Searching for my inner badass

I now have a new goal in life.

Notice please that I didn't say resolution. It's that time of year, I know, but by now I have established that I don't make resolutions. Some might say it would be a waste of effort; I say I don't need to make any.

But I can have a new goal, so I do.

I saw a photo of a cat recently with a caption under it that says "Tap into your inner badass."

That's my goal. I will tap into my inner badass.

Cats come by that naturally. The one in the photo reeked of inner badass-ness, and he was gorgeous. Tapping into mine may take a little work.

Sometimes my inner badass comes out when I'm driving, and I encounter an idiot on a cell phone who hasn't yet mastered doing two things at once. I don't know if the cell phone conversation is lacking, but the driving usually is, and I'm compelled to point that out using my middle finger.

Maybe tapping into my inner badass means saying what I think, but that gets complicated. I thought being able to do that came with age. As I get older I say what I think but it doesn't seem to have much effect. Either people expect that from older women or they're not listening. Either way, I don't seem to be badassing.

So I Googled inner badass just to keep all my bases covered. Others apparently have the same idea I do; there're 248,000 results for "inner badass" on Google. Most of them have to do with dating and fashion. Maybe if I bought leather pants I'd look like a fashion badass. But I keep wondering how much it costs to clean leather pants, so there goes my badass image, right into a puddle of practicality. Gotta work on that.

Maybe if I got some piercings. I got my ears pierced when I was 19 and I fainted. I've had brain surgery, but would I take the time and effort to get more piercings now that I have a basis for comparison? Probably not.

Maybe it's an attitude that shows through. Like Paul Newman in his younger days, you looked at him and knew he was a badass. He still has that look about him, come to think of it. Bette Davis had a certain badass quality about her. Ditto Debra Winger, Shirley McLaine. Jane Fonda tried to, but I don't think it worked for her, really. I try repeating to myself, "yeah, what's it to you?" And "You and what army?" Then I think back to how many times lately I've needed to use those phrases.

Sigh.

There's a fine line between being a badass and being rude. I don't want to be rude. No one likes rude, but people do appreciate a good badass. But a badass doesn't care what people think. Thus, the dilemma.

I still want to tap into my inner badass. I just have to find it first.

Resolutions for those who really need them - not me

So we’re getting close to the new year, and you can almost hear the sound of shattering New Year’s resolutions from afar.
Not that I ever make any. To make a resolution at any time of the year would be like admitting imperfection. I like me the way I am.
Besides, it’s easier to make New Year’s resolutions for someone else. It takes an impartial observer to size up where someone is lacking and then make constructive suggestions for improvement.
So in the interest of helping others in need, I offer some New Year’s resolutions to those who seem to be in need.

Heather Mills McCartney (concerning her rather vituperative remarks about her divorce from her ex-husband): Take the advice from a venerable old song and “Let It Be.” I wonder who wrote that?

Sen. Larry Craig: Keep your closets clean and tidy. Are you loitering in them? Maybe you shouldn’t.

The members of the food police who tell us what’s bad for us: Have a doughnut. Go on. Enjoy!

The ditzy drivers who have nearly T-boned me on the roads (I would say you know who you are, but chances are you don’t, but neither do I): Leave your cell phone in your purse or pocket, whichever is applicable. Try to make 2008 the year you focus on one task at a time, first get there; then make your calls.

Britney Spears: Get in control — start with birth control (“Oops I Did It Again” never was all that clever), then work your way up to control of your habits and your life.

Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John Edward, Mitt Romney, ad nauseam: Be nice. Play fair. Go away.

O.J. Simpson: Take up a hobby. I don’t advise collecting sports memorabilia or writing your memoirs. Maybe something in the way of helping the community.

Producers of TV “reality” shows: Get real. Really.

U.S. Congress: Oh, my. Where to begin? A pork-free existence? Live within our means (no, that’s not a typo; they are OUR means you’re living within)? But just for starters, give us the kind of health care benefits you have. We’ll go from there next year.

Barry Bonds, Mark Maguire, etc.: Say it ain’t so.

The Hershey Company: Create a chocolate bar that has zero carbs, no sugar, no fat, and tastes like a Hershey bar.

Nestle, Ghirardeli, and Godiva: Beat Hershey to the punch.

Sarah Lee: Do the same with jelly doughnuts and cheesecake.

