Whereas, "same sex" unions will cause a Gay Apocalypse, with "horses" and "riders" and everything, but we don't really have any evidence of that, so we're just going to make some shit up and then throw in an example of a gay high school student that has nothing to do with civil unions, but we sure do think it's scary; and

Whereas, we loves us some Rick Santorum, but not in THAT way; and

Whereas, gay people don't really want to make permanent commitments to each other or have things like hospital visitation rights, because they're just trying to make fun of us, and it's not our fault we don't know the difference between Gucci and Prada; and where all married heterosexuals are monogamous, including us, except for at that one office party, but that doesn't count, because we were really drunk; and where everyone knows that gay people have lots and lots of sex with lots and lots of other gay people, and promiscuity is bad for society unless we're the ones getting laid; and

Whereas, a penis fits nicely within a vagina; where it has been revealed throughout the ages by various deities, some fake, one real, that a penis fits nicely within a vagina; and where the failure to be awed by that truth is bad for the sacred union of penises and vaginas; and

Whereas, we wish gay people would be gay where our kids can't see them being all faggy, because watching people be gay makes regular folks--except us--want to be gay; and where our children must be protected from the tractor beam of gayness; and

Whereas, gay people can already give their stuff to other gay people, and we're ignoring things like tax laws here, because gay people probably don't pay their taxes anyway; and where gay people contribute to the moral decay of society by convincing our youths to become "male ice skaters" or "feminists" or "independent filmmakers"; and where didn't you hear us when we were talking about the lots and lots of sex that all gay people have; and where we have to stop them, for God's sake, I mean, give them an inch, and they'll take six; now, therefore

Be it enacted by the General Assembly of Virginia:

1. That the Code of Virginia is amended by adding in Chapter 2 of Title 20 a section numbered 20-12.1 as follows:

§ 20-12.1. Marriage; legislative findings.

The General Assembly finds that the public policy of the Commonwealth of Virginia is best expressed by the phrase, "Marriage: It's what's for dinner. As long as dinner is hot dogs and bagels."

There is a house along one of the routes Jeff and use to walk the dogs; we call it the "cat house." That's because there are always multiple cats in the front yard. We've made a habit of counting them as we pass, and we've seen up to eight or nine cats at a time perched in various spots. One of them is almost always sitting in a wrought iron bench near the front patio; this is obviously a coveted position occupied by the more dominant felines. You can usually spot another cat on the doorstep and one or two in the driveway. The others, when they are out in full force, take up posts on the lawn and sidewalk.

If you have ever spent much time around cats, you probably know how unsettling it can be when they stare at you. More than once, I've woken up to find my own little Leo looking at me intently. "Stop it, Mister Kitty," I tell him. He never listens. He just keeps on staring until I either feed him or kick him off the bed.

When you have half a dozen or more cats staring at you all at once, tracking you as you walk past their territory, the effect can be rather sobering. Repeat this experience enough times, and you will perhaps understand why Jeff and I have come to see these cats not as pets, but as sentries--especially since the guards' posts are never occupied by people. Human activity just doesn't seem to take place at that house. The lawn is a bit straggly, with weeds creeping their way onto the nearby pavement. There are no noises or open windows. We've never seen any evidence of departures or arrivals; there is a trailer in the driveway, but it doesn't seem to have been moved any time recently.

In our neighborhood, the mail is typically delivered through a slot in the front door. It is probably a good thing that I am not employed as a letter carrier, because there's no way you could talk me into reaching towards the mail slot in the cat house's door. "That's how they get you," I once told Jeff. "They pull you in through the slot, and then they surround you. Everything goes black. When you wake up, you are one of them."

Given my views on this garrison for felines, you'd think it might be a relief to discover that I've been wrong about the place--that there is an actual person living there. A person with two legs and no visible tail.

Under different circumstances, you might be right. Yesterday, as we came within view of the cat house, we saw a human in front. It was a little girl, perhaps six or seven years old. She was blonde, and she wore a pink shift dress. It was a warm day, and many of the neighborhood kids were out playing: they tossed balls to each other, teetered along the sidewalk on bicycles with training wheels, and pulled plastic wagons filled with toys and younger siblings.

The little girl in the pink shift dress wasn't playing. She was sitting on the wrought iron bench near the front patio, with her knees pressed together and ankles crossed beneath her. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and she was staring. She watched us as we walked, turning her head slowly to follow our movements. That's all she did.

I audibly let out my breath after we passed the house and were out of earshot, and I looked at Jeff, raising my eyebrows. He nodded. We had reached the only conclusion it was possible to reach: the girl in the pink dress was a shape-shifter, a cat in human form. Oh, sure, I suppose there is some possibility that I just watched a little too much X-Files back in the day, but if you come walk my dogs with me, perhaps you'll see the cat child, too.

And you'll never go anywhere near that house's mail slot.

Today's issue of "Los Angeles Times Magazine" is the "Men's Fashion Issue." "The Dashing Man," advertises the cover. "Suave. Sophisticated. Self-Assured."

Well, then! Let's have a peek, shall we? Since you won't be able to read the tiny text in the image, I'll blow up the part that applies to the man on this page.

Ah, Los Angeles in the springtime! Nothing says "I have unresolved Miami Vice issues and way too much disposable income" like wearing $3000 worth of Louis Vuitton clothes while you pretend to do yardwork.

I love this town.

There's a move in step aerobics called a "freeway." It involves turning as you go over the top of the step, such that if you start out facing the front of the room, you end up on the opposite side of the step facing the back wall. It is a very common move. Nevertheless, when I heard my step instructor call it out for the first time this evening, I could have sworn she said "slingblade."

Since I didn't understand what Keila was telling me to do, I just stood there until it dawned on me that I had misheard. I joined back in, but I couldn't stop laughing to myself as I imagined what a slingblade in step aerobics would look like. Do you hop up on the step while making a wide arc with one arm, simulating a slice? Do you move to the bench on the right while chopping the air menacingly? Do you run around the step while pushing an imaginary lawnmower?

It's been that kind of day. I've been walking into furniture a lot, too. Some people call it hell; I call it Hades.

My dog has become a vicious killer of opossums.

Ivy: Vicious Killer of Opossums

Napa: Enthusiastic Sidekick

I bear no great love for opossums. In fact, they are one of my least favorite animals. If you were to ask me, "Hey, Shasta, would you rather be locked up in a room with an opossum or with a dozen cockroaches?" I might have to go with the roaches. And I hate roaches. This hatred originated in Texas, where I lived for a time in an apartment building that was quite infested with these miracles of evolution. When your apartment building is infested with roaches, there is very little you can do in your individual apartment to keep them out of your personal space. Roaches, as you might know, have developed the ability to survive on lint. More recently, I have heard that some roaches have even started to burrow inside televisions and other appliances, where they live off electricity. This is fantastic if you are in a cyberpunk novel, but incomprehensibly creepy if you are not.

You think roaches can't teleport? Think again. Those bastards can just beam themselves into your cabinets if they put their diabolical little bug minds to it. Now, while it is something of a myth that everything in Texas is big, Texan roaches are indeed enormous. If you are a little girl who just wants to get a bowl so you can sit around in your Wonder Woman Underoos while eating Cap'n Crunch, the cockroach that ambushes you as you reach for the aforementioned bowl will seem approximately the size of a guinea pig. A guinea pig with a hard shell. And while you might think that Wonder Woman should just be able to get into her invisible jet and fly away from the vermin, I've got to tell you that escape isn't always possible.

Hopefully, this provides you with some scale--a measuring stick by which to understand the degree to which opossums freak me out on an intensely visceral level. They seem fundamentally, cosmically wrong, with their beady little eyes and their pointy little teeth and their naked rat tails. Have you ever had an opossum hiss at you? My god, it's terrifying. I can watch half a dozen zombie movies in a row with very little change in my blood pressure, but I think I would be totally incapable of watching a horror movie in which ill-fated protagonists battle troops of embittered opossums. That would be worth at least two thousand therapy points.

My dog Ivy doesn't like opossums, either. However, while my preferred approach would be to pretend that opossums don't exist, and to wipe all traces of encounters with opossums from my mind--surgically, if necessary--Ivy is a little more direct. She sees an opossum running across the top of our fence, she runs and jumps, and she does her best to make sure that the opossum will never again run across the top of a fence. Napa, who doesn't have the prey instinct that Ivy has but is nonetheless descended from bird dogs, does what she can to help out her packmate. I've tallied their kill count at four now, and who knows how many more they have injured?

Neither dog understands why Jeff and I aren't more supportive of their efforts to decimate the opossum population of North Orange County. I imagine they feel like the kid whose parents never showed up for her soccer games, because Daddy was too busy with his PBR and NASCAR on Saturdays, and Mommy was last seen at a truck stop in Tehachapi. Still, this communication barrier is not what's foremost in my mind when I have settled down for the evening with Jeff to watch a movie, and perhaps we've had some wine, and we're feeling quite relaxed--until we let our dogs out before we all head to bed, not realizing that Ivy is about to sprint after one of the grey, furry creatures she hates so much. When that happens, I am left to call the dogs in and peer out into the yard, where I can tell an opossum still lies--its status as a living being questionable--and wonder what to do. Is the creature suffering? I wonder, mulling over my responsibilities as a compassionate human being. Should I go out there?

Then, I experience what in addiction parlance is referred to as a "moment of clarity." I am seriously considering venturing into the darkest corner of my back yard while half-crocked, armed with nothing but hope and a bottle of Bactine, to mend the wounds of an animal that will probably spring at my throat like that killer bunny from Monty Python. At the very least, it will get me signed up for an endless series of rabies shots. Did I learn nothing from Jeepers Creepers? When somebody says, "I really think we should go back and check on those people who were wrapped up in a bag and dumped in a hole," what you say is "no." If that same somebody then asks you how you would feel if you were one of the people who had been wrapped in a bag and dumped into a hole, the appropriate response is, "Dead. I'd feel dead."

MY BROTHER BRET, CALLING FROM KOREA, WHERE HE LIVES: "I'm dating this girl from Colombia."

SHASTA: "What's her name?"

BRET: "Marcela."

SHASTA: "Describe what Marcela Wallace looks like."

BRET: "What?"

SHASTA: "Say 'what' again. Say 'what' again! I dare you--I double dare you, motherfucker! Say 'what' one more goddamn time!"

BRET: "She's kind of brown."

SHASTA: "Go on!"

BRET: "She's not bald."

SHASTA: "Does she look like a bitch?"

BRET: "What?"

SHASTA: "POW! I said, KA-POW!"

BRET: "Aaagh! Ooohhh!"

SHASTA: "DOES - SHE - LOOK - LIKE - A - BITCH?"

BRET: "No!"

SHASTA: "Good answer. Glad you respect your woman, little brother. Wouldn't want to have to make POW! sounds into the phone again. Don't go letting other men give her foot massages, now, you hear?"

Today, as I was leaving the acupuncture studio, I got a very strange look from a man I was quite sure I hadn't seen before. I was a little perplexed, since to my knowledge, I looked pretty ordinary. I might have had some marks on my forehead from lying down on the table during my treatment, but it seemed unlikely that anyone would think those marks so odd.

