BRB

I’m going on vacation, guys. I’ll be off the grid for about a week.

Unlike when I went to the Dominican Republic, I will not be setting up auto blogs this time.

To be honest I’ve felt kind of uninspired lately and feel like I’ve been forcing a lot of my recent blogging. Which in some ways is a good thing. I mean, I started this blog for me, as a way to make myself write. If I’m staying true to the purpose of the blog, I should force myself when I have to, and accept that not every post can be a gem.

At the same time, I want to feel good about what I’m putting up here, and I want you to like it, or maybe even like like it, and then get it drunk and propose to it and have 10,000 of its babies. So I think a break will do me good, get the creative juices flowing.

[I’m referring, of course, to wine.]

Speaking of which, I’ll finally have time to figure out how to pour myself into the Wine Rack without spraining a nipple.

And to spend some quality time with Jeff's new 'stache, which kind of makes me laugh but also kind of turns me on (I blame Tom Selleck).

It’s win-win, really. For you guys too -- imagine a whole week without worrying about accidentally subjecting your young-but-old-enough-to-read children to my abundant profanity... a week in which you are not, for once, subjected to announcements about the latest camel toe-hiding technology. You are welcome.

Calgon, take us away!

BRB

Scene From A Marriage: Blinkers Really Pump My 'Nads

Nothing brings out my curmudgeonly nature like highway driving. If I’m not busy gripping the wheel in terror, imagining my death at the hands of one of the Merritt Parkway’s infamous leaping deer, I am critiquing my fellow drivers using a colorful selection of expletives.

I learned to drive late, at 25, and am kind of Tracy Flick-ish when it comes to rules of conduct, so I treat the drivers' manual like the Bible, inferring my own commandments.

Thou shalt not drive slower than 10 miles over the speed limit in the fast lane, asshole.

Though shalt not assume that if your lane ends I will let you in at the last minute, dickwad.

Though shalt not go 80 on the shoulder to bypass traffic unless you then immediately spontaneously combust, doucheface.

Yesterday I was particularly incensed by an asshole who felt his blinker was just a piece of optional steering wheel flair.

Me: Look! That asshole just changed lanes without using his signal!
Jeff: Quick! Make a citizen’s arrest.
Me: Shut up. Aaaaagh, he did it again! That really burns my ass.
Jeff: [Doubled over in laughter.]
Me: What? That's an expression. It's like the opposite of "that really pumps my 'nads."
Jeff: Woah, he's using his blinker. It's like he can feel your hatred.
Me: It's my Care Bear Stare.
Jeff: And which bear would you be?
Me: Judgy Bear.

Scene From A Marriage: Blinkers Really Pump My 'Nads

TGI...WTF: Apantylypse Now

So this exists:

I never thought I'd say this, but I have such respect for the humble (if unnervingly large) sanitary napkin. I kind of hope the Mayans are right about 2012 now, because this is some End of Days shit.

You know what else exists? Camelflage. Turning camel toe into camel no since 1895! (That's not their actual tagline, though it should be. And props to my girl Betsy for coining the term "camel no.")

I guess since we'll all be with Satan soon I may as well cash in. How about Skid-daddle, a skid mark-preventing portable bidet? Or Supercalifragilisticexpihalitosis, a Hannibal Lecter-esque muzzle that filters out bad breath like one of those Glad plug-ins, but for your face? I admit it's not as subtle as farting discreetly into a thong, but I really think it could change the world.

TGI...WTF: Apantylypse Now

Thursday Re-Run: Fun With The Fashion Closet!

Summer TV has re-runs, so why can't I?

Summer TV also has WipeOut, though, so by that logic I should also have to complete an obstacle course full of giant balls. I'm not sure how far I'll get with that, seeing as I only have access to three balls -- my inflatable fitness orb and Jeff's two -- but I will be making a fool out of myself in the very near future -- The Wine Rack has arrived in the mail!

While I figure out how to wear it without drenching myself in Zinfandel, please enjoy this post from August 1, 2007, in which my inner Eloise gets the best of me during a blood sugar dip. At the time, I worked for a fashion magazine which kept a closet of ever-rotating designer clothes and accessories.

