Summer is sneaking up once again.  I almost forgot, weakened by the oppressive humidity that couldn’t wait for the solstice.

Since the passage of seasons is about me (me! me!), I am reminded that I have not posted one single entry on this site this spring.  I must apologize for dissapointing all the folks who have landed here via google search for urine therapy.  (You’re not alone pimply people.  That’s how everyone winds up here.) 

It’s not that I haven’t been writing.  I just haven’t been finishing.  My quest to pwn WordPress customization has taken precedence.  Chances are good that PHP will be the death of me. This must be remedied before Spring bounds out like a lion so I am writing about the first post idea that popped into my head.

Let me put it out there: I have the perfect nose.  (My butt may be flat but I’ll always have that.)

I can’t take credit.  There are no late night infomercials offering a money back guarantee for "One Week to the Perfect Beak".  It’s all in the genes and my Mom, Jeanne, passed down an acute olfactory sense and aesthetically pleasing honker. While I don’t have my nose up in the air (figuratively or literally), this is my (formerly) secret point of vanity. 

I have a hard time watching "Brady Bunch" episode where that stupid football came between Marcia and her destiny with the dreamy Doug Simpson.

Is my fear in proportion to the threat? Nope. 

My brother bopped me with a laptop desk on my 11th birthday. ("OH! My nose!") I survived (physically) unscathed.

A few years ago I slipped on a patch of ice while helping a boyfriend move and bashed my snoz on a flower pot. I lived to tell the tale.

Will I still automatically duck and cover when seated behind Pesky’s Pole and Ortiz is up at bat? Yup.

Shallow? Yeah.

I’m okay with that.  If you need me, I’ll be splashing around in the kiddie pool.

Tags: Beak, David Ortiz, Fenway Park, good genes, Honker, Infomercial, Kiddie Pool, Laptop Desk, Marcia Brady, Marcia Marcia Marcia, Money Back Guarantee, nose, Oh! My Nose!, olfactory, Pesky's Pole, Solstice, The Brady Bunch, Urine Therapy, vanity

Some people dismiss Brooke Hogan as the low-talent bi-product of a ‘wrestling match’ between her parents, Hulk and Linda. That may be true but don’t count her out just yet.

In addition to mediocre musicianship, she can now count time travel as one of her super powers.

You see, she just set the women’s movement back about 50 years or so.  Here’s a sampling of the chanteuse’s unconscientious objections:

You know what – I am actually not that much into voting. I think it’s kinda crazy that a woman is running, because I think that women deal on emotions and menopause and PMS and stuff.

Like, I’m so moody all the time, I know I couldn’t be able to run a country, ’cause I’d be crying one day and yelling at people the next day, ya know?

Needless to say, I take exception to the above statement regardless of whether or not it applies for yours truly.

Fatwah, leg drop, euthanasia… you decide. Regardless of methodology employed for the laying down of the smack, it’s time to chlorinate the gene pool.

Don’t take my word for it: see for yourself.

Tags: Brooke Hogan, Hulk, low-talent bi-product, time travel

Last Christmas Santa helped me to boldly burst to the forefront of modern technology… circa 2003. I got a lovely little Plantronics bluetooth device designed to connect me to the world at large while running errands and sitting in traffic. My no-nonsense stance on driving and talking is such that I won’t even talk to friends while they’re driving unless they are using their hands-free thingy.

As a proponent of preach practicing, (with very few exceptions) I hold myself to the same standard. I also tend to lose small inanimate objects. Lipsticks… computer cables… pens… cell phone headsets. My last one was of the wired variety and went the way of the dodo two or three years ago.

After so many replacements I just decided that driving should be considered ‘me time’.

I sing along to the radio or my iPod. It’s great – no one has to hear when my attempts at figuring out the harmony fall a half step below the actual note. Granted, I would look a whole lot less crazy if I had an earpiece but that’s neither here nor there.

Being the luddite that I apparently have become, last week was the first time I used my new toy. (I thought about it at the 3 month point, but didn’t want to rush into anything.) Everything went well. The person with whom I was speaking could hear me. Score!

Here’s the tricky part – the lone on/off button would lead one to believe that there were two modes, namely on and off. There are actually four (count ‘em four) settings.

• On
• Off
• Inactive Stealth
• Social Butterfly

I’m okay with the first two. Those are standard. The last two… not so much.

Number three is problematic since chances are it’ll be tuckered out from silently partying in my purse by the time I need to use it.