Maybe he just doesn't like the looks of me, I thought to myself as I got into my car. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. The removal of one of the needles in the back of my head had caused a thin rivulet of blood to trickle down the side of my face and dry there. It didn't hurt at all, but the aesthetic effect was quite striking.

What a missed opportunity, I mused as I drove away. Had I known what I looked like, I would have stared fixedly at the gawking man and slowly, wordlessly raised my arm, pointing a single accusing finger at him.

I got acupuncture for the first time today. I had considered getting it before, but my pain always seemed to subside just as I was on the verge of making an appointment, so I never went. However, I seriously tweaked my upper back and neck last Tuesday--either from lifting weights or from hauling around the vacuum cleaner, I think--and the pain got better over the weekend, but came back in a more intense form yesterday. This morning, I couldn't turn my head in either direction without wincing. I hooked myself up to Jeff's muscle stimulation machine for a while, took a Soma and Darvocet cocktail, and decided it was time to let a stranger stick a bunch of needles into me.

I filled out a couple of forms and told the acupuncturist why I was there. She peered at my tongue and my eyes for a while, and then led me into a treatment room. I put on one of those gowns that opens in the back and lay face-down on a massage table. The acupuncturist then stuck a few needles in my legs--one in each calf and a couple near each ankle--and several more on both sides of my back. She finished up by placing two needles in the back of my neck and two more in the back of my head. The needles all had a type of coil at the top, and when they were in place, the therapist scratched each coil to make it vibrate slightly.

Then, my acupuncturist asked me if I believed in Jesus. I was not prepared to be asked this question while lying face-down on a table with a couple dozen needles sticking out of my body.

"Uh--what?" I stuttered.

"Do you believe in Jesus?" she repeated.

I thought about hedging, since nearly every time someone asks you that question, they feel the correct answer is "yes," and my position here was somewhat compromised. I decided hedging would do me no good.

"No," I told her, trying to work into my tone the implication that I was really not up for any advice on the status of my immortal soul.

"Do you mind if I pray for you?" she asked.

No, I didn't mind, especially since she prayed in Korean. She might have been praying that I would be converted right there on the table, but seeing as how I don't speak any Korean, I was able to give her the benefit of the doubt. I decided to assume she was trying to get Jesus to give me some sort of celestial massage. After all, if I did believe that Jesus was my savior, I would believe that he cared about me and my back muscles.

"I can't heal you," the acupuncturist informed me when she had finished her prayer. "Only Jesus can do that. That's why I prayed for you."

"Well, I wish you had told me that when I walked in here," I responded. "If you had, I would have just gone straight to Jesus. You know, eliminate the middleman. What does Jesus charge for an acupuncture session?"

Okay, I didn't actually say that, though it did occur to me. The only sound I made was a noncommital grunt. The therapist left the room and said she'd be back in 20 minutes. I spent the 20 minutes paying attention to the tingly sensation I was feeling in my shoulder and trying to ignore the music, which was a crushingly mediocre collection of songs about God's love. Have you seen the South Park in which the kids join that singing group dedicated to spreading the word about the rainforest? "Doop-doop-de-doo, zatta-toot-WOW!" That's what these songs were like. I contemplated requesting some Skynyrd, because I thought it would be funny for a half-naked woman with a bunch of needles in her back to shout "Freebird!" over and over, but I knew I'd be lucky to get the Carmina Burana.

I was not lucky. However, I only had to endure four or five songs before it was time for the needles to come out. The therapist finished up my session by massaging my back and neck, and I was soon dressed and out of there.

The verdict...

PAIN OF TREATMENT: Negligible. Most of the needles didn't hurt at all. A few--the ones near an old ankle injury and the ones in the middle of my worst muscle knots--hurt slightly. And I really do mean "slightly."

RELIEF FROM TREATMENT: Significant. I could actually turn my head and look at where I was going as I backed out of my parking spot.

JESUS LEVEL: Highly elevated. This would not keep me from returning--in fact, I made a follow-up appointment for this Friday--but next time, I'm bringing the iPod.

After a brief discussion about the Ken doll's nipples...

SHASTA: "You know Barbie and Ken broke up, right?"

JEFF: "What?"

SHASTA: "Yeah, Barbie and Ken broke up. Mattel announced that it was 'time for them to move on,' or something like that. They needed to make room for a flashier Barbie. One that can get into all the clubs, wears more revealing clothes, and is available for casual sex to anyone with enough rum."

JEFF: "So the company just divorced them? Wait, were they even married?"

SHASTA: "No, they never did get married. A CNN article quoted a Mattel exec as saying they might have broken up because Ken didn't want to get hitched. All the Barbie Deluxe Betrothal Kits they sold were just the results of Barbie's optimism."

JEFF: "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, eh, Ken?"

SHASTA: "Well, I think you could probably consider 43 years a common law marriage."

JEFF: "So who gets the 'Vette?"

SHASTA: "They haven't decided yet. The legal proceedings have gotten pretty nasty."

JEFF: "And Barbie has a new love interest?"

SHASTA: "His name is Blaine. He's a boogie boarder from Australia."

JEFF: "That's his profession? Boogie boarder?"

SHASTA: "Yeah. He's really tan, and he calls everyone 'mate,' even random old ladies on park benches and in lines at the grocery store. He doesn't say 'let's put a shrimp on the barbie' anymore, because he wants to be grilling cod, you know? Barbie's going to spend more time in the sun so that she can keep up aesthetically. Neither of them paid any attention to the lesson of Melanoma-Me Elmo."

JEFF: "I hate that Blaine guy already."

SHASTA: "The lawyers are shredding him. Plus, they've split the Dream House in two, and by order of the court, every little girl who owns one has to keep the halves at least ten feet apart. Kids have to check the calendar before they play at either half, because they can't spend time at Barbie's place when it's Ken's weekend. It's a mess, and the lawyers' fees have been huge."

JEFF, nodding: "Malibu Dershowitz doesn't come cheap."

It was our seventh anniversary yesterday, so we celebrated by going to the OC fairgrounds to see the Cirque du Soleil Varekai show, which was absolutely gorgeous. These performers do things with their bodies that really shouldn't be possible. I remember seeing a documentary on Cirque du Soleil in which one of the show's designers said that the performers literally trust him with their lives when they begin to execute the moves he has conceptualized, and after watching some of those acts, I couldn't help but think that the designer must have excellent powers of persuasion. "And here's the part where you dangle in the air from a rope looped around the back of your neck," he says, and nobody laughs at him. Or if they do, they laugh and then dangle in the air from ropes looped around the back of their necks, so the laughing doesn't much matter.

I think the show is so appealing precisely because of the danger. You are constantly aware as you watch that 75% of these feats could result in the death of at least one performer. You don't want them to die, of course. On the contrary. But you do want them to be human, and thus fallible, and thus fall-able--it raises the stakes. A couple of the artists made minor mistakes during their acts--one performer lost his balance while perching on his partner's feet, and one of the younger artists didn't quite manage to catch a rope after he tossed it in the air and did a few flips while it fell--and it occurred to me that a handful of minor flaws actually make the show better. Nothing gets the crowd behind an acrobat like watching him flub a move, get back up, and nail it the second time. If all the performers had to do everything twice, the show would get tedious, but a dropped rope or two remind you that the strap dancers who are on next could very well knock each other silly as they fly across the room, and the acuteness of that knowledge makes you draw in your breath a little more sharply, hold it a little tighter.

While Jeff and I were having cocktails afterward and discussing high points, I mentioned the juggler, who actually managed to keep several small balls in the air by juggling them with his mouth. His mouth! "If there's any physical justice in this world," I told my husband, "that man is gay."

The only negative was that going to such shows requires being around large batches of random public, and being around large batches of random public always exposes you to certain types of show-goers. In our little section alone, we had:

THE NARRATOR - This person feels an overwhelming need to translate visual stimulus into verbal stimulus. You might appreciate her companionship under certain circumstances--if you were blind, for example--but under normal circumstances, she tells you nothing you don't already know. If she does tell you something you don't already know, it's something you don't want to know, like how she "really has to pee." She's the kind of person who informs her friends that smoking is bad for them.

THE RHYTHM SECTION - She likes to stomp her foot on the floor when the music gets fast and emotionally stirring. This makes the event feel more festive, particularly when the floor is made of wood and makes deep, satisfying THUD noises. The reverberations on the back of your chair feel especially good when THE RHYTHM SECTION happens to be located right behind you. We will, we will rock you. We here at majorweather, inc. believe that THE RHYTHM SECTION enjoyed one too many high school assemblies.

THE HOPPER - THE HOPPER cannot stand actually moving within his own row. Inspired by all the leaping he saw before the intermission, he hops into his seat from the row behind him, kicking at least one person in the shoulder as he does so. THE HOPPER is one of those assholes who drives on the shoulder during rush hour, because he can't be bothered to wait around in lanes like everyone else. He's also fond of crossing double yellow lines and moving into the carpool lane whenever it strikes his fancy.

THE BITCH - THE BITCH absolutely must complain about the most egregious offenses committed by random batches of public. If she is seated directly in front of THE RHYTHM SECTION, she will loudly ask her partner about "the deal with the stomper" as everyone files out for intermission. If she is kicked by THE HOPPER, she will make sure he knows it hurt and recommend that he just ask her to get up next time. THE BITCH has been known to yell at little kids for littering. She is actually me. She can't help it, and she thinks it might be genetic.

The trouble with humans isn't just the smell.

I followed a link from a friend's journal to another person's survey this morning, and in that survey, I came across this question:

In order to win one million dollars, you are told to walk stark naked down a city sidewalk for one block. No one would harm you and you could hop into a waiting limousine at the other end. Would you do it?

Umm... there are people who wouldn't do this? People on Survivor eat bugs, go without water for days, contract rare parasites, lie about their grandmothers, and crouch in uncomfortable positions for nine hours at a time in order to win a million dollars. People in movies with Robert Redford seriously consider having sex with him--despite the fact that they are married and not generally accustomed to high-class hooking--in exchange for a million dollars.

I guess what I'm saying is that for a million dollars, I'd take off all my clothes, don a pair of cowboy boots, stick a pair of Groucho Marx glasses on my head, write "ALIEN IN THE OVEN" in red lipstick on my belly, and then walk a city block.

Price negotiable.

It's sunny and well over sixty degrees here on this fine New Year's Eve. Our friends Chris and Danielle are here, and Kelly is coming over later. Here's the plan:

1. Eat something.
2. Go to the park. Play croquet and/or bocce.
3. Drink something.

While playing Hoopla last night, Jeff couldn't seem to stop getting the cards that require you to draw. Here's why that's an issue.

These shapes: not turkeys.

Gobble gobble, folks! Here's to you.

According to today's LA Times, the Staples Center gift shop will soon be selling life-size Shaquille O'Neal bobblehead dolls for $25,000 each. Life-size. That means these dolls will be 7'1". With heads that bobble. I can only hope they don't dress them like this:

Did I mention that the heads will bobble?

Here it is! The first in a brief series that revisits some of the more amusing exchanges I've had with people in comments here. The ones I can find, anyway. I'm not duplicating entire threads; I'm just highlighting.