---

When 3 pm rolls around, some people's blood sugar gets low, so they eat a granola bar. I prefer to wander around seeing how I can best amuse myself. Sometimes I find someone who's willing to give me a cookie, and sometimes I make myself useful sorting the mail. Most of the time, though, I play with the fabulous props contained within The Fashion Closet.

Today's question: Metallic, shoulder-length gloves: What are they good for?

Results:

They are not good for typing on a computer ...


They are not good for using Post-Its ...


They are not good for dialing phones ...


They are okay for talking on the phone, but add nothing to the experience.

"Hello, I am on a very important and fashionable call!"

Finally, a breakthrough! The gloves are good for ...


... posing in the bathroom! Success! I guess that's what they're for (minus the bathroom).

Tomorrow, maybe I should just have a granola bar.

Thursday Re-Run: Fun With The Fashion Closet!

Scene From A Marriage: Here, Kitty, Kitty

I did not have a good day yesterday.

I was stressed out. I worked late. I came home and caused trouble.

I hemmed and hawed. I bitched and moaned. Nothing Jeff said or did was right. But I took out the brunt of my frustration on inanimate objects.

What I'm saying is, I may or may not have punched the couch.

Jeff started laughing. "You know what you remind me of?" he said.

The only acceptable answer at that point would have been "Salma Hayek after an oxygen facial."

Instead, he pulled up this Onion page:

Eh. He kind of has a point.

Scene From A Marriage: Here, Kitty, Kitty

Why It's Probably Best Not To Deconstruct Summer Jams

"She's A Beauty" by The Tubes is totally my summer jam.

Yes, it was released in 1983. What? Do not even say "California Gurls" to me or I will engage you in an ill-advised rap battle. I don't listen to anything that's willfully misspelled, and that includes you, Ke$ha. The only exception I make is for Prince, whose brevity ("I Would Die 4 U," "Feel U Up") I choose to view as an impressive prescience of text messaging lingo.

Anyway, as I was saying, "She's A Beauty" has an eerie power over me. It's like aural peyote. When I hear it I start thinking crazy things, like, You know, maybe I could pull off a romper, or Anne Geddes' right to photograph babies in flower pots doesn't, in fact, stop with my eyes. It never stops, thanks to the First Amendment. 

For maximum effectiveness I like to listen to my jam first thing in the morning on a hot summer day, before the humidity can conspire to make me look like Rosanne Rosannadanna after a particularly vigorous spin on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I'll walk out of my front door feeling dangerously sexy in my jean shorts and flip flops, like there is no Una, only Zool.

Don't fall in love, I'll whisper with my eyes to the portly man sitting on the crate outside the bodega nursing his 10 am beer.

She's a beauty (She being ME, obviously. A beauty who eye-whispers about herself in the THIRD PERSON. Do not hate on my skills.)

One in a million girls (My name literally means "one," so this is super deep.)

Why would I lie?
Why would I lie? (Yeah, I'm getting a little defensive, probably because the dewy mist of sweat on my face has by now turned into muddy reflecting pools of concealer.)

I must admit that I never gave much thought to the lyrics, other than the obvious meaning to be gleaned (as illustrated above): I am awesome.

Turns out, there's more. The message of the song, according to Wikipedia, is "the financial and emotional cost of falling in love with a stripper, prostitute or other type of sex worker",* which I guess makes sense considering the lyric She'll give you every penny's worth/but it will cost you a dollar first, and which also explains why the video makes such a show of taking poor preteen, pre-op Alexis Arquette on a creepy (yet PG-rated) funhouse ride chaperoned by what looks to be a one of the extras from the orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut, but I'm willing to overlook all of that because the song makes me feel so hot**. Is that wrong?

*FYI, I've seen those girls behind the glass in Amsterdam's red light district -- a blog for another day -- and the song that comes to mind is not "She's A Beauty" or even "Roxanne," but rather "Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis" as wheezed/gargled by Tom Waits

**Way hotter, anyway, than I feel when listening to the rest of the Tubes' canon, including hits like "Mondo Bondage" and "Don't Touch Me There" (yes, really)

Why It's Probably Best Not To Deconstruct Summer Jams

Dopey Fashion Poses

Sassy magazine -- the one that got away, the one that no other magazine will ever live up to, the one I might still fantasize about late at night while I try on my velvet choker from 8th grade and listen to the Reality Bites soundtrack (skipping over the truly cringe-worthy Ethan Hawke song, of course) -- had an amazing page in an early 90s issue called "Dopey Fashion Poses," in which an editor made fun of the stupidest model contortions du jour (my favorite: "Garfield on a car window").