Welcome to my gratitude journal

I've been thinking ahead lately to New Year's — partly because it's a way of getting past this stressful Christmas season and partly because time flies so fast it'll be here before you know it. I don't make resolutions any more. I kind of like me the way I am.

But I think I might try a gratitude journal. I've heard it's a good idea. You write down things you're grateful for or about, and if you try hard enough eventually you really do feel some kind of gratitude and it becomes ingrained in you. Who knows. It might work.

So I'm going to give it a try, starting now. Might as well get a jump on New Year's.

First off, I'm truly grateful that I have all the fingers on both my hands. That's pretty basic, but if you've bought movies or CDs lately you might recognize how fleeting those digits might be. You almost need a blow torch to get into the plastic prison those discs are encased in. Once you do, you need an ice pick, or an illegal knife, to get the cellophane wrapper off. By the time I actually open the case and slip out the disc, I've burned at least 500 calories from the aerobic activity of trying to get to a CD of relaxing music. So I'm really grateful that after all that, I still have all my fingers.

This gratitude stuff isn't too hard. I'll try another one.

I'm so glad I was gifted with what used to be called horse sense. Common sense. It's pretty uncommon any more. Take for instance those hermetically sealed DVDs and CDs. Manufacturers and stores seal them in plastic to keep them from being stolen, but you know, if someone wants them bad enough they'll find a way. They'll just take the whole shebang and probably have to back the car over them to get them out of the plastic. If thieves can spirit away entire jugs of liquor and conceal entire hams in their baggy clothing, those things pose no problems. Stores and manufacturers haven't figured that out yet, and so they make it difficult for cash-paying customers to enjoy their purchases. I figured that one out. Sure glad I have that much sense.

This is getting easier. If I try real hard, maybe as I get into this gratitude stuff and eventually I'll find a reason to be grateful for those little oval stickers people put on fresh vegetables and fruit. There's gotta be a nutritious benefit to the glue that binds them to produce skin since sometimes there are as many as six of those little sticker thingies on one tomato. I'll bet if I think about it long enough, while I'm picking little oval stickers out of the dishwasher and off the counter top where they seem to take root once I get them off my apples and pears, I'll find a reason to be thankful. Maybe I'll be grateful that they're so small that if I do accidentally ingest one, I won't choke on it.

WIth my luck, I probably will. Looks like this gratitude thing is going to need a little work.

A Teddy bear named WHAT?

OK. Now I'm mad.

Someone, somewhere, please — smuggle or otherwise spirit Gillian Gibbons out of Sudan.

It's ridiculous that this British teacher was accused of blasphemy over her second grade students' naming a Teddy bear Mohammad. It's even more ridiculous that she was sentenced to 15 days in jail for such a thing. It's crazy she could have been lashed 40 times, but it's downright ASININE that some militant Islam extremists are calling for her execution.

Give. Me. A. Break.

I'm sick to death of hearing about people who force us to tread lightly because we celebrate Christmas. Not a winter holiday. But Christmas. I'm saying it again because I can — Merry Christmas.

I'm sick to death of people squawking because there's no religous diversity in the — here it comes — Christmas season. Helllooo. It's a Christian holiday. Let's not make it something it isn't. Don't like it? Celebrate something else, but shut up about it. We don't go messing with Kwanzaa, Hanukkah or Ramadan; we respect your right to celebrate them. Accord us the same courtesy. It's bad enough we Christians are ruining it with all the commrecialism attached to it.

Now we have these miitant camel jockeys saying that Gillian Gibbons should be executed because she took Mohammad's name in vain. She didn't mean any disrespect. Her class named the Teddy bear after a boy in the class; just about every little towel head is named Mohammad. What's the difference?

So the gloves are coming off. Until the Islamic extremists shut up and crawl back under the rock they came out from, I have no regard for them. Until they back off Gillian Gibbons and apologize for being idiots, I am launching a full frontal attack on them.

Know how many Islamic extremists it takes to screw in a light bulb? None. They're perpetually in the dark because they have their heads up their backsides.

Know the difference between an Islamic extremist and a sack of manure? The sack.

What's the difference between an Islamic extremist and a Teddy bear, whatever its name may be? The bear has a higher IQ.

Here's a message to all you Islamic extermists out there. You know those 72 virgins you're expecting to get when you reach Paradise? They're GUYS!