This one's from January of 2002:

maigrey: Elf boy is so *totally* hot! And when he's shooting that bow in rapid fire? I know violence is bad, but let me tell you he was totally sexy there.

And Viggo Mortenson (Aragon) is pretty damn fine, too.

majorweather: I just went to check on elf boy's birthdate so that I wouldn't feel creepy for finding him so hot. He's only five years and a month younger than I am; that's not so bad!

You're right about Viggo, too.

beatnikside: I dug the elf and Viggo, too. And I am so not gay. Really.

Five years? Cradlerobber.

majorweather: Mama's gonna "buy him a mockingbird."

beatnikside: What if that "mockingbird" don't "sing"?

majorweather: Mama's gonna buy him a nipple ring.

beatnikside: And if that nipple ring don't shine?

majorweather: Mama's gonna ply him with good red wine.

beatnikside: And if that good red wine should fail?

majorweather: Mama's gonna still get some hot elf tail.

"Return of the King" balled my rog. Uruked my hai. Nazzed my gul.

I will say one thing, and one thing only, in criticism:

"A Not-Ode on Liv Tyler"

Oh, Liv Tyler,
What?
I'm sorry.
I didn't catch that.
You see,
the thing is,
you keep whispering, and
I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU.

You know how most pharmacies have a little line people are supposed to wait behind so that the person being served has some privacy? And you know how most people seem to ignore it completely, hovering over you like a helicopter on Dr. Romano? Yeah, I hate that. It always makes me want to make something up that will freak them out and--with any luck--make them rethink their behavior. Possibilities include:

shuffling a bit, scratching my neck, and speaking to no one in particular: "That leprosy sure is a bitch."

with purpose, breathing hard, and speaking to the pharmacist: "I'm here to pick up my Hanta virus medication. Hurry, please. Hurry."

leaning forward, smiling broadly, and speaking to the person who is violating my personal space most egregiously: "Have you seen 28 Days Later? It's really good. I mean, I just related to so much of it, you know?"

head drooping, making every move as though it's grotesquely painful, and speaking to absolutely everyone: "They say bubonic plague is rarely fatal these days. Yeah, right. Tell that to my houseguests."

Thanks to everyone who posted or sent birthday wishes! It was an excellent birthday; Kelly and Ryan came over on Saturday night, so we hung out, drank miscellaneous beverages--Levitation Ale tastes good, but it doesn't work, dammit--and played some cards and some Grand Theft Auto. Grand Theft Auto is one of those games that sounds terrible in principle: so violent! So grossly violent! So gratuitously violent! And it is. Be that as it may, hand the controller to someone, even the most peace-loving person you know, and they'll soon be jacking a Hummer and mowing down pedestrians with glee. They'll probably even make happy little "boom" noises each time they hit someone.

On Sunday, Jeff made me Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and powdered sugar, bacon, and mimosas. I felt utterly spoiled. And despite the fact that I already had one present in the works, he surprised me with a new mouse. It is the best mouse ever, and I find it touching that Jeff was apparently listening when I cursed at my old mouse, picked the lint off its little wheels, and then cursed it some more, because dirty or clean, it was worthless.

I'm almost done with my Christmas shopping. What has happened to me?

Calfornia: what a wacky state! Look at all those people driving their shiny Hummers on the four-oh-five! Look at all those boobies what don't bounce! Look at all those folks running for governor!

People, I actually have to vote in this election. Not only that, whether I vote "yes" or "no" on the recall, I still have to pick someone I think should be governor if the recall passes. Let's review my choices.

Well, there's Bill Simon, Cruz Bustamante, or Peter Ueberroth. Who, you ask? Exactly! Bo-ring!
	Then, there's the Terminator, who seems to appeal to everyone's desire to have a cyborg for governor. He's not actually a cyborg, you say? Yeah, right. Austria, my ass.
Fresh from her most recent Ricki Lake appearance, Arianna Huffington has somehow managed to convince numerous people that she's radical because the Republicans don't like her anymore. Huffington, author of The Female Woman, is also a robot.
	Other candidates who have thrown their proverbial hats into the ring include the cast of The Surreal Life, minus Jerri, because nobody's gonna vote for that bitch,
Flo from Mel's Diner,
	... and the midget from Freaks, who's getting a raw deal, because people keep confusing him with Larry Flynt.

 

I don't know why they should even bother sending out voter guides.

 

It amazes me that so few people wash their hands after touching so many potentially nasty—or definitely nasty—objects. I'm not even particularly germ-phobic. I just think that after, say, getting sweaty and rolling around on an exercise mat—one that hundreds of other people have gotten sweaty and rolled all over—folks would want to take advantage of the fact that there's free soap in the locker room. Does the potential chain of events that can result from such sharing of funk not occur to people? Little Susie and her mom go to Toronto to visit Grandma and Grandpa. While they're there, little Susie meets little Johnny in the park. They indicate that they like each other by sticking the same toy in both of their mouths. BAM! Little Susie has the SARS. But no one knows that yet, and since everybody's so happy to be together as a family, they get nice and close. They're cozy like that. After they return home, Little Susie's mom stops in at Ballys for yoga at 9:30 on Friday, downward-facing-dogs all over the damn place, and politely hands you her mat as you show up for the 10:30 class. BAM! You've got the SARS! Remember breathing? Yeah, that used to be fun!

It's not just exercise mats, either. I read that Camus book. You think your antibacterial lotion will do the trick? You know, the kind you just pump onto your hands and rub in? The kind that doesn't require water? The kind that legions of future ebola virus carriers have decided is really cool, because using it means they never have to go near a sink again? No ho ho HO! Your antibacterial lotion is powerless in the face of the fact that a ship from Syria brought a bunch of rats to Marseilles, the Syrian rats got themselves some French fleas, and the French fleas stopped for a rest in your Californian coat, which you got at a fabulous vintage clothing store for $12. BAM! You've got the buboes! Wet Wipes can't help you now!

You'll probably set your coat down on top of the exercise mats at the gym, too. Just to make sure everyone dies.

A letter to the editors of Budget Living, June/July 2003 issue:

"I read your magazine by chance and enjoyed it. Being a man, I was surprised that the contents were so entertaining. I was going to subscribe, but you'll have to bill me later, because I can't fill out money orders here in jail. Talk about budget living! Maybe I can share a couple of tips? I like to hang different-size woven baskets on kitchen walls. Also, a really cheap, cool way to decorate is to use a feather duster as a paintbrush and pile on different colors. I've thought up a lot of stuff. Being an editor and all, if you feel like writing, I need a pen pal. I bet you never thought you would be hit on buy a guy in jail that reads your magazine."

In unrelated news, this picture of Christina Ricci is really creeping me out.

There's nothing like a visit to the dermatologist to make you feel vain and hypochondriacal.

"You're concerned about skin cancer?"

"Yes."

"Any particular spots?"

"My back."

He looks and apparently sees nothing that makes him even want to look twice. "Your back is fine." He then looks at the rest of my body in a "let's humor her" kind of way and pronounces the rest of me fine, too. "You had some other questions?" he asks.

"Yeah. What about these little tiny bumps?"

"What bumps?"

"The ones right here," I answer, pointing.

"I don't see any bumps."

"Right here."

"Oh. Those are oil glands. They're normal. Anything else?"

"Yeah. What about these little broken capillaries?"

"What broken capillaries?"

"These ones."

"Well, I suppose you could have them lasered if you wanted to, but really, you can hardly see them. The treatment might very well leave a more obvious mark."

"Oh. Okay. Well, what about this sun damage? Can I fade it?"

He responds—of course—with, "What sun damage?"

I point, a little sheepishly.

Before I left, he scribbled in my file for a bit. I couldn't see what he wrote, but I'm pretty sure it was, "Patient has been living in L.A. for too long."

Okay, people, something needs to be cleared up, here. I just saw the word "violá" printed in a catalog, as in, "Violá! My editor sucks!" A viola is a musical instrument. It's like a violin, but slightly bigger. Adding an accent mark to the "a" at the end of the word might make it look fancy in a romanticizing-the-linguistic-Other kind of way, but that's about it. The word is "voilà." It's French. Screwing up the language doesn't count as political protest, though if you're such a dumbass that you've hopped on the anti-France bandwagon just because the French didn't want us to bomb the shit out of Iraq, then I'm not talking to you. Please go away.

I should also mention that "voilà" does not have an acceptable English variant that is spelled "walla," or—even worse—"wallá."

"Orderves" isn't a word, either. If you thought it was, you should just write "little appetizers." Or "snacks." Or "Wheat Thins with Cheez Whiz."

Our local Urgent Care Center sent us a coupon for $10 off our next visit. If I'm struck with sudden illness or find myself bleeding severely, I'll make finding that coupon a top priority.

From here: http://www.michaelkelly.fsnet.co.uk/seduction.htm

FOREPLAY

I am no expert at foreplay. I am, however, a master at stroking cats into a state of ecstasy, and a woman shouldn't be too different. If your bird is anything like my cat, the following manouevres are guaranteed to get her really frothed up:

• Run your hand along her spine


• Scratch her ears


• Tickle her under her chin


• Push her on her back, take hold of her feet and move her legs up and down like levers


• Poke her repeatedly in the belly with one finger while going, "You love it, don't you, you big fat furry fucker."

I'm posting this just so that I don't lose it (again), but you're welcome to read it if you'd like. I got it in a forward back in 1995, when AOL seemed like a good idea and email was lots of fun. Things change. This, however, is still really funny.

---

Dear Maid,

Please do not leave any more of those little bars of soap in my bathroom since I have brought my own bath-sized Dial. Please remove the six unopened little bars from the shelf under the medicine chest and an-other three in the shower soap dish. They are in my way.

Thank you,
S. Berman

---

Dear Room 635,

I am not your regular maid. She will be back tomorrow, Thursday, from her day off. I took the 3 hotel soaps out of the shower soap dish as you requested. The 6 bars on your shelf I took out of your way and put on top of your Kleenex dispenser in case you should change your mind. This leaves only the 3 bars I left today which my instructions from the management is to leave 3 soaps daily. I hope this is satisfactory.

Kathy, Relief Maid

---

Dear Maid — I hope you are my regular maid,

Apparently Kathy did not tell you about my note to her concerning the little bars of soap. When I got back to my room this evening I found you had added 3 little Camays to the shelf under my medicine cabinet. I am going to be here in the hotel for two weeks and have brought my own bath-size Dial so I won't need those 6 little Camays which are on the shelf. They are in my way when shaving, brushing teeth, etc. Please remove them.

S. Berman

---

Dear Mr. Berman,

My day off was last Wed. so the relief maid left 3 hotel soaps which we are instructed by the management. I took the 6 soaps which were in your way on the shelf and put them in the soap dish where your Dial was. I put the Dial in the medicine cabinet for your convenience. I didn't remove the 3 complimentary soaps which are always placed inside the medicine cabinet for all new check-ins and which you did not object to when you checked in last Monday. Please let me know if I can of further assistance.

