transmission. But I know about as much about cars as I do about quantum physics, so it's probably just a dead cat stuck in the engine.

Later, the ladies and I are lunching. Somewhere. We don't know when or where. That's how we roll.

Then Jeremy might have a game, depending on the weather. The most important game of the season! So I won't be needing that birthday manicure, for I will have chewed all my nails off.

I'm off to bathe and have the birthday. I'll be back.

minutes after 50

Ok, wow. It's 47 minutes after 12 a.m, June 16. And I am now officially 50 years old.

Yeah. Doesn't quite roll off the tongue, does it?

Fifty. The other f-word.

Your tongue is barely involved with that word, it's all teeth and lips, sharp consonant edges and harsh air. Lends itself well to cursing.

Because I am now officially 50, I am suddenly old and sleepy and I'm not going to drone on here, now at 12:55, about the angst, the regret, and the aches and pains of middle age. No, I'll save that for a book. A funny book. A darkly funny book that chronicles the year after 50. Maybe with cartoons. And I'll use some of this blog stuff. I can do that, right?

So folks will know that 50 sucks, but it's manageable. Perhaps, if I say it here, on my very little-read little public blog...maybe I'll be compelled to really do it.

OK?

the future is a pink jacket

I saw my future in a Kohl's dressing room last week.

I have a bit of a small, inconsequential habit of talking to myself. Not loudly, not so folks can clearly hear but...I might let a couple words slip out if I'm thinking. It's not a crime, yet. I do tend to complain out loud a bit more, if I can't find something in my size. For instance, I might say,

"Oh, sure, size 2. Who the FUCK wears size 2? Seriously? Nobody. So why even stock them? Why is it always on the very infrequent times that I actually buy clothes in a store, that my size is always gone? And look. THESE are supposed to be longs? Really? REALLY? Christ, these don't even reach my fucking ankles. 'Longs.' Hah. What a joke. Nothing fits me, ever. I don't know why I bother trying. There's never clothes long enough for me and my monkey limbs. Ohhhh, but there's always plenty of size fucking 2s to go around. Plenty! Look at 'em all! What the hell is WRONG with these people?"*

On this particular day, however, I was mumbling stuff like, "Uh, that color. Not for me." And "Sleeves are too short." I want that on my tombstone: "Her sleeves were too short."

All in all, pretty benign stuff.

But then, on the other side of the rack, there's this woman. She's got frizzy, salt and pepper hair and a slouchy hat and a pink jacket. I can't really see her face. She's carrying on a conversation, full of sentences and pauses, as if she's talking to someone on the phone. I glance at her briefly, she looks a little disheveled, and figure she's on her cell. Except, I don't see one. She doesn't SOUND particularly crazy, but I think she just might be.

So I gather up some ill-fitting stuff and go into the dressing room.

Presently, someone comes into the dressing room and takes the stall next to me, even though all the other stalls are empty, which irritates me enormously. And this person starts talking. Like she's having a conversation. She describes each thing as she tries it on. She talks about wearing it at a party, and how it will look once on. Each item of clothing, described in painstaking detail. With pauses in between sentences.

Again, these folks with cell phones in the store are hijacking my mellow shopping vibe! I'm listening closely, listening for some sign that she's actually on a phone. Maybe a distant voice on the other end, maybe some muttering about not being able to hear...something? And then she just continues on, rambling about what she's going to prepare for dinner, and this and that...at this point, I look beneath the stall, and notice a pink jacket on the floor.

It's the woman from the clearance rack. She isn't talking to anyone on any phone. It's now clear that she's in the Kohl's, just trying on stuff to pass the time, having a very real conversation with an imaginary friend on an imaginary cell phone. She's chosen the stall next to me, above all the other empty ones. And she's droning on and on to nobody in particular, and I recall all the times my kids have asked me "who are you talking to?"

She's a harbinger of my future. And my future wears a pink jacket.

*actual recorded conversation

today's pet peeve

"Enjoy!"

"Wow. Enjoy!"

"You are invited to view my online photos at the Gallery. Enjoy!"

"They created this amazing stunt with just two rehearsals. Enjoy!"

"I love the sentence about our arms..."flying squirrels in drag!"... LOL! READ ON. ENJOY!"

"I didn't think this was funny but I knew you would.......so enjoy!"

"Enjoy!"

These are just a few things from my inbox. Do you see what's going on here?

It's clearly a conspiracy to get me to enjoy!

Not just enjoy, but there's an unspoken GODDAMMIT after it.