But that was, what, 1993? I think we need an update. Some suggestions:

The Third-World Toilet

The Black Tie Trampoline

The Reluctant Flasher

Send me links to others, if you can find them. Making fun of stupid model poses truly never gets old.

Dopey Fashion Poses

TGI...WTF? Rack 'Em Up

A photo essay of lust, thirst, Facebook status updates, and unbridled consumerism:

TGI...WTF? Rack 'Em Up

Milli (Vanilli)

Jeff and I have been married 1,000 days. This is also (more or less, I'll get to that later) my 1,000th blog post. It is like a total eclipse of the heart up in here. And the best thing about it is that the Latin prefix for 1,000 is milli, which allows me to reference Milli Vanilli, which is one of my favorite non-eating activities. Girl, you know it's true.

Anyway, I haven’t actually been counting the days since we got hitched, in case you're wondering (the only thing I've ever tried to count in our marriage is the number of places we've done it--I'm sure some day our kids will be so proud) but I did do something just as embarrassing – I Googlebated (yes, I am going to keep trying to make "Googlebate" happen – SHUT UP, IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN!!!!), which led me to our wedding webpage on The Knot.

It's funny – if I hadn't stumbled across the page on what happened to be our 998th day of wedded bliss, I never would have known. But since I did know, I insisted that we celebrate this numerically impressive but otherwise meaningless milestone.

It was kind of a disaster.

Jeff and I have plenty of romantic moments during the course of normal everyday life, but when we make an effort to be romantic the pressure tends to jinx us. In this particular case, Jeff had a bad day and was feeling depressed, but wanted to go out to dinner to make me happy. Unfortunately dining with a miserable person wasn’t really doing it for me. I won’t go into details, since Jeff suffers enough of his personal life being aired on the blog, and since any recount of a fight would be one-sided and unfair, but suffice to say our 999th day was not our finest.

It happens. Every now and then we fall apart. (I blame the total eclipse of the heart. And maybe also the rain that was falling, falling.) But that’s marriage. That’s love. Boning across continents is all well and good, but real love means figuring out how to fight without hurting each other, and how to reconcile without sacrificing your voice. (Also how to Photoshop your heads onto other people's bodies as a public demonstration of affection.)

Yes, you know it's true -- ooh ooh ooh, I love you.

As for the 1,000th blog post thing – to be honest, I don't know when I hit 1,000 posts. Right now my Blogger dashboard count says 993, but I've deleted at least a dozen posts since I started the blog... mainly thanks to the CEO of a company I formerly worked for.

It began in August of 2008. One day, the actor Verne Troyer (who, apparently, was BFF with the CEO) toured our offices in a tiny motorized chair. I blogged something to the effect of "OMG, Mini-Me was in the office today. He creeps me out. But I don't hate little people or anything. If given the chance I would be all up on Peter Dinklage." Granted, not my best work, but, I thought, pretty harmless. I never revealed the name of the company I worked for, so as far as my readers were concerned, "the office" was generic.

A week later my boss called me in. The CEO had seen the blog and was not happy. At that point I had maybe 80 readers, so either Verne Troyer has a Google alert on his own name* (hi, Verne!) or one of my co-workers ratted me out.

*Auto-Googlebation! I will coin this term yet!

I didn't get fired, but from that point on the CEO was wary of me and my wanton blogging ways. A year later, when I got the opportunity to blog for The Huffington Post, he tried to forbid it. I fought back, and he finally decided to consider it, but only after reviewing my blog. He asked for the link, and I frantically pored over my entries from recent months, deleting posts that I thought could offend him or change his mind in any way. Most of the stuff I got rid of was political – this was right around the Sotomayor nomination and I was fired up – but I also trashed some funny posts that lampooned women's magazines or fashion brands (I worked for a magazine, and if I had been caught making fun of any of our advertisers I would have been in deep shit). I wish I had the forethought to save that writing, but I was nervous and frantic and so I didn't.

Which is all a very long way of saying that I passed 1,000 posts without knowing it. On the one hand it's disappointing, like missing the moment when the odometer on an old car ticks over to 100,000. But then again, much like the 1,000th day of a marriage (or even like an old car), it's a very small step on a much bigger journey. It's kind of like an unexpected scenic overlook on the side of a long highway: You take a minute to pull over, exhale, and take in the view. 