Your regular maid,
Dotty

---

Dear Mr. Berman,

The assistant manager, Mr. Kensedder, informed me this A.M. that you called him last evening and said you were unhappy with your maid service. I have assigned a new girl to your room. I hope you will accept my apologies for any past inconvenience. If you have any future complaints please contact me so I can give it my personal attention. Call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM. Thank you.

Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

---

Dear Miss Carmen,

It is impossible to contact you by phone since I leave the hotel for business at 7:45 AM and don't get back before 5:30 or 6PM. That's the reason I called Mr. Kensedder last night. You were already off duty. I only asked Mr. Kensedder if he could do anything about those little bars of soap. The new maid you assigned me must have thought I was a new check-in today, since she left another 3 bars of hotel soap in my medicine cabinet along with her regular delivery of 3 bars on the bath-room shelf. In just 5 days here I have accumulated 24 little bars of soap. Why are you doing this to me?

S. Berman

---

Dear Mr. Berman,

Your maid, Kathy, has been instructed to stop delivering soap to your room and remove the extra soaps. If I can be of further assistance, please call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM.

Thank you,
Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

---

Dear Mr. Kensedder,

My bath-size Dial is missing. Every bar of soap was taken from my room including my own bath-size Dial. I came in late last night and had to call the bellhop to bring me 4 little Cashmere Bouquets.

S. Berman

---

Dear Mr. Berman,

I have informed our housekeeper, Elaine Carmen, of your soap problem. I cannot understand why there was no soap in your room since our maids are instructed to leave 3 bars of soap each time they service a room. The situation will be rectified immediately. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience.

Martin L. Kensedder, Assistant Manager

---

Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Who the hell left 54 little bars of Camay in my room? I came in last night and found 54 little bars of soap. I don't want 54 little bars of Camay. I want my one damn bar of bath-size Dial. Do you realize I have 54 bars of soap in here. All I want is my bath size Dial. Please give me back my bath-size Dial.

S. Berman

---

Dear Mr. Berman,

You complained of too much soap in your room so I had them removed. Then you complained to Mr. Kensedder that all your soap was missing so I personally returned them. The 24 Camays which had been taken and the 3 Camays you are supposed to receive daily [sic]. I don't know anything about the 4 Cashmere Bouquets. Obviously your maid, Kathy, did not know I had returned your soaps so she also brought 24 Camays plus the 3 daily Camays. I don't know where you got the idea this hotel issues bath-size Dial. I was able to locate some bath-size Ivory which I left in your room.

Elaine Carmen, Housekeeper

---

Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Just a short note to bring you up-to-date on my latest soap inventory. As of today I possess:

On shelf under medicine cabinet - 18 Camay in 4 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
On Kleenex dispenser - 11 Camay in 2 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 3.
On bedroom dresser - 1 stack of 3 Cashmere Bouquet, 1 stack of 4 bath-size Ivory, and 8 Camay in 2 stacks of 4.
Inside medicine cabinet - 14 Camay in 3 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
In shower soap dish - 6 Camay, very moist.
On northeast corner of tub - 1 Cashmere Bouquet, slightly used.
On northwest corner of tub - 6 Camays in 2 stacks of 3.

Please ask Kathy when she services my room to make sure the stacks are neatly piled and dusted. Also, please advise her that stacks of more than 4 have a tendency to tip. May I suggest that my bedroom window sill is not in use and will make an excellent spot for future soap deliveries. One more item: I have purchased another bar of bath-sized Dial, which I am keeping in the hotel vault in order to avoid further misunderstandings.

S. Berman

This is Scoby. Scoby lives with a man named Josh and likes to hang out at the Long Beach Dog Park. Napa really wanted to be friends with Scoby, because she likes little dogs, but Scoby was not interested in doing anything but staring at that mangled tennis ball. After watching him stare at it for a good 15 minutes, I asked him what he was doing. He glanced at me briefly and seemed to indicate that he wanted me to throw the ball for him. What he actually wanted was to snatch the ball just as I was about to pick it up, and then drop it as soon as I withdrew my hand. And he wanted to do this about 400 times.

While I was obliging him, Napa got bored and started hitting on a Papillon. Ivy was busy checking the trees for squirrels and could not be reached for comment.

Somebody on the freeway just came very close to making my little Corolla into a smashed-up little Corolla. Why? Because's it's raining in LA, and lots of LA drivers are assholes, and while being an asshole LA driver is dangerous as a rule, it's much more dangerous when it's raining. When you do something like note that it's raining and then get on an LA freeway—none of which, I should mention, have decent drainage, because CalTrans doesn't believe in drainage—and decide to slam on your brakes while you're going 15 miles an hour faster than everyone else, you shouldn't find it terribly surprising when you hydroplane, lose control of your vehicle, and do four or five complete 360s while you careen across four lanes of traffic and into the carpool lane.

You should find it surprising that you: 1) didn't slam into the concrete wall that marks the left edge of the carpool lane; 2) didn't hit anyone as you made your way to the carpool lane; 3) didn't roll your truck; 4) didn't get rear-ended once you had come to a stop; 5) aren't lying on the road, waiting for an ambulance, wondering how many people you just injured—maybe even killed—and hoping that none of the travelers approaching the site of your accident drive like you, because you're already in plenty of pain, and being run over is no fun.

So, yes, you should be surprised about all of those things. I wish you would not drive like that. I especially wish you would not drive like that while you're in the lane next to me and directly to my left. In case you're not sure where things went wrong, here is a helpful guide that might help you avoid future incidents.

Shasta's Guide to Driving in the Rain for People in the Greater Los Angeles Area

1.) Slow the fuck down. Your speed should be determined by road conditions and visibility, not by your habits. For example: if you normally travel at approximately 80 miles per hour, going 70 miles per hour because it's raining does not count as "being cautious."

2.) Knock it off with the tailgating. Especially you. Yeah, you in the Canyonero. Your vehicle is twelve times the size of a reasonable person's vehicle, and the fact that you have one daughter who plays soccer really doesn't justify the fact your SUV is larger than some people's apartments. You require more time to stop than people driving other vehicles. Remember that thing when you took your driver's test—that little rule about one car length for every ten miles an hour, leaving even more room when driving conditions are bad or when you're driving a heavy vehicle? No? I thought not. You'll want to review that one. If there's just no way, no possible way you can leave that much space, then you need to make some room in your botoxified head for the notion that six feet isn't going to cut it.

3.) Turn off your fucking phone.

4.) Did I mention you should turn on your headlights? If I forgot that one, it's because it seems just so obvious to me, but it isn't so obvious to many of you. It will be much easier for people to avoid hitting you if they can see you. Lights help.

5.) Do a little yoga and repeat to yourself the following mantra at least ten times: "My reasons for being on the freeway right now are no more important than other people's reasons for being on the freeway right now. I am not more important than other people. I can be crippled or suffer brain damage just like people who haven't spent $25,000 on plastic surgery can. An accident could kill me, or worse! It could make me ugly!"

If that's too much to remember, I have another version.

Shasta's Abridged Guide to Driving in the Rain for People in the Greater Los Angeles Area

1.) Stop being such an asshole, even if it's just for a little while. You can start being an asshole again when you get out of your car.

I don't object to any measures two or more consenting adults might take to get themselves off. Having said that, I find some of those measures quite baffling. The latest baffling sexual practice to come to my attention is called "wolfbagging."

Here, apparently, is the deal: it's an anal sex thing. The woman or man who's being penetrated swallows a piece of bacon on a string. When the man who's doing the penetrating nears orgasm, he pulls on the string, which makes his partner vomit as the bacon comes up. The process of vomiting causes contractions that tighten the anus and heighten orgasm for the string-puller.

Human ingenuity is truly a remarkable thing. First, it has never, ever, ever occurred to me that anyone in a post-orgasm brainstorm session would say to his partner, "Yeah, that was okay, but you know what I bet would really enhance my pleasure next time? You puking."

Second, good Christ, you can say that to someone and get them to agree with you? See, if you said that to me, right about then is when I would decide that we should part ways, because clearly, you wanted things from our relationship that I just couldn't give you. Like the contents of my stomach.

Finally, and this is no small matter, bacon on a string? I mean, really. Bacon? On a string?

I wonder if there's a vegetarian alternative, perhaps some sort of soy product on a string. But who's ever heard of a vegetarian wolf? Maybe the vegetarians aren't wolfbagging, they're wolfuti-bagging.

O sublime elf boy,
Fact is,
You're no good to me
Without the hair.

I just staged my own little Three Stooges movie. I played all three stooges. All that's left to do is poke myself in both eyes.

When I was in junior high, I was in the habit of fidgeting a greal deal while I talked on the phone. I still tend to fidget while I'm on the phone, but not nearly as much as I did then—and when I fidget now, I'm generally aware of what I'm doing. Back then, my hands just kind of fluttered around on their own, and I didn't pay much attention to what they were up to.

That's how I ended up stapling myself from time to time. I'd sit on the kitchen counter, twirling the phone cord around—phones had cords 20 years ago, whippersnappers—and when I was done twirling, I'd start playing with the Swingline. After putting a couple dozen staples into whatever was handy, I'd start air stapling, which is kind of like being in an air band, only more bureaucratic. Ch-chung! Ch-chung! Ch-chung! went the Swingline, and then fuck! I'd have a staple in my finger. I once stapled myself twice during a single phone conversation, though in my defense, it was a very long conversation. If I were on a nature show, I'd be that little calf the lions decide to isolate from the herd and rip to shreds. "Let's go for the one with all the staples in her hooves," they'd say to each other.

I think someone should start a band and call it "Tricksy Hobbitses." If you need a doo-wop girl, give me a ring.

You know, I think most men don't have any real idea of what healthy weight ranges for women are. I think that when they think of a hypothetical woman at a given height and try to come up with a number for her weight, they tend to undershoot the healthy range, often dramatically. I can't seem to find any articles on this topic, so this is just my impression, and it's quite possible that I'm wrong. Still, I keep overhearing or reading things that are way off: at one point, I overheard a guy tell his friend that a woman who's six feet tall "should" weigh around 125 (depending on frame size, an ideal weight for a woman that tall would be somewhere between 140 and 180). I remember reading about a personals site for which registrants filled out a form listing characteristics they wanted in someone they dated. The site maintainers ended up changing "desired weight range" from a numerical value to something like "thinner, average, larger, or no preference" when they found that something like 80% of the men who registered with the site wanted to date someone "under 115 pounds." 115 pounds might be a healthy weight if you're somewhere between 4'11" and 5'3". Even then, it's slender. There are more examples, but you get the idea.

I have no idea whether or not this kind of distortion, when it exists, translates to real-world rather than hypothetical examples. If what I'm talking about is, in fact, common, then you'd think that men would often underestimate the weight of women they actually know. But since most of the men I know have the good sense not to walk around guessing the weight of their female acquaintances, that's even trickier territory.

There was Shiner Bock, and there was a Lakers game.

"Nobody's screwing up Medvedenko's name," I remarked, a little glum. "It just rolls off their tongues effortlessly."

"Yeah, I miss Chick Hearn, too," said Jeff.

And then there was tea, and then, there was a bath bomb! And a bath to go with it. Bath bombs are better that way.