Number four is problematic ’cause if your number is in my phone, chances are you will be getting a call from me. Normally this would be good news. I have been told on several occasions that I am an engaging person with whom to converse on the phone. It’s true: I am equal parts chatty and nosy inquisitive.

Off the bat, you’ll notice that I’m not talkative. I may even be downright rude.

More likely than not, you will hear me paying for a cab at 3AM or belting out a Pat Benatar ballad Jamiroquai song. For that, my dear friend, I am/will be truly sorry.

Tags: bluetooth, bluetooth device, cellular telephone, Pat Benatar

It’s the tongue that’s always bitten
…the love that’s ‘undeserved’
Marked by eyebrows raised in judgment
While words remain reserved

It’s the test you know you’re taking
…though class is out and school is closed
Sovereign states of disconnection
Loss and hope lay juxtaposed

“I met my boyfriend at the airport last month.”

That statement looks simple enough but like most things in life, the true meaning is open to interpretation. To wit:

➥ The narrator is romantically involved in a serious enough capacity that the threshold of tentative exclusivity* had been crossed. (Travel concierge services are typically reserved for phase 2** or 3*** of a relationship.)

➥ A flame was kindled in a TSA detention cell – an impressive feté of personal chemistry considering lighters are contraband in any international airport of significance.

➥ Hypothetically, one could imagine mutual literary pursuits forging a connection. While not ‘literally’ ‘official’ it wouldn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure that several indicators symptomatic of a figurative phase 2 were present.

Let’s re-cap:
Phase 1*
Beta Faze

Phase 2**
Two individuals wearing synchronous dopey/addled looks as if in a constant state of running open-armed-daisy-field marathons.

Phase 3***
Flannel pajama pants are donned in lieu of wearing make-up. (Well for women that is… men wearing makeup is usually a pre-cursor to phase 4b****.) Shlep and fetch duties have become an unspoken mandate.

Phase 4a
Happily ever after – two individuals fuse to form a collective entity. (Oh Whitnard- if only I had the time and motivation for a photoshoperama session.)

Phase 4b****
Unhappily ever after – while I am very supportive of alternative lifestyles I, personally, do not wish to date a man who would borrow, stretch and ruin any of my favorite apparel. (A provisional exemption was granted once for Halloween but I don’t see that permit being renewed.)

Tags: concierge services, Halloween, rocket surgeon

OK kids – gather round: it’s story time.

Once-upon-a-last-year there was a nice girl who was minding her own business while trying to do her part to spread peace, love and happiness across the land. She stood- right, walked- left on public transportation, recycled and always had a smile for friends, wait staff and cashiers alike. The universe choose to reward this exemplary behavior in a rather unusual way.

As she entered her thirties her skin got nostalgic for the good ole teen years and regressed to the kind of breakouts that should have stayed in the early 1990s along with the oh-so-flattering tapered pant look.

Yup. It’s a true story. I am know that girl. Not one to go down without a fight I she turned to the interweb in search of answers and – more importantly – solutions. Information discovered? Something simple to nix late-onset pimples.

-Ever wonder why people would agree to put their worst “before” pics on late night TV for your viewing pleasure? It’s ’cause 2.5% is the magic number for Benzoyl Peroxide. The ladies in the labcoats figured that out and the folks at Guthy-Renker handled scripting infomercials that steer clear of the word “puss” or droppin’ the kind of big science-y words that commonly ricochet off the three walls of those doc-you-drama sets.

-Don’t even think about putting 10% Benzoyl Peroxide on your face. It is no coincidence that the maximum amount manufacturers are allowed to put in their products is 10%. Much like the super sized marketing of fast food, it’s overkill: both for the zit and your poor skin cells.

-If you’d like to save some money for a mani-pedi, go to this website for a list of what products to use and how to use ‘em. Their 2.5% Benzoyl Peroxide Gel works wonders and since it’s not all white and pasty* so it can be applied even when you have to put on your fat jeans and leave the house in lieu binging on chocolate ice cream** while wearing a moo-moo and rapidly changing mood ring.

For the record: I am completely aware that there are bigger issues facing the world. If this little skin care hack has freed up the time of people able to fix said problems, well… then my work here is done. Score 1 for world peace.

*Resist the urge to make the obvious jokes re- “white and pasty” being my actual skintone. I get it: I’m pale. Leave me be. :0l
**Not that I do that… not that there’s anything wrong with it. Certainly not.

Tags: food