ENJOY, GODDAMMIT!

If I wanted to enjoy! I think I'd know how to do it. I don't really need someone telling me I have to do it. Let the hilarity of yet another round of "people of Wal-Mart" or the alleged latest words of wit and wisdom from still dead Erma Bombeck and George Carlin and Andy Rooney..what's that you say? He's not dead? Really?...let that wild and wacky humor unfold and blossom like a flower in my inbox, revealing itself in such a way that I have NO OTHER ALTERNATIVE but to ENJOY! and LOL!

BAHAHAHA, because certainly, whatever you sent, especially if it's a FWD, is so absurdly comical that I need that reminder. I might forget to enjoy! So thanks for that, goddammit.

i'm only doing this once

Well, I know I'm in trouble when my mother admonishes me for not keeping this up. She's right of course, as (mostly) always.

I suppose if there were something new and wonderful and different to report...I'd do that.

Or perhaps a calamity. A disaster. A tragedy.

Or something sincerely and deeply meaningful. An epiphany.

Maybe all these things have happened and have passed me by and I didn't notice. Maybe that's the tragedy. I didn't notice.

Instead of really taking the time to enjoy the hush and quiet of nearly 2 feet of snow, I snarled about having to go out in it. When the snow weighed heavily on my front bushes, bending them low to the ground, disheveling the lights...I made no attempt to fix them. They're just out there now, hanging with no thought and no attempt to delight.

On Christmas I missed taking a picture of Jeremy when he opened his present from Evan, a "Young and Reckless" t-shirt, some skateboard lingo I have no idea, nor do I care, what it means. But when he unwrapped it, this crooked grin--he refused to outright smile, showing teeth--crossed his face, betraying his cool demeanor and his resolve NOT to let on how much he'd wanted it.

I missed that picture.

Stuffing the stockings with a golden dollar came easier this year because of our trip to NYC, which I'll try posting about later. I had some left over. But the dollars were just a prop, just one more tradition that I had to think about, and DO something about...rather than just enjoy.

I'm glad to see 2009 go, frankly. It got off to a very shaky start and settled into a yearlong ennui that accompanied a general low nagging level of discontent...and also brought about separation and guilt. Sometimes timing is everything. It brought to light the fact that I am not perfect and that I cannot please everyone all the time, and this was a difficult pill for me to swallow.

Even in 2009. The last of my 5th decade. You'd think I'd have that figured out by now. Wait. Is that right? Do I have to do the math?

Anyway. The end of the year was unusual in a lot of ways...new old friends reappeared, some surprises, good and bad. As my family grows smaller, my friends--close and far-flung--are there to fill the gaps and I am very grateful to have them in my little sphere of life.

Sometimes it just takes too much energy to be cynical. So for 2010...well, I don't know how it'll go. I don't want to go into it with any preconceived idea of what I want, what it should be, setting it up already to disappoint as it goes on. This year, I just want it to unfold and enjoy it for what it is.

More time.

big cheeks

Ok, just write, just write, just write.

No politics. That's making me crazy.

My boys think nothing about making fun of the way I look. They especially seem to enjoy poking fun at me and whatever added fat I might have accumulated in the last few decades. They will poke at my belly and make "boing boing" noises; they will howl if I run, pointing and laughing at my rather generous, middle-age bosom; they will flap my batwings with glee.

I go along with this, this ritual of being poked and prodded, because it seems to give them obvious, if not rather sadistic pleasure. It makes them laugh. And moms, you know, we're always self-sacrificing.

The latest round of physical humiliation at the hands of my children came the other night, when I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when Jeremy asks me to hold my breath, with "big cheeks."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Just because, c'mon, just do it. C'mon."

Hard to argue with that kind of persuasion. So I did what I was told.

Jeremy comes up and slaps both hands against my cheeks, forcefully expelling the air inside with a farty-sounding "thwat."

He howls. Evan laughs in a way I haven't heard him laugh for a long time. Hilarity ensues as each child repeats this with my cheeks at least a half dozen times. Doing the math, quickly inside my head, that means I just sat there and allowed my boys to whack my inflated cheeks more than a dozen times, accompanied by cries of "Again!" "Again!" and followed by doubled-over laughter. I mean, they're 12 and 15, for pete's sake.

What other bodily noises will I be expected to make for their amusement as they grow older? I mean, I already taught them how to belch long ago. What more do they want?

head for the hills

Wow, I had no idea I could offend so many people with so...little. It's easy to lob those criticisms anonymously.