My fingers are now pruney, because I stayed in the bathtub for a very long time. It was nice in there, especially since I was rather sore. I took a spinning class yesterday, and today, I found myself distinctly uncomfortable. Not in a "Hooboy! I worked my muscles hard!" kind of way, but in a "Damn! Somebody beat me up with a bicycle seat!" kind of way. Whoever it was, they were very focused about the whole process.

I should perhaps explain that I can't remember the last time I was on a bike, stationary or otherwise. I'm thinking it was 1997 or so. I had an inauspicious beginning with the things: the day after I had finally managed to ride my two-wheeler without any help, a neighborhood kid challenged me to a race.

"You wanna race, punk? Want some, get some," I said. Or something to that effect.

I wasn't too far behind and was trying to make my move on one of the curves in our makeshift track, which was a parking lot. Unfortunately, my back tire slipped in some gravel as I fell, and I soon discovered that much of that gravel had been embedded in my right knee. My babysitter decided that all would be well if she sprayed some Bactine on the gravelly wasteland. She might as well have just poured some Tussin on it. By the time my mother got home, I couldn't bend my leg at all, and I had to be taken to Urgent Care for painkillers and stitches.

"Stitches? Feh!" you might say. "I've broken every bone in my body. Twice. You don't see me being afraid of bicycles."

"Well, bully for you, Crunchito!" I might respond. The point is that it was a formative experience, and while I later was able to take some comfort in the ochre-hued goodness of my new Huffy Desert Rose, there comes a time in every girl's life when it's really no longer cool to ride a Huffy Desert Rose. That time arrived somewhere around age 10 or 11, and I haven't owned my own bike since.

Frankly, I can't see why anybody would want to own one, seeing as how sadists have clearly taken over the bicycle seat manufacturing industry. Why can't they at least put nice, cushy banana seats—like the one on my trusty Huffy—on spinning bikes? It's not like we need to think about aerodynamics; we're not fucking going anywhere. While they're at it, they should equip the handlebars with plastic tassels. Who doesn't love a plastic tassel? And if they're going to do that, I think they should also provide us all with handlebar bells. That way, when the instructor tries to "pump us up" by asking us how we're doing, we won't have to feel pressured to shout "Wooo!" or something similarly absurd. We'll just ring our bells at her.

But that's just for inside. Out on the street, I'll only agree to ride a bike if you add a couple of wheels, give it a motor and other assorted parts, put a metal shell around it, and call it a "car."

I think I'll go paint my toenails now.

My hair is getting out of control. It's way too long for this cut, largely because it's short and layered, but I haven't been to see Grace in nearly eight weeks. The last time it got this way, a friend told me, "Hey! You have J. Crew hair!"

"That sounds bad. Is it bad? What does it mean?" I wanted to know.

"No, it's good!" she explained. "It's that look, you know—like you put your hair in a ponytail, went to sleep, got up, took your hair out of the ponytail, rubbed your head on your pillow a few times, and then sprayed it."

"And that's not bad?" I asked, confused.

"No! It's very trendy!"

That wasn't much of a selling point for me. Voting for Ross Perot was "trendy" a while back. Anna Nicole Smith was "trendy" not long ago. The chunk-fest that is Bubble Tea is "trendy" to this very day. My hair is just too long for this cut.

My passport arrived today. I hate the picture. I had gotten pictures taken at Kinkos, and I actually liked those well enough. However, when I got to the passport agency, they informed me that the Kinkos pics weren't the proper size. "Your face is too small," the passport lady told me. I do believe it was the very first time anyone has ever told me that my face isn't sufficiently large. In fact, I've generally thought quite the opposite, since I have those round sorts of cheeks that, when I was younger, often got pinched by members of that pernicious class of elderly folk who use their age as an excuse to invade the personal space of people whose parents will yell at them if they complain.

My opinion on the matter of my facial dimensions was cemented during a particularly nasty argument with some distant cousins over the matter of whether or not I looked like Shirley Temple. I was around seven, and you have no idea how much I hated Shirley Temple. I objected to the very idea of Shirley Temple: she was a sailor-suit-wearing, sucker-licking, ringlet-tossing basketball of a child who was clearly a minion of Satan.

"Look! She's so cuuuuute!" one of my cousins squealed in my direction. "She looks just like Shirley Temple!" Then, the ten year-old harpies were all around me, brandishing their dirty harpy fingers like pincers as they moved closer and closer to my unfortunate little apple cheeks.

It was bad enough when pernicious elderly folk pulled such a stunt; I certainly wasn't going to let anyone a scant three years older than I act like an honorary member of the damned AARP. "BAD TOUCH! BAD TOUCH!" I shouted, trying to remember what I would look like if I had contracted rabies from one of those eight billion squirrels I was always hearing had rabies. As it turns out, foaming at the mouth intentionally is harder than you might think, but I tried, hissing—with distinct pauses between each word—"I DO NOT LOOK LIKE SHIRLEY TEMPLE."

The Weird Sisters recognized an opportunity when they saw one and launched a counterstrike: a diabolically spirited rendition of "On the Good Ship Lollipop." My fury reached monstrous proportions. I wondered how many of them I'd be able to take out before I got seriously injured. At least two, I figured; they were scrawny-legged types who were obviously no good at kickball. It's probably a lucky thing that an adult showed up and thwarted my rapidly-developing revenge fantasy, for physical violence was thereby averted. We all disbanded and went to our respective homes.

Okay, I didn't say "bad touch." Nobody used that phrase until the '80s, and we're still talking about the '70s, here. But I wish I had said it. I also suspect that I didn't look at all like a rabid squirrel. In fact, I'm rather convinced that I probably stamped my foot and tossed my golden locks as I insisted that Shirley Temple was my own personal antichrist, because that's how irony works, my friends. That's how irony works.

So, right. Anyway, I've never thought my face was too small, but "it's too small," said the passport lady. And then she made me pay to make it bigger.

Singapore in two weeks.

Mani. Yeah, I know that's not
your real name.
And that you are neither French
nor Indian.
I don't know much else.
I really don't.
But I do know you were in
Brotherhood of
the Wolf, and

That's all I need to know,
because I don't
much care about the other
stuff, and
I heard that TV series "The Crow"
was shitty
anyway.

Remember when you
were all, like,
"Hey, look at me! My face is
covered, but
you still want to do me"?
And then, you
were all, "Watch me do some
badass kung-fu." And

I bet there are whole message
boards with
Like a thousand posts about
whether or
Not you could kick
Wolverine's ass
If it ever got to
smackdown time.

You're mister "I'm-way-hotter-than-the-
botany-dude."
Mister "I-can-take-on-forty-people-
half-naked.
Or not. Whatever." You're a kung-fu-doin',
wolf-lovin',
Not-French-bein', fake-tattoo-wearin', dead
sexy muthafucka.

Yeah.

It occurs to me that, in general, and with all sorts of exceptions, psycho female stalkers in movies are pretty much just psycho women. They tend to be remarkably resourceful psycho women, since even the most rebelliously anti-Hollywood of graduate students in film could not get away with filming, say, someone just sitting around and pining for an hour and a half. It can be done, you say? Well, sure, it can be, but I know who you are if you actually want to make that picture. You wear berets constantly, you get pissed off when someone sits in "your" seat at the coffeehouse, and you sneer at people who ask the barista for extra foam. On a bad night, you might even sneer at anyone who orders anything but straight espresso, because foam is clearly for mainstream pussies, and Americanos are for chicks who are trying to lose weight and therefore don't want to "splurge" on a nonfat latte. I probably shouldn't even get you started on Frappuccinos. Not that you know what Frappuccinos are; you hang out at Starbucks about as often as you shop at Abercrombie & Fitch.

But enough about you. So, yeah, psycho women as psycho women. I'm thinking of this "Swimfan" movie, which I haven't seen, but unless the female lead is really an elf or a wizard in a surprise summer blockbuster twist, she fits into this category. And there's "Fatal Attraction," and "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle," and "Misery," and "Basic Instinct," and "Single White Female."* All sorts of people were talking about this subgenre of movies a while back. They seemed to go away for a little while, but maybe I just wasn't paying much attention.

The psycho male stalkers, on the other hand, tend to have either a Special Power, a Special Tool, or both. For example, they might be sent from hell. While some demons in human form sent from hell really don't seem capable of doing nearly as much as you might expect from a minion of Satan, they nevertheless have special powers of some sort. If they aren't sent from hell, then perhaps they can get you stuck in the nightmarish landscape of their subconscious, or maybe in an actual dreamworld. Special tools include expertly-wielded chainsaws, razor-sharp fingers, and invisibility. These are fantastical tools, my friends! But what does Sharon Stone get? The dreaded beaver shot. Oh, no! And Glenn Close? A bunny and a pot of water.

My point? You won't catch Jason at the stove! He's too busy bringing home the bacon. I think that's right, anyway. Who actually watches all the "Friday the 13th" movies? There are a hundred and forty-six of them.**

* I briefly considered looking up the dates of these films and putting them in ascending chronological order, because I can be that anal.
** In case you aren't used to interpreting the tone of my writing, I'm screwing around here. My stomach hurts, and I wanted something to do until it felt good enough for me to try going to bed. If you actually have serious thoughts on the topic, I'm open to hearing them, but something like, say, a point-by-point refutation (it's happened!) would be rather silly. Besides, I'm sure at least one professor somewhere has written extensively on this topic. There are chapters in the definitive monograph with titles like, "This Ain't No Dante, This Ain't No Disco: Is Hell in the Public or Private Sphere?"

Oh! And because I talked about reading ostentatiously, I have another story. I went to Mexico with a couple of friends for spring break one year, and after being out late four or five nights in a row, I decided to come home early one evening. I sat down on the couch in the little dining area in our hotel room, and I read a book I had brought. Some time after the bars started to shut down, neither of my travel companions had come home yet, so I thought they had probably decided to spend the night with people they had met while they were out. Well, one did. The other came back to our room with the guy she had met.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have left to give them some time alone, but there was nowhere to go. Most places were closed for the night, and it just didn't strike me as safe for an eighteen year-old girl to wander alone on deserted streets in Mexico. There were some shutters that separated the dining area from the bedroom and at least provided a modicum of privacy, though they didn't block any sound. I tried to concentrate on my book as best as I could.

At one point, my friend emerged from the bedroom for a moment to get herself some water. "Hi!" she said, slightly tipsy, stopping to chat for a bit. "What are you reading?"

"100 Years of Solitude," I answered.

I had this sudden panic over the idea that any minute, low-rise jeans are going to go out of style. I briefly considered stockpiling. You see, the low-rise trend was one of the best things ever to happen to my jeans-buying self, because low-rise jeans are the only kind that actually hit just below my waist. Regular-waist jeans hit somewhere in the middle of my ribcage, which means I can either walk around looking like my grandma all day or buy a size or two up and then belt them so they sit lower, which just looks sloppy. They have low-rise underwear now, too, which is a marvelous thing. They claim that they hit 5 inches below the waist, but 5 inches below my waist is well into privileged territory. So, you see, it would be terrible if all you tall folks suddenly decided that the low-rise phenomenon should go the way of boy bands and legwarmers, as you would be sentencing me to years of walking around in grandma jeans. Buy 'em up, folks! It's good for the economy. It's the patriotic thing to do. Not that I really care about that; I just want to find it easy not to look like Tweedle Dee.