Then you get back on the road.

Milli (Vanilli)

Texts From My Sister: Special Pop Quiz Edition!

OMG my job, shoot me. Just had 1hr argument about why u can't wear the pants u peed in to the movies. Now I just feel like a bitch.

Hahahaha. And now, the $64,000* question: What is Zoe's job?

[Cue Jeopardy music.]

[*I don't actually have $64,000. If you win you just get to feel superior, which is truly a gift that keeps on giving. I think Gandhi said that.]

[Bonus hint: It's not "Personal assistant to R. Kelly."]

Texts From My Sister: Special Pop Quiz Edition!

Everything I've Always Hated About Summer* *But Was Too Afraid To Admit: Volume 1

Watermelon. I hate watermelon. There, I've said it. I hate the mealy texture. I hate the too-sweet flavor. I hate the rind, which looks like the Green Lantern got stretch marks. You know what I find refreshing? A cocktail, and when I'm drunk enough, maybe a S'more. What? Nothing beats the heat like marshmallow stuck in your hair, and you know it. Anyway, while I wait for God or Zeus or someone to smite me, I might as well admit that I hate all melon. I'm sorry you had to find out like this.

Heat. It's not just an interminably long Michael Mann movie. Hey-oh!

Madras*. What the fuck is Madras? Why does it exist? It is plaid's schizophrenic cousin who's only allowed outside between Memorial and Labor Days. It is the suit Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs would make if he went vegan. It is a blight on humanity and it must be stopped.

When you're finished having your stroke, tell me how this was allowed to happen.

*Me: "I'm uninspired today so I'm just writing about how I don't like watermelon, or Madras." 

Jeff : "The city?" 

Aw, bless.

Beach volleyball. To sully the beach with any sport other than frozen Charleston Chew-eating or competitive sunburning (is that just my family?) is flat-out un-American. Also, as you may have guessed, I am not good at volleyball under normal circumstances, and when that genetic betrayal is coupled with the possibility of crotch sand things can get bleak very fast.

To be continued...  

Everything I've Always Hated About Summer* *But Was Too Afraid To Admit: Volume 1

Embarrassing Things That Make Me Cry, Other Than Night Ranger

I'm getting fucking weepy as I get older.

Seriously, it's like every new chin hair is a little electrical wire that leads from the outside world straight into my heart.

It happens on the subway when I'm reading Star and unwittingly flip to an ad for one of those cleft palate charities. It happens at work when I check CNN and stumble across their requisite horrific violent crime of the day (with video!). Hell, it even happens when I'm watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and Teresa tells Dina that she wants her to be the godmother of her two day-old baby, who is already bedecked with enough spangles and bows to make Johnny Weir seethe with jealousy.

What happens is that my emotional gag reflex kicks in, fast and furious. Imaging someone trying to hold back vomit, and now imagine that the vomit is actually tears. Now imagine that person letting out a strangled gasp that sounds kind of like a parrot imitating someone gargling. Now imagine that this person is sitting next to you on a crowded subway. I know -- I AM SO CHARMING. But I guess it could be worse -- my vagina could be on fire.

Anyway, in honor of my newfound hormonal imbalance, I decided to make a list of some embarrassing things that make me cry other than the song "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger, which I have already discussed in some detail.

Ahem...

When Zack and Kelly break up on Saved By the Bell while, in the background,  Jesse and Slater do a lip-synch duet to Michael Bolton's "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You."

The Captain and Tennille of Zack Attack, ladies and gentlemen.

Looking at other people's ultrasounds... even if those people are total strangers (Note: I am talking about the old-fashioned black and white 2-D ones, not the creepy 3-D sepia ones that make the fetus look like it's been sculpted in cheese -- um, no offense, parents-to-be.)

The end of An American Tail. ("Fievel?" "Papa!" brings out the full-on ugly cry.)

When people get "revealed" to their family and friends on fashion makeover shows. (The sight of someone's formerly dumpy loved one finally getting a clue and wearing a bias-cut skirt has the same effect on me as chopping onions, apparently.)

The Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commerical (And I don't even like Sarah McLachlan OR cats OR the song "Angel", dammit. And I will tell you exactly why I don't like them as soon as I blow my nose. I'm not crying. It's just raining ... on my face.)

When Gene Wilder loses his shit at Charlie in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the 1971 version, thankyouverymuch -- Johnny Depp's Michael Jackson impression freaks me out) after Charlie and Grandpa Joe break the rules.

"What are wire hangers doing in this closet when I told you: no wire hangers EVER!?"

This last one I think is not so much from sadness, but rather fright mixed with sympathy for Charlie's crushing loss of a lifetime supply of candy. That is rough, dude.

Embarrassing Things That Make Me Cry, Other Than Night Ranger

The Poop Stall

I remember reading a really funny essay by Dave Barry when I was a teenager, the thesis of which was basically that a man has to be a total sleazoid sociopath to stand next to another man in an otherwise empty bank of urinals.

Countless women are faced every day with a similar predicament. It's different, of course, since women are obsessed with what other women think of them and also because our toilets come with walls. But the psychological stress is comparable.

I'm speaking, of course, of navigating The Poop Stall.

Hear me out.

Let's say a ladies' room has three stalls -- pretty standard.

If a woman -- let's call her Lady A -- goes into an empty bathroom with three stalls she will always take the stall closest to the door. That way she can get out quickly if there is a freak toilet fire or assassins (like in that scene from True Lies), PLUS there is a buffer stall in case someone else comes in.

If Lady A is pooping, however, she will take the stall furthest from the door. It is just one of those inexplicable laws of nature, like gravity or neon frogs that kill you if you lick them.

Let's assume, however, for the sake of argument, that Lady A is not pooping in this particular scenario. So she takes the first stall. Then, in comes Lady B. Lady B must take The Poop Stall, even though she is not pooping. The presence of another person already occupying the first stall temporarily lifts the stigma of The Poop Stall and it simply becomes The Stall That Is A Non-Threatening Distance From The Other Person In The Bathroom.

But wait! Lady A finishes up and leaves the bathroom. Oh no! Now Lady B is in The Poop Stall with no mitigating factor!

Then Lady C comes in. She sees Lady B in The Poop Stall and comes to the only rational conclusion, which is that Lady B is pooping. Lady B, at this point, is beside herself. This anxiety shuts off her urethra and prevents her from being able to audibly pee, which is even more damning.

The only thing that can save Lady B now is a surprise appearance by Lady D, who takes the middle stall, thus restoring balance to the ladies' room ecosystem and neutralizing the tension between Ladies C and B (even though C still thinks B is pooping).

It's all very emotionally taxing. And that's not even taking into account the four-stall models -- which require game plans worthy of a Division A college football team -- or those vast airport bathrooms with literally endless rows of stalls that give them the feel of an M.C. Escher lithograph, albeit one that reeks of ammonia and urine.

Betty Friedan totally should have devoted a chapter in The Feminine Mystique to this.

The Poop Stall

If A Tree Falls In The Forest And No One Is There To Tweet It, Does It Make A Blog? An Inner Monologue

I have nothing to blog about.

But you HAVE to blog.

Why?

Because you set an insane precedent for yourself by blogging every fucking day and now people expect it. NO ONE WILL LOVE YOU IF YOU STOP BLOGGING FOR EVEN ONE DAY. THAT IS THE RULE OF THE INTERNET. You are going to be forgotten more quickly than Jason Alexander.

Hey, now. NO ONE will forget George Costanza, aka Art Vandelay.

"I'm disturbed, I'm depressed, I'm inadequate, I've got it all!"

No, not that Jason Alexander. The one who was married to Britney Spears for 55 hours before the Federline Incident. Remember him?

Not really.

EXACTLY.

Well, I guess... I kind of want to blog about how hipsters are now wearing the same orthopedic sandals that my mom’s old Polish cleaning lady favors, and how that makes me want to throttle them, and how it reminds me of the old Chinese lady slipper craze of ’03, and how I wonder what it says about our country that rich people like to reclaim footwear from the opposite end of the socio-economic spectrum and will willingly shill out $60 for it at Urban Outfitters, but Googling “poor people shoes” made me feel bad.

Hmmmm.

Also I can’t find pictures of the right kind of orthopedic sandals. But I did find a photo of one of those giant, early-80s cell phones, which I bet would make millions if re-released by American Apparel.