So I'll move on.

I'm getting ready to pile 2 big kids and 1 big dog into my big honking, gas-guzzling momvan and head to the Shenendo'h valley for some...well, I'd like to think it was R and R, ...if "R and "R" stands for "arrrrgh" and "arrrrrrrgue".

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will be an excursion that is full of adventure and happy surprises. The boys will be nice and helpful, the dog won't puke in the van, the van will behave and get us to our destinations without incident.

Happy trails.

crotchtastic

ok, godammit, I'm posting.

This week, Jeremy took a spill off his new BMX bike. A driveway took a couple chunks of flesh and sinew and connective tissue out of his knee. I took him to the ER on Wednesday, where they sewed him up with a few stitches. He can't really bend his leg yet, to protect his stitches.

While we were waiting in an ER cubbie, a dad and a little kid entered the cubbie next to us. It sounded like they'd been in a car accident. They seemed ok, but the longer they sat in there, the more excitable and impatient the kid became.

"I'm going to be ok, Dad, right? I'm going to be ok. I don't need no doctor."

mumblemumble, said Dad.

"My heart will make me better. So will my memories."

"Yeah, yeah." Some talk about mom being pregnant.

"And mom...when she has the new baby they'll have to put her crotch back together!" the kid said, loudly and knowingly.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," sighed dad. Jeremy and I looked at each other and stifled a giggle.

That's pretty much how it works when you give birth naturally. Your crotch stretches and contorts to make way for this watermelon-sized being and then, if you're lucky and you do your kegels, it snaps back into shape, ready for adventure.

It has been recently suggested to me that what I had previously posted here would make a teenage boy's blood curdle, to suggest that his mother was somehow injured during childbirth.

While I really, really don't like the idea that I need to edit myself because someone complains about the content here (oddly, since it's pretty clear that nobody reads the damn thing) I have done just that because I admit perhaps I don't fully understand how a teenage boy's brain works regarding his mother. And in the very off-chance that Boo would actually read this entry, I have deleted most of it to shield him from imagery that, I'm told by more than one grown man, might offend him.

I wonder if Madonna has these issues.

Anyway, ER kid, if you're reading this, don't worry about your mom's crotch. It can take care of itself.

ackkkk

Good GOD, I need to post something. But what? WHATTTTT??

I am completely tapped out. Utterly useless. Totally benign. My head is like an empty plastic milk jug.

animeNext!

I'm sitting in the bar at the Double Tree hotel and conference center in New Brunswick, host of the AnimeNext! convention.

Brief explanation: Anime is Japanese cartoons. Like Speed Racer and Astro Boy, but apparently more hip, although, truly, to a 12-year-old girl, Speed Racer was kind of hot, even if the thin lines of his animated lips only moved up and down to accommodate the English language, rather than form themselves around every vowel and consonant.

Manga is the graphic novel version of anime. Both platforms boast many of the same characters, one of the most recognizable being those from the Naruto series or Avatar. Avatar: The Last Airbender, is in live action production, directed by M. Night Shyamalan for release in 2010.

I am here in the bar because it's hot outside and there are a zillion kids moving about, up to maybe age mid-20s, here for this convention, and the lobby is crowded and stifling.

Last year when I brought Evan here for the MangaNext! convention, I was a tad hungover from Halloweening at the Nutty Professor's; consequently I forgot to bring things to keep me amused, like books or the puter or my phone or my driver’s license. So I spent a couple of hours in the parking lot, napping. I am a model of exemplary parenting.

But this time I came prepared and not hungover: I've got the Mac, snacks, 2 books, my filing cabinet so I could file a bagful of bills, and I even cleaned the trash out of the van. I mean, we're here for a good, what, 8-10 hours, anyway, and for the price, it ought to include a hotel room and room service and complimentary massage.

These conventions are extremely well-run and well-staffed. For the fringe element I imagine this thing attracts, I'm amazed at the amount of things they have for these kids to do/see/hear. Most attendees dress as their favorite anime character, or perhaps whatever character's costume is currently on sale, because most of these come from Japan or China and they ain't cheap.

Some of them wear their own elaborate creations; others are bought by parents who are too lazy or uninspired to help their kids make their own. Guilty as charged.

Attendees have these "cosplays," in which they perform skits; they have fighting demonstrations using foam and plastic weapons, and they all go around hugging each other.