That's all I have to say about that, and I don't mean that in a Forrest Gump kind of way.

TV: "Critics are calling 'Serving Sara' the..."

Jeff: "Did they just say 'Cervix Salad'?"

In front of the health bar section at Albertson's...

Confused woman: "Well, what's the difference between all these bars, anyway? Do you eat them? Why do you eat them?"

I explain how many of these bars can be a good source of protein and how convenient they are to eat in situations in which it would otherwise be inconvenient to eat them. Like in a moving car, for example. I explain how Power Bars and Clif Bars can be way too chewy, making the eating process unpleasant.

Confused woman: "Well, if you could pick among any of these bars and flavors, which would you choose?"

I explain that I would choose either of the Balance Bar flavors I already have in my shopping basket or one of a few different Luna Bar flavors.

Confused woman: "I think I'll get some of those. You see, my son is going through Hell Week next week, and he doesn't eat breakfast."

Me: "Oh. Well, in that case, you really shouldn't get Luna Bars. They're marketed specifically for women, and while they're tasty, they might not work well in the gender dynamics of a Hell Week situation. Just get the Power Bars. They'll do."

majorweather: protecting the fledgling manliness of eighteen year-olds everywhere by promoting context-appropriate health bar choices.

"The rapture is going to strike without warning. The rapture is going to happen suddenly. The rapture is going to be one of the most astonishing events to ever occur."

- Todd at raptureready.com

Features include:

"Oops, I Guess I Wasn't Ready: What to Do if You Miss the Rapture"
"Preterism: I Can't Believe It!"
"Satan's Little Helpers: The Liberal Media Who Else Could It Be?"
"The Coming National ID Card: Will It Be the Mark of the Beast?"

However, as much as I like the above sections, my favorites are:

"The Antichrist; Have You Seen This Man?" - Includes lines like, "Because of Mr. Kissinger's activity in the Middle East, he was labeled the Antichrist. I've always thought his raspy voice would be the first thing to disqualify him," and "Moon recently was sent to jail for tax evasion. Jesus, by having a tax collector on his staff, didn't suffer from tax problems. You pick which one was the smarter Messiah." It is also important that you take a look at the evidence that Barney the Dinosaur might very well be the Antichrist.

and:

"The Rapture Index" - As you can see, today, the threat posed by Satanism and the supernatural isn't dire, but it's a bad, bad day for Beast Government.

Hey - when you're right, you're right.

Oh, Owen Wilson,
You have ensnared me in your web
Of Owen Wilsonitude.

You could do nothing
But walk into a room, and I,
I would start clapping

Like a fucking idiot,
Shouting, "Nicely done, Owen Wilson!
Might I give you a BJ?"

Around these parts, the Fourth of July seems to start about now. It then goes on for weeks. Some asshole down the street bought a megaphone recently, and he's been doing things like having conversations with our next-door neighbors through it. The conversations consist of shrill, finger-in-the-mouth whistles, long "aaaaaaaaghs," and snippets such as "CI, baby! Criminal Intent!!" or "I got beer in the pick-up." Did I mention one half of this exchange is broadcast through a megaphone? I thought so. Just checking.

The fireworks aren't yet happening at intervals throughout the day, but they have begun. My neighbors seem to be especially fond of explosions. This wasn't the case in my former neighborhood, where the only person who regularly set things on fire in the street was the guy who decided to cope with being put on permanent disability by making it his goal to go through a case of beer every day. He began at nine. It was the Beast or some such swill, but I don't think that much mattered by about noon.

I've got this idea that the desire to get trashed and blow things up can certainly crop up at any socioeconomic level, but is particularly prominent in typically middle-class, suburban areas. My last neighborhood was comprised primarily of working-class families, most of them immigrants from Mexico. They busted their asses at work, and to blow off steam, they had big, festive parties that started at four and ended by ten or eleven. My current neighborhood is comprised of people who are just comfortable enough to feel they deserve more, because they really got screwed by that one boss, and they'd have his job if they hadn't been stymied by massive injustice. This is a generalization, of course—all sorts of different people live near me—but I think it's true enough for the ones who are the loudest. They'd really relate to "Frank's Wild Years" if they didn't think that Tom Waits sounded like such a freak.

So, in order to cope with the cosmic imbalance that keeps them working for The Man when, by all rights, they should be The Man, my neighbors purchase some Cuervo Gold and Bud Light, get a good buzz on while they sit by the pool and watch the kids play, put the kids to bed, pour another round of shots, and then decide that they are all mu'fuckin Bruce Willis. Meanwhile, their bosses have done pretty much the same thing, only they've done it in a gated community with Scotch or expensive wine, and they have decided they are not mu'fuckin Bruce Willis, but smooth-skiing James Bond. In reality, the best they could hope for is Inspector Gadget, though they try valiantly to convince you otherwise by showing you their GPS systems and offering to drive in their cars that talk but only get fourteen miles to the gallon. Chances are they can't even make a decent martini. The bosses, not the cars. If drinking on the freeway were legal, Lexus would make a "driving experience" with space for vermouth and Bombay Sapphire next to the wiper fluid tank, and suits everywhere would pronounce the resulting cocktails "not half bad."

Of course, it could be that I'm just feeling grumbly because I'm working on a Friday night instead of drinking a Manhattan and pretending that I'm a sweet-sashaying Ann-Margret (1964 model). But that may or may not matter.

Me with my friend M. before prom, spring 1989:

'80s hair still amazes me. I think it's because so many of us had parents and teachers who thought for a time that the best possible thing we could do was watch "Nova," and we came away from our viewings thinking all bangs should be big.

The theme for the prom was "Never Say Goodbye." As in "Never Say Goodbye," by Jon Bon Jovi, with lyrics like:

Remember when we lost the keys,
and you lost more than that in my backseat, baby.
I didn't lose anything in the back seat. It was impossible not to like my date—he was one of those people everyone seems to know and like—and he and I had periodically found ourselves together on a couch in someone's basement, but we weren't a real couple. It wouldn't have worked if we had tried; the only things we had in common were being short and liking to laugh. He had lots of energy. Lots and lots of energy. He needed about a third of the dance floor to do his thing properly, and I cracked up while he pointed at people in time to the lyrics of "Devil Inside." "Here comes the womannnnn," Michael Hutchence would sing, and my date would hold out his finger as he shimmied about ten feet to the left. By the time Michael got to "raised on leather," my date had managed to make it to the other side of the room.

We cut out after we'd made rounds, had pictures taken, and successfully dodged the ASB advisor. "Do you think they've been drinking?" she asked, pointing to some of our friends. "Oh, absolutely not!" I exclaimed, wondering how I could cut off the conversation, since my friends were quite trashed. The best excuse I could come up with was a gesture indicating that I really couldn't stand around and talk while they were playing Paula Abdul, so did she mind? It didn't matter if she did, because I left before she had a chance to respond.

About a dozen of us rented rooms at a hotel near downtown Seattle, and we sat around and drank margaritas out of a blender someone had brought. They were either too watery or too strong or too sweet, because we were 17 and 18, and most of us hadn't spent a great deal of time mixing drinks. We were lucky when we could get cheap beer. So, we happily sipped at the terrible margaritas that had made the countertop so sticky, and then we went to bed. My date stole the covers.

I seem to have one of those faces that reminds people of someone else. I'm not really sure why; some of the people I've been compared to look nothing at all like me, and it's quite possible that it has more to do with something I say or the way I say it than how I look.

Once, however, my brother and some friends went on a quick run to the store. When they returned, they were all laughing and holding some sort of publication. "We found a picture of you at the store!" one joked. "Yeah, I even pulled a picture of you out of my wallet to show to the clerk. He said the resemblance was remarkable," said my brother. This piqued my curiosity, and I asked them to hand over the paper. It was a tabloid, and on the cover was a face that truly did look exactly like mine. But for a couple of things, I myself might have mistaken it for a picture of me.

The first thing was that this woman's hair was totally fried. "Oh, honey, you really should consider springing for the good conditioner," I thought sympathetically.

The second was that the cover proclaimed this woman had the "WORLD'S LARGEST EARS." My poor doppelganger had been subjected to print-based plastic surgery, and at the sides of her head were two six-inch monstrosities.

I think I'd rather be a neighborhood werewolf. They drink pina coladas at Trader Vic's, and their hair is perfect.

See, I like my cat. I like him a whole lot. We've had him for nearly four years, and we consider him part of the family.

The thing is, I have reason to believe he's more vicious than other kitties. And possessed of sharper claws and longer teeth. He was an adult when we adopted him as a stray, and I do believe that the time he spent fending for himself toughened him up, much as Rocky toughened up after jabbing at hamhocks and running several footraces against Apollo Creed. The haughty independence typical of his breed has, in him, reached a sort of apex. Really, there are two Leos: the sweet one who lies on the back of the couch above our heads while we read or watch TV, and the other one. The one we call "Kitty Bastard."

Napa is terrified of Kitty Bastard. At our old house, before we had sliding glass doors, he used to hide behind the threshold as the dogs ran in from the back yard. He let Ivy pass; he always let Ivy pass. But then, just as Napa was about to enter the house, he would jump out from his hiding place, causing her to skid to a stop. If he had been able to say "Ha!", he would have. At other times, he'll stand in front of her food after one of us feeds her. He walks around the bowl a few times, arching his back. He's not a big fan of Eukanuba, large breed formula, but he ostentatiously takes a few bites anyway. Eventually, he tires of the game and permits her to enjoy her meal.

Leo and Ivy have a different relationship. He can't push her around quite the way he pushes Napa around, so he has adopted a "bait and attack" strategy. He zooms around the house, taking short breaks on top of our furniture, staying just out of Ivy's reach. Then, he lets her get just close enough. As soon as she's within striking range, he hooks her little doggy lips in his claws. Ivy, who is very sweet but not exactly a candidate for the gifted and talented program, wags her tail and backs up until she can resume her chase. Unfortunately, Kitty Bastard usually hasn't let go of her doggy lips when she decides to back up. Streeeetch.

Then, there's bed time. The infernal fuzzball has taken to sleeping snuggled right up against me. "Oh, how cute!" you might say. "What a dear, affectionate pussy cat!"

You'd be wrong. It is very important to Kitty Bastard that he be touching me at all times. This means that if I roll over on my side, he moves in so that he's still cuddled up against my back. Of course, what this actually means is that I slowly get pushed closer and closer to the edge of the bed as the night wears on. "Why don't you just move him?" you might ask. "He only weighs twelve pounds."

Well, that's a fine idea, but Kitty Bastard is better at staying in one place than a bunch of Earth Firsters in front of a tractor in the rainforest. Touch him wrong and he'll go all Lestat on your ass, sinking his teeth through the blankets and into whichever of your body parts happens to be handy. As a result, the cat now holds dominion over approximately one third of the bed, and it's a king-size bed.

He is Leolini. He is Leo Peron. He is Leo Tse-tung. And he must be deposed before he converts us all to subjects in the Leo Nation. I'm staging a coup.