 (You know it's true.)

Now you’re reaching.

I know. Sigh. Also I can’t think of anything funny to Tweet.

Are you telling me you’re not represented on ANY kind of social media site? Have you at least written on someone’s Facebook wall in the last 24 hours?!

I don’t think so.

OMG. HOW WILL ANYONE KNOW YOU ARE EVEN ALIVE????

Um, I’m pretty sure I’m breathing.

No one cares. Go Digg something, quick.

If A Tree Falls In The Forest And No One Is There To Tweet It, Does It Make A Blog? An Inner Monologue

Gentlemen Prefer Brondes?

Hey, In Touch:

(Next week: Once you go "brack," you never go back!)

Last time I checked, it was called "light brown." Stop trying to make "bronde" happen. You sound like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's. 

Also in hair news, my friend Kerry sent me a link to an article about how mullets are now outlawed in Iran. 

"You see, we like to keep our parties in the front, and business in the back..."

In the photo above, this dude is actually showing off the hairstyles that are currently allowed in the country, such as the "Looking good, Mr. Kotter" (1), the "Totally Hair Ken" (or "Blagojevich Lite") (2),  the "Dylan McKay in a Wind Tunnel" (3), the "Fat Kid From The Sopranos With Inexplicable Pompadour in Profile" (4), the "Hipster Milhouse" (5), and the "Corporate Eddie Munster" (6).

Oh, Iran. You don't have to go to so much trouble just to keep me, Jeff, and Kate Gosselin out.

Gentlemen Prefer Brondes?

Hot and Cold: A Totally Inappropriate Poll

There comes a point every summer when I fantasize about shivering to death somewhere amidst snow-capped mountains, kind of like in that movie Alive only with several boxes of Clif bars so that I'm not tempted to chew on someone's leg.

[Today it broke 100 degrees here in New York. And NYC heat is relentless. It's not just hot, it's viscous. It's like wading through a week-old Jello shot left out in the sun that smells like pee and garbage. Plus my thighs smack together when I walk. It is the very definition of suck.]

Of course, there also comes a time every winter when I romanticize burning forever in the pits of Hades (which, let's face it, is probably inevitable, given that I own The Hills on DVD, voted for a socialist Muslim, and just made a joke about real-life cannibalism among members of the Uruguayan rugby team).

Anyway, choosing between too hot and too cold is one of those questions that divide people in a really combative way. A good analogy is that central Twilight battle -- Team Edward or Team Jacob -- since Edward is waxen and bloodless and has a basal temperature about the same as a witch's teat (to borrow a phrase from my father), while Jacob is warm and brown and has abdominal muscles that work harder than I did during all four years of college.

But my point is -- would you rather sparkle in the sunlight on a mountaintop while gnawing on an energy bar with numb, blue lips OR have your eyelashes singed off while drowing in your own sweat and bemoaning Heidi Montag's terrible elective plastic surgery?

[P.S. Those are not stagnant cups of hobo urine that are making Taylor Lautner's nostrils flare so sexily in my super-impressive Microsoft Paint collage... they are coconut Jello shots. Which is maybe even worse.]

Wow, this is the most feel-good post ever. 

Excuse me while I go hump my air conditioner.

P.S. Your response to my Babysitter's Club reference yesterday was amazing. Y'all know I was in the official fan club, right? This calls for a special entry as poignant and emotional as when we found out Stacey had diabetes.

Hot and Cold: A Totally Inappropriate Poll

Things Other Than Georgia That Are On My Mind

• If I created a Tumblr account, I would call it “Anybody Want A Peanut?” and every entry would rhyme.

• Why are the toilet seats in my office bathroom the color of tobacco-stained molars? Who decided to even offer toilet seats in a hue that approximates concentrated urine?

• For some reason I have been saving three cardboard toilet paper rolls in my closet for over a month, as if one day I will sit down, travel back in time to 1987, and make a pencil holder for my mother, liberally splashed with glitter and held together with pipe cleaners, that resembles Stonehenge by way of Fraggle Rock. I take this as a sign that I am having some kind of quarter-life third-life (?) crisis-spurred, Hoarders-like compulsion to hold on to my youth. Do not even think about letting me anywhere near a SpinArt machine.