This year, Evan is Haku, who was a villager from the land of Water from the Avatar series. His character is rather androgynous and has long black hair. He later became a Ninja after meeting Zabuza Momochi. Haku has the kekkei genkai ability of Ice Release, which allows him to control two types of nature chakra. He can control both Water and Wind chakra; this gives Haku the ability to use Ice chakra, a mixture of the two.

I have no idea what I just wrote.

In any event, this is Evan's character:


He dies early on in the series, so girls yell “Haku!” and come up to him and give him sorrowful hugs. Girls here seem to be especially empathetic to characters that die.

Here's the thing: this is about as geeky a convention as you’ll find. But fortunately you won't find any fat balding Yodas or middle age Sith-types here. It's all kids. White kids, black kids, all nationalities. All oddly dressed, all geeky and probably pretty smart, happily sharing character stories and adventures.

There is no hint of self-consciousness in these kids. They mill about in their pink platform boots and swirling robes, colorful masks and wings and orange spiky hair and, for some, tails, among the regular hotel guests. It's a chance for me to see kids who are, at least for today, a little like Evan, and share his interest in this world I don't understand. I love Evan a little more because of this.

shout out

I'd like to give a shout out to Helen Mae, always and forever first lady of Wenonah, for coming to my defense at a funeral of someone I didn't know.

This will make sense to no one but H, and surely Helen Mae probably doesn't have a blog, much less a facebook or a twitter account, and she will never see this, but, just in case: thank you, Helen Mae. You're a classy lady.

the perfect trip to wawa

I stopped into Wawa tonight after Remy's game. They won 6-4, and he wanted what he calls a wet pretzel--a pretzel with that kind of slimy coating on it from the humidity or whatever. And I needed half and half for my morning coffee.

So I parked and went in, and went to the atm because I had to get money out.

I'm standing at the machine and this familiar clangy guitar comes on, rather loudly, for the Wawa...and it goes

der der der der dederdederdederdeder

der der der der dederdederdederdeder

and then the happy drums and tambourine..

The Las: There She Goes.

A modern classic, in my mind, and you don't hear it much anymore. Any song that makes you move your head right and left like that one dancing girl from the dance scene during the play rehearsal in A Charlie Brown Christmas, when Schroeder's playing the piano...she just goes right to left, while Sherman shrugs his shoulders up and down, and Snoopy, well, he's got happy feet.

Anyway, I stand there, making my transaction, grinning from ear to ear, head bobbing back and forth at the atm. Singing. Just a little.

So I get my half and half, searching for one with a late date (they call women like me "milk maids") and then go up to the counter, grinning, to the pretzel thing, get Remy's wet pretzel and place the items on the counter. For once, I am FIRST and ONLY in the Wawa line, there is no one ahead of me, with their hot dogs and Gatorade and too-sweet, machine-made cappufrappuchinos, asking for smokes and a money order and digging through their pockets for change. I am alone at the counter.

The checker says something to me, but I am totally not paying attention. It's the Las, for crissakes, don't talk to me now!

I finish paying, and the song is ending: There She Goes....there she goes...there she goes....

and I left. Perfect timing.

iced

Why is it that a regular coffee can cost, say, $1.00?

Add a few ice cubes, and it's $1.69.

I went to the WaWa recently for an iced coffee. They have a machine that dispenses pre-made cappuccino and "iced coffee." Or something like it. It's all too sweet for me. So I got a cold cup, put some ice in, poured in some extra double mighty strong hot coffee, added some milk and a whisper of Splenda, stirred it up, put a lid on it, stuck a straw in the "x", and headed to the counter.

The counter gal charged me for an "iced coffee."

"Uh, this is just coffee-coffee," I explained.

"An iced coffee," she offered.

"Well, it started out as a hot coffee. Then I put my own ice and milk and Splenda and stirred it up. It LOOKS like an iced coffee, but it's really a hot coffee with ice."

She considered that for a moment.

"Really. I made it myself. It's not from the machine." I looked hopefully at her, sending thought beams into her head that said, "hot coffee with ice, hot coffee with ice...must...charge...hot coffee price."

"Ok." She charged me for hot coffee, no ice.

Sheesh. I don't know when or why iced coffee became so popular. It's like nobody ever drank it, nobody ever thought to put ice into hot coffee, and now you can buy it anywhere. It's like the prostitute of beverages. Overpriced, sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, and you can buy them at the corner.

clown vomit

I've been MIA for awhile.

Here's what's happened in the last, say, 3 months:

Son: hospitalized twice. Hold your phone calls, he's ok.