So, last night, Kelly came over, and she, Jeff, and I watched "A.I." Afterwards, we ended up in a conversation that went something like this:

J: "What was up with those aliens?"
Me: "Aliens? There were no aliens in that movie."
J: "The aliens at the end."
K: "You mean the robots? Those were robots."
Me: "Yeah, they were definitely robots."

:: skip up a bit ::

J: "You guys are lit majors. It's deconstruction! They can be whatever I want them to be."
Me: "But that's not really what deconstruction is about, honey."
J: "You have one interpretation, and I have another. You guys talk about multiple interpretations all the time!"
K: "Yes, but the fact that we enjoy ambiguity and acknowledge that multiple interpretations are often valid doesn't mean we think every interpretation is valid."
J: "They looked like aliens!"
Me: "So they did. And one question that might be worth pursuing is why the robots did, in fact, bear such a striking resemblance to what we have come to recognize as 'typical' representations of aliens. Was it simply a lack of imagination on the part of Spielberg's creative team?"

:: skip up a bit more ::

Me: "Don't you remember when Jude Law told David that in the end, there would only be robots? A world of all robots and no humans was clearly foreshadowed earlier in the film."
K: "Yup."
J: "That doesn't mean they actually were robots. They looked like aliens."
Me: "Well, it would have been nice if they all looked like Jude Law, no doubt about it. But they didn't."
J: "You should acknowledge the possibility that they could be aliens!"
Me: "They had circuits in their faces. Robot circuits."
J: "I'm watching the DVD extras to see what they say."

:: about 15 minutes later ::

J: "They were robots."
Me, gently: "Of course they were. Here, have some ice cream."

Step One: Dial the wrong number at approximately 4:46 am. Listen to the answering machine message when the person who is trying to sleep in the house you called fails to get up to talk to you. Ignore the part of the answering machine message that says, "this is Shasta and Jeff." You are looking for neither Shasta nor Jeff, but attention to detail isn't especially important to you. Leave a message on the answering machine like so: "Hellooooooo! Hellooooooo! Good morning, hellooooo! Helloooooo!" Repeat for at least 45 seconds.

Step Two: Wait just enough time for Shasta to come close to falling back asleep. This should take approximately 15 minutes, which will put the time at 5:01 am. Phone again, since you thought that answering machine message was a little fishy. When you get the same fishy answering machine message because Shasta is ignoring you a second time—after all, she knows it's you, you miserable wretch—shout loudly into the telephone, "Helllooooo! Helloooooo? Fuck!" Then hang up.

Step Three: Call again at 5:06, because "Shasta and Jeff" is obviously a compound code name for the person you are trying to reach, and that person is obviously screening his calls. Wait until Shasta finally gets up and walks over to the phone to inform you that you are the antichrist. Hang up without leaving a message right as she clicks the "talk" button.

Step Four: By now, Shasta will be fully awake and wishing all the diseases of sixteen hospitals on you. Take advantage of her wakefulness by calling again at 5:09. When she answers the phone, do your best not to say anything that makes sense. This will exacerbate her anger, causing her to yell things at you like, "How long will it take you to figure out that you have the wrong number? Even if you had the right number, what the hell are you doing? Jesus. I'm trying to sleep. You know why? It's really fucking early. If you dial this number again, I will destroy you. Do you hear me? I will destroy you."

After Shasta manages to extract from you an agreement not to call again—and "OK" must be the only intelligible thing you say during the conversation—wonder why she was so mean while she lies in bed, mentally daring you to pick up your phone and push the numbers. You won't, because apparently, she was persuasive. Eventually, she will calm down a bit and realize that she actually said the words, "I will destroy you." She will find that amusing in a sick sort of way, but then she'll remember that she's unhappy about being awake to experience amusement.

Later, she will drink an entire pot of coffee.

I learned about the Chardonnay Diet while attending a party. It was a catered affair at my friend's lovely beachfront home, and many of the attendees were involved in the entertainment industry in one role or another. Since I've spent the eight years I've lived in Los Angeles reading obscure texts by people who have been dead for four centuries, interacting with a group of people who have spent their own time in Los Angeles networking and hobnobbing and truly caring about who is or isn't getting work can feel a bit surreal. Finally, it seems, you are immersed in the culture that so many people assumed you must be experiencing all along—"I should give you my screenplay," they say—and you wonder if perhaps the reason you can stand living in LA is that you aren't really living in the LA that people talk about. What you're doing is reading books where the weather is warm and getting stuck in traffic from time to time.

These are the kinds of thoughts I had as I wandered around, taking advantage of the bartender's services and chatting with some of the other guests. Soon enough, I caught sight of an English man who looked rather like a long-haired version of Philip Seymour Hoffman and talked with the enthusiasm of the crocodile hunter. Say what you will about British people's taste in candy, but cast no aspersions on their sense of humor. They offered Monty Python, and we gave the world "Little Nicky." That's all I'm saying.

This particular English man gathered a small crowd around him as he spoke, and what he spoke about was the Chardonnay Diet. "You hear all this bollocks about high protein and low carbs and blood type and food groups, but no one thinks to simplify," he half-yelled. He then laid out a better plan, one that would enable dieters to enjoy the finer things and lose weight at the same time.

"Day One," he said, "You wake up in the morning and drink tea. Lots of tea. At least two pots. You keep drinking tea until you can no longer ignore the fact that you're really quite hungry. At that point, it's about three o'clock, and you have a late lunch of either salad or chicken."

"Can I have dressing on the salad?" someone asked.

"Vinaigrette," he responded.

"Can there be skin on the chicken?" another person wanted to know.

"What kind of diet do you think this is?" British Philip returned, reproachfully. "So, here's the heart of the diet: at six o'clock, you will have digested your lunch. That's when it's time for... Chardonnay," he stated, pronouncing "Chardonnay" with an air of mystery, a David-Copperfield-announcing-the-woman-has-been-cut-in-half sort of flourish.

"Ooooh," we all murmured, appreciative. Everyone was silent for a few moments.

"What next?" someone inquired, her voice a bit timid.

"You drink the wine, of course," said our temporary cult leader. "And once you have finished the bottle, you go to bed. Here's the beauty of this diet: Days One, Two, and Three are exactly the same. It's very straightforward, you see. And you'll find that on each of those days, you will wake up the next morning and discover that you have lost two pounds!"

There was applause.

"But then, there's Day Four," British Philip continued. "It's important to take care of one's health, and we must admit that the first three days will leave you feeling a little weak, though you won't mind, because you'll be six pounds lighter. Still, on Day Four, you will get up and drink tea in the morning, but you'll skip the light lunch. You'll skip the lunch because, at six o'clock, you can have whatever you want for dinner! And, of course, a bottle of... Chardonnay."

We expressed joy at the prospect of eating a no-holds-barred dinner.

"Well, you do have to be proper about it," he admitted. "Steak, for example, would be absurd. This is no Cabernet Sauvignon Diet. Besides, eating a full dinner will have its price: you'll find that you wake up after Day Four having gained a pound."

Our faces fell.

"Yes," he said, "and therefore, you must fast on Day Five. You eat nothing, nothing at all, until six o'clock. Then, it's time for your... Chardonnay."

Our disappointment turned into dismay. Wanting to restore hope to the rapt masses, British Philip added a loophole. "But there is an exception!" he exclaimed, with the tone of someone who is about to describe a magnificent discovery. "Just one exception! On your fast day, you can eat as many chocolate chip cookies as you'd like!"

With this, his weight-loss plan was a triumph. We disbanded, still basking in the charismatic speaker's glow, and I overheard a couple discussing the diet as they refilled their drinks.

"It's no dumber than Slim-Fast," said the husband.

I suspect he might be right.

I like that Simon Amman kid. I find it charming that he gets so excited he can't even talk.

I've been thinking about it, and I've decided that the reason I like the winter Olympics so much is this: the summer Olympics are mostly about strength, speed, endurance. Of course, these are important in the winter games, too. However, in the winter games, there are multiple sports in which there is a very real chance of death. You put me in a pool with Olympics swimmers, and it will just be obvious that I smoke too much. You give me a shot put, and I'll toss it a few feet for you. You put me in a boat, and I'll probably row a little crooked. But put me on skis going 80 miles an hour down a hill, and I'll tumble for ya. Hard. Never know what hit me. Wake up and hang out with Warren Beatty in the clouds, who's still thinking he's a real live football player. And I just realized that a whole bunch of you are probably too young to get that reference, so hooray Simon! Free Pelletier! Ohno let's go!

I love speedskating. Mind you, I've never actually been speedskating. I haven't skated much at all, in fact. There's that ankle injury, for one thing; it always makes skating a bit hazardous for me. I think I have some rollerblades in the garage somewhere. I believe I went up and down the block in them twice.

But egads! I look at speedskaters in their tight suits with those huge, strong legs, and it's easy to imagine myself zooming along with them, taking the curves at just the right pace, hauling ass without slamming into the wall and taking out a bunch of fellow zoomers. "Up yours, you figure skaters with your twirly-whirlies," I think condescendingly, mentally mimicking the tone I imagine real kickboxers must use when they speak of TaeBo aficionados.

I do enjoy watching swimming and track during the summer Olympics. The problem is that I've actually competed in those sports, and I know that at my best, I'm a solid high school team member, the kind of person who started off the relay, but who didn't anchor unless the girl who ended up being an NCAA champion in something-or-other didn't feel like running her leg that day. The kind of person who was told that with her time in the 100 fly, she might be able to be a peon-type on the University of Washington's swim team if she worked out full-time the summer before college, which was out of the question, because it would have interfered with her plans to hang out in Humboldt County. The kind of person who had an excellent chance of breaking 60 seconds in the 400 meter dash, but then there was that damn ankle injury again, so it never happened, and even if it had, it would have meant only that she'd have an ignominious showing at the state meet. Besides, she quit the track team senior year so she could play the psychiatrist's wife in Harvey, mostly because she didn't even like running anymore, and watching the Jimmy Stewart movie as "research" was much more fun.

So what's left is speed skating. Ah, glorious cat people with enormous quadriceps! In my head, I am one of you.

Of course, even in my head, I allow that I'd need to make a lifestyle change or two if I really wanted to make a run at a medal. And now, I think I'll have a cigarette.

Step 1: Step into the shower intending to bathe and shave quickly.
Step 2: Wash hair.
Step 3: Decide to repeat the "wash hair" step, because it says "lather, rinse, and repeat," and hey, you might as well repeat this time.
Step 4: Grab bottle of conditioner and squeeze some in hand. Begin rubbing conditioner in hair.
Step 5: Wonder why the conditioner is lathering up. Look suspiciously at bottle; realize you have just "conditioned" your hair with the same shampoo you have already washed your hair with twice.
Step 6: Imagine the havoc such intensive cleansing will wreak on your locks. It won't be hair at all; it will be straw! Like when you went through that unfortunate crimping phase in the '80s.
Step 7: Read the label on the bottle of actual conditioner at least three times before applying. Sigh with relief when you get it right.
Step 8: Soap up body, rinse body and hair, turn off water, grab towel.
Step 9: Realize the bathmat is still in the dryer.
Step 10: Realize that you forgot to shave.
Step 11: Decide not to operate any heavy machinery.