(Oh, FYI that Peppermint Bark tin is filled with sewing stuff. Because, you know, I'm -- um -- so handy like that. But I'm not above Claudia Kishi-levels of candy stashing. Just yesterday I found a packet of Pop Rocks in my mismatched-pajama-bottoms-and-abandoned-sports-bras drawer. Some people hide crack rocks from the po-po; I hide Pop Rocks from myself. Try not be too jealous of my awesome life.)

Things Other Than Georgia That Are On My Mind

Scenes From a Marriage: Superlative Spousal Sparring

When fishing for compliments goes awry... a cautionary tale.

Scene: The day of America's birth. After a lunch of red meat, beer, and Rice Krispies treats, Jeff and I alight to the sofa for a nap.

Hmmm, wait, I don't think Jeff and I were alive in 1776. Plus I don't think Rice Krispies treats had been invented yet.

Scene: The anniversary of America's birth. Etc.

That's better. 

Anyway, here's what happened:

Me: [Stroking my beloved's hair] I'm a good wife, right?
Jeff: Mmmmmmm.
Me: I'm the best wife.
Jeff: Yes, by default.
Me: I bet even if you had a lot of wives I would be the best.
Jeff: You'd be my bottom bitch.
Me: Right now I'm totally your favorite wife, though.
Jeff: But since I only have one, you're also my least favorite.

Touché, Jeffrey.

Lesson learned: Give a woman a compliment, feed her for a day. Teach a woman to fish for compliments, feed her for life.

Scenes From a Marriage: Superlative Spousal Sparring

Billy, Alison, and The Birth of America

First of all, thank you for clarifying that rhino commercial I posted yesterday. Reader Cathy explained it best:

The rhino commercial is an ill-conceived reference to an ancient parable about the differences between religions. In the parable, four blind men are brought to an elephant and they all think it is something different (snake, rope, tree, wall). This is supposed to show how all the religions see the same thing (God) from different perspectives.

The real gall of this commercial is that it compares the pill to the sum of all world religions. Really now.

Right. So if I am ever on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (um, is that show still on?) and I get any religious parable questions, y'all are my Phone-A-Friends, OK?

Secondly, I have off today, since I have to work Monday, so I'm starting my long weekend break now, which means I'm sitting on my couch drinking a latte and trying to decide whether or not watching old episodes of Melrose Place at 10 am is sad or just delightfully retro. And hoping that this question can carry an entire blog post because I'm phoning this one in! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

P.S. I am almost to the infamous season 1 kiss that, as I have previously documented, made my preteen heart basically explode in an angsty volcano of lust and hope and scrunchies.

Also? Searching for MP clips on YouTube is the. Best. Idea. Ever. Remember when Kimberly blew up the apartment complex and Alison went blind? Or when she got pregnant with Jake's baby??? Man, Alison just could not catch a break -- and that's not even counting the fact that she sounds like she has a permanent sinus infection.

Anyway, happy 4th, guys! May your holiday be filled with red, white, and blue baked goods and fireworks (from a safe distance -- seriously, blindness is no joke, even if Alison used it to her advantage when she pretended to slip in the shower so that Billy would see her naked and fall back in love with her, because Billy's brain is basically one of those potato batteries we all made for the 6th grade science fair.)

Billy, Alison, and The Birth of America

Paging Sterling, Draper, Cooper & Pryce

So I was reading People, catching up on the Bachelor implosion (which is getting ug-lay, with allegations of fame-whoredom and crotch-sniffing, and which proves that a tabloid war is basically just as successful--if not moreso--for the show as a couple actually getting married), when I came across this ad for toilet paper (kind of redundant, since People serves the same purpose, but whatever) :

For some reason this cracked me up. Couldn't the marketing team have gone with something less violent, like sandpaper? I mean, the literal message of this ad is "Somewhere in between a cloud and barbed wire, there is Angel Soft." I think I'll stick with Charmin.

In related news, sister Zoe sent me an email yesterday:

"I find this commercial offensive. How stupid do they think women are?
Ummmm... it's a rope? No jackass, it is a RHINOCEROS."

Also, this ad is for birth control, FYI. Maybe they should have gone with women fingering an actual pill. "Is it... ecstasy? ...An anal suppository? ... One of A-Rod's testicles?"

Obviously I've missed my calling.

Paging Sterling, Draper, Cooper & Pryce