Ok. I said 2008 had been the worst year ever, but then, here's 2009, threatening to TOP it.

Now that I have these rather life-changing events in my rear-view mirror, I can try to devote a little more time to caustic comments about my colleagues, shopping, and cultural and political mores.

It's like waking up with a hangover, but I'll give it a try.

It's no secret I hate shopping. I hardly ever shop, and when I do, I generally hate it. But here's one more reason to hate it:

Every shirt out there for women looks like a big, poofy airbag that a clown threw up on.

Honest to frigging GOD, WHO designs this shit? A bunch of anorexic designers huddle around the table like witches. They take these giant, gauzy potato sacks, wrap the sleeves in elastic, creating these poufy michelin man sleeves, and then perhaps a string of elastic at the bottom, so the effect is rather like wearing a psychedelic trash bag ...oh for the love of GOD, I can't even DESCRIBE what these things look like because they're so ugly.

And you can SEE through a lot of these things. If you can get past the blinding colors and patterned rainbow vomit patterns, you'll notice that you can see bras and skin and everything underneath. So what do you do, wear a camisole? What's the point of wearing something light and gauzy if you have to layer it with a camisole beneath? Kind of eliminates the cooling effect of the cottony-poly-nylon whatever blend of the shirt, yeah?

BTW. Will SOMEBODY please make a short sleeve shirt that actually covers my bat wings? Thank you.

Jeebus, I hate clothes today. Nothing looks good on me. I'm too tall. And not skinny enough.

Anyway. Clearly I am way out of the fashion loop this year. And every year. And I suppose that's where I will stay.

here's your link, Mike!

I'm a bad blogger.

Mike has had a terrible time losing money while trying to obtain a hypoallergenic cat. I've linked to his blog detailing how he and many others have been ripped off by this thieving, conniving outfit. Please see the link at right to avoid his plight.

I can sympathize. When I looked for a dog, all I knew was that I wanted to adopt one, but I had no idea what I wanted. A labradoodle seemed like a good choice, tempermentally, and it was a bonus that they allegedly don't shed. I had a poodle growing up, so I knew they don't shed.

Well.

The adoption organization was on the up and up, fortunately. But what started out as a modestly sized puppy grew up into a beast about 5 times bigger than I'd imagined, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and sheds like...sheds like...a, oh I don't know. A giant, hairy, sheddy cat. All year, all the time, all over the house.

He's a great dog, and I don't care that he sheds. I like the way his feet smell.

In the meantime, this is what I saw today in the WaWa parking lot at, like, 8 am:

That's right. It's the Green Hornet car, or at least a version of it. It was playing the TV theme song from under the hood.

That was kind of weird to see that early in the morning.

guyz 2 men

A couple of things have been bothering me. I'll start with this one:

The Cialis ads and their ilk bug me just because they seem to be disguised as promos for bad soft core porn movies. But now we have the ads for Flomax. Men together at the ball game, playing golf, kayaking..they're like women wearing tampons. (And how does one "wear" a tampon, anyway? On one's head?) Next thing you know, they'll be riding horses and doing gymnastic splits, to emphasize that SOMETHING SINISTER is going on with their crotch area.

That something, of course, is that they have a weak stream.

A mere dribble of a stream.

I don't know much about urology, but I'm guessing, given all the fun these gentlemen miss out on--like the foul ball catch or having their picture taken with a Hooters girl--because they're always running to the bathroom, that this is a problem. They feel like they have to go all the time, but then don't get the relief of a piss with the velocity of a power washer. They dribble. So I guess I can understand why a man wouldn't want to mount the pommel horse or ride a Harley, if that's how he felt.

But the bigger problem with this is that they're "guys."

These old men are referred to as "guys" in the commercial. Not "men." To me, the word "guys" evokes a certain playful youthfulness and free spirit perhaps belonging to males younger than, say, 50, with adequately functioning water works. Guys are dreamy, they wear baggy jeans and tees and they're in love with love and metal and music. Men have baggage and history and wrinkles and grey and experience.

Sometimes men are wonderful. I'll use the Phillies as an example: Chase Utley: guy. Jamie Moyer: man.

I just don't like the advertising industry taking this fun, happy word and turning it into something that applies to old men who can't piss right. I understand why, of course. It's us damn baby boomers. We don't act our age. Admittedly, the guys I used to hang out with back in the day...I can't bear to call them anything but guys, and they're all in their 50s . They should be men by now.

By rights, then, I am close to being a "woman." But until I hit that mark, I think I'll stay a gal.