So, I went in for my yearly exam this morning. Now, no woman looks forward to these visits to the doctor, but I got over dreading the routine stuff quite a long time ago. Still, I could name any number of things I'd rather do. Especially since just getting an appointment now seems to involve going to my primary care physician, filling out forms, being told I need to go somewhere else ("here's a 27b-6"), being handed a map to that place, driving there, finding out that's not at all where I need to be, and finally arriving in the correct office after making a phone call and getting stuck behind an ambulance supply dealer making a 24-point turn.

But I got there. One could not help but notice the multitude of figurines on the shelves in the waiting room. At first glance, they seemed to be the possessions of some sort of Hummel fetishist.

And then I took a closer look.

There was a medical theme. Each of the figurines was either a doctor or a patient, but oh, the variety! There was a wizened country doctor with an enormous syringe. There were painted rocks wearing stethoscopes. There was a manic-looking fellow sitting on a stool and holding a baby by the ankles, hand poised to spank its bottom. There were cherubic figures whose benign facial expressions contrasted suspiciously with their hands, which held mysterious, sharp objects.

And those weren't the worst. There was a figurine of a woman in stirrups getting a pelvic exam. There was a Day of the Dead-themed scene with a skeleton doctor operating on a skeleton patient. Then there were the monkeys: quizzical-doctor-monkey, opium-haze-doctor-monkey, and not one, but two tongue-sticking-out-doctor-monkeys. These last, in particular, were well on the hooboy side of the racialized imagery line. "Good lord," I thought. "My new OB-Gyn is Al Jolson."

I scanned the shelves for a lawn jockey with a scalpel and decided that if I saw Aunt Jemima in a lab coat, I was out of there.

At least there were no mobiles hanging from the ceiling in the exam room.

The dogs are outside, and I hear a noise. I know that noise; it's the "we're jumping up on the fence and messing stuff up because there's a cat or something equally exciting" noise.

"Hey! Knock it off," I yell in my best "being stern to the dogs" voice.

"What?" says the confused kid from next door, who's apparently moving some stuff around in his yard.

However intentionally, I am officially the Cranky Neighbor Lady. It's that kid's fault for sounding like dogs on a fence.

From the kitty's perspective, my lap is obviously the very best place to be only when I have something else in it. Like a stack of papers that I need to get through tonight. I was almost done when I made the mistake of checking my email once again, and behold! More awaited me. Leo kitty thinks it's great fun. The dogs no longer think it's much fun, but they did when they were younger. Did I ever mention the time I put some essays down and went to get more coffee, only to return and discover that one of the essays was missing? The dogs had run outside, and Ivy was delightedly shredding poor Brad's assignment (I was very close to finishing with my comments, too). I went to class the next day, mangled essay in hand. "This is a little embarrassing," I said, "but my dog ate your homework."

I found this today in a thread on one of the NY Times message boards. An engaged couple had posted a serious question asking for suggestions on which wine to select for their wedding reception in the Napa Valley. Sandwiched in a whole host of serious responses was the following:

We feel your pain. My priest and I have discussed your problem and think we have a solution to your dilemma. After much debate, we think your choice should be the 2000 Boone's Strawberry Hill. First, it is easy to find: it is highly accessible as it is found in your finer 7-11's or Circle K's. Think about it, if the wine runs low at the party a quick trip to the nearest Sav-on saves the day. Second, impress, impress, impress: all of your TRUE friends will appreciate the simplicity of the screw top after they are half drunk. This is a Compton district vintage that is especially good with most any food but we recommend an empty stomach. The bouquet will turn the heads of your guest as they have memories of cruising the loop on a Friday night. Third, cost: At $3 a bottle you will have plenty of money left over for your honeymoon where you should be spending your money anyway. No need on wasting money on more pretentious wines like Andre or Franzia. So, there you have it. This is a no brainer.

1 of 1 people found this response helpful.

I've added a new alternative career fantasy to the growing list of other ways I could spend my time. Here are some of the current possibilities, both the real ones and those that have no chance of ever happening:

- Screenwriter ("You want explosions? I'll give you explosions.")
- Rock star ("Never had one lesson!")
- CEO of corporation that markets adult Underoos (Who wouldn't want a Wonder Woman sports bra?)
- University administrator (I'd wear a Wonder Woman sports bra under my power suit.)
- Successor to Sister Wendy ("No one's gonna keep me from groovin' on these nudies!")
- Professional muse ("Would you like tea with your inspiration?" Note to self: downplay crankiness in interviews.)
- Consultant to crack scientist team that finally invents the perfect method of birth control (Helena and I came up with this one a while back. I've always wanted to be targeted by the Christian Right as part the source of a wave of degeneracy. Sex for everyone!)
- Book store owner (Sort of like Rob Gordon, only without all the albums and lists. Oh, wait...)
- Space pirate ("Arg, matey!" A new item on the list. See this thread for specifics.)

And, the latest addition...

- Founder, holycrapimahomeowner.com and subsidiaries, holycrapimaparent.com and holycrapimagardener.com. Features on this series of sites will include:

"Spackle—Better than Peeps!"
"You Can't Roll Up It: Getting Out of a Drained Pool"
"I Can't Believe I Didn't Measure! Or, What to Do When 'Eyeballing It' Fails You"
"Feng Huh? How to Cram As Much Ikea Furniture as Possible into 1200 Square Feet"
"15 Clowns in a Volkswagen: Still Better than 2 Kids in a Ford Expedition, Soccer Gear or No"
"When Siesta Only Sounds Like a Good Idea to You: Cooking with Tryptophan"
" 'I'm Not Dead Yet!' Plants for People Who Forget to Water"
"Asbestos? Nah, Prolly Not. Off with the Floor!"
" 'Now That's a Fire!' Barbecuing for the Repressed"

Currently seeking freelancers.

For some reason, I find it highly amusing that the Open Directory Project has a category specifically dedicated to Cowboy Poetry. It's also helpfully cross-referenced to Society: People: Cowboys. Now, I realize that the literature of the American West is rich and varied, but I can't help but snort a bit when I go to a site dedicated to Walt "Bimbo" Cheney and see lines like this:

At first, I thought to pull some weeds and knock down all that brush,
But then I thought the better, why disturb them with my fuss?

And then there's Paul's Cowboy Poetry Web page, with gems like "Branding Time":

Do it till it's too dark out, and then grab a bottle.
Real cowboys don't wear designer-jeans or pose like a male model.

I wonder if I'm now going to be flamed by a posse of rhymin' cowboys. Git along, little doggies.

On a note that is only marginally related, has anyone seen Project Grizzly? It's a documentary about a man named Troy Hurtubise whose goal in life is to create a suit that will protect him from bear attacks. It's all very elaborate—he tests out the suit by having people drop logs on him, shoot arrows at him, and beat at him with sticks and bats. He prefaces statements about which he feels strongly with phrases like, "Sure as God made little green apples."

I'm tempted to work that into my own conversations more often.

I didn't realize that the Sierra Nevada Bigfoot beers had an alcohol content of about 10.5%, meaning that each one of them was worth approximately 2 normal beers, or approximately 3 Bud Lights, if you ever drink Bud Light, which I would not recommend that you do. It's acceptable until some time in your early twenties, before which drinking things like Pabst Blue Ribbon, Milwaukee's Best, and Natural Light is par for the course. But it's important to develop a certain sensitivity to the brand names of beer at some point, because they really do make a difference, and, as I have discovered, it also isn't a bad idea to investigate which beers have what appears, on label and in reality, twice the alcohol content of the beers that you are used to consuming.

And it is good to be home while you are doing all this discovering, so that you don't have to travel anywhere, which is no good whether you're a driver or a passenger, but is a particularly bad idea when you're a driver.

I hope this message has been of use to you, beer travelers. It will probably self-destruct tomorrow, unless I decide that I really have been doing a Good Thing by spreading the word, which is unlikely, particularly because when sober, I think I will probably recognize that my sentences are horribly long and strung together with seemingly endless series of commas, which is not always awful, but probably will seem so when the light comes up again. Don't let the bastards fool ya, whoever those bastards may be for you, and even if you don't yet know that they exist.

My friend S. has been collecting quotes from her friends for years and posting them on her web page. I was looking over them today and rediscovered this one:

A: "So, this weekend, I saw that new Kubrick movie, 'Sleeping Out Loud.'"
S: "You mean 'Eyes Wide Shut.'"
A: "Yeah, whatever."

Another long real estate day... we just finished writing up an offer on a house in Cypress. We don't like it as much as we liked the house in Long Beach, but after looking at crappy house after crappy house this afternoon, this one was a huge relief. The kitchen is sub-par, the rooms are on the small side, the closets are rather little, and the mirror in the main bathroom was obviously installed by someone who is way over five feet tall. I can only see the very top of my head.

However, the house includes what is quite possibly one of the swankiest rooms I've ever seen. It's a patio that's been enclosed and covered. There are windows on all sides, a wood burning stove, and a flat little carpet that leads up to some very 70's-looking tile. The tile is necessary because there is an enormous, pink, marbled jacuzzi in the corner, nestled in a dark wooden berth. The whole room is probably a good 400 square feet.

At dinner (J: "Do you want to eat at the Ninja Grill?" Me: "Ninja Grill? The sign says Inka Grill." J: "Well, I had the I, N, K, and A right." Me: "Honey, there's no K in 'ninja.'"), we brainstormed some possible names for that part of the house:

+ The Ski Lodge
+ The Charlie's Angels Room
+ Decadentia
+ Ponch & Jon's Place

We've already mentally put in a wet bar, a foosball table, and a drawer full of toothbrushes.

This house has multiple offers, too, but I can't imagine that there are offers from anyone who would develop the level of affection I already have for Speedo Palace.

I work for a women's studies journal, and my fellow book review editors and I had the following conversation earlier today, after being asked to order a particular book that was supposedly published by Cornell UP:

Me: It looks like that book on oneiric transport isn't from Cornell. Let me see if I can find who publishes it.
BRE #2: OK.
Me: You know, it looks like no one has published it. I've searched amazon.com, powells.com, and several different major library catalogs.
BRE #3: What does "oneiric" mean, exactly?
BRE #2: Doesn't it have something to do with.... oh. Never mind.
Me: What?
BRE #2: I was thinking "onanistic."
[laughs all around]
Me: Well, we wouldn't be ordering a book like that. Books on onanistic transport belong in self help.

Jeff is thinking about cutting his hair, and I am a little distressed. He has a long, luscious, curly mane of auburn locks. I love to bury my hands in it. Sometimes, I grab big handfuls and amorously steer his head around.

Not long after he told me he might get it cut short again, we were lying in bed after a multiply-orgasmic evening. "See, honey?" I said, "You're Sampson, and I'm the anti-Delilah."

Never mind that the biblical analogy doesn't really work if you press it; it was manipulative. It's his hair, after all, and he should do whatever he pleases with it. I hereby vow that I will no longer try to intervene.

But oh... sigh... if it happens, I will have to schedule a brief period of private mourning. Then I'll have to settle on other body parts of his body to grab amorously.