Alternative response: They all have PMS!

Here's another message for all you towel-heads: Lighten up. Your Allah or whatever you call your God is the same as our God. And our God is merciful and forgiving. You could learn from that.

Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas, towel-heads!

Disappointed about Paris

I'm really disappointed.

Although I've said that I prefer not to acknowledge the vacuous Paris Hilton, a week or so ago I'd read where she finally found a cause that she could support.

It seemed so perfect. Just tailor made for someone who until now had no real purpose except maybe to serve as a good bad example, and that wasn't necessarily by design.

Paris Hilton was said to have taken up the cause of helping drunken elephants in northeastern India.

Now there's a match made in — well maybe not heaven, but it just seemed so right.

If there's anything Paris Hilton knows about it's being drunk. And needing a little guidance and support.

The last we heard about her is that she'd seen the error of her ways and was now going to devote herself to doing good things. She scheduled a do-good trip to Africa, but later it was cancelled. That was probably a good thing too. Africa has enough problems, they don't need her added to them.

For a long time the tabloids focused on Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears, for lack of something better to do, and we had no news of Paris until the Associated Press reported that she had heard about some elephants who habitually eat fermented fruit and go around drunker'n a sailor on shore leave, only bigger. She wanted to help.

It was a cause all her own. No one else was doing anything about it, and it was a chance for her to redeem herself.

Trouble is, it wasn't true. According to a news release from the venerable AP, "Lori Berk, a publicist for Hilton, said she never made any comments about helping drunken elephants in India."

I feel like I've just scored the six winning Powerball numbers, only to find out I had an outdated ticket. Paris still doesn't have a cause. Or a clue.

I'm just bummed about that.

Tracking a rambling mind

Today I'm going to let me mind ramble and see where it goes.

Do you ever wonder what children in China play with? Where do their parents get their toys?

First it was lead in the paint in an increasing number of toys maufactured in China, and now it's a substance on another toy that, when ingested, mimics a toxic drug. We're worried about finding Saddam Hussein's weapons of mass destruction, and right under our noses toys are capable of harming children.

Maybe that was Saddam's plan after all. Hide those WMDs really, really well.

And on another subject, my mind rambles to Thanksgiving. Whatever happened to it?

As soon as Halloween was over, grocery stores had replaced all the candy corn, buttercream pumpkins, and dinky little Milky Way bars with candy canes and marshmallow and chocolate Santas. We went straight from Halloween to Christmas, and we're ignoring Thanksgiving.

Well, not completely. There's still some mention out there about turkeys and cornbread vs. bread dressing, and overindulgence. But what happened to why we celebrate Thanksgiving and some reverence for the occasion? It's become a four-day holiday and an excuse to sit in front of the TV, pig out on leftovers and watch football games.

Maybe if there were an association with chocolate or some reason to shop other than for a turkey and cranberries, Thanksgiving wouldn't be left out.

If holidays were personified and had emotions, I bet Thanksgiving would be really ticked off. Like the middle child it would act out to get attention away from the firstborn, Halloween, and the youngest, Christmas. If Thanksgiving wanted to do something really, really mean to get some attention, it would retaliate somehow — like inventing green bean casserole.

That stuff has to be the ultimate in rude food. People take a perfectly good vegetable, dump some salty, cholesterol and fat laden cream of mushroom soup over it, then add some chemically based substance being passed off as fried onions on top of that, bake it and offer it up as a contribution to Thanksgiving dinner. That's got to be one of the nastiest things anyone could do. I once attended a potluck lunch where three different women brought green bean casserole and each one insisted hers was different and hers was better. Only a rebellious soul would pit three otherwise nice ladies against each other in such a vile fashion. Green bean casserole is capable of ruining friendships, dividing families and causing strokes if you eat enough of it, and who wants to?

We'd better be nicer to Thanksgiving and give it the credit it's due. Who knows what else will follow? Something vile perpetrated on broccoli? It's bad enough people dump cheese on it.

And while we're on the subject of unhappy holidays, a minister recently suggested that Halloween, once the evening prior to All Saints Day and a particularly religious holiday in its origins, has lost its original significance. It's about as religious as Christmas is getting to be, he said. Sometimes it's surprising to hear someone comment that government and civic organizations shouldn't concern themselves with Christmas and other religious observations. It's almost automatic to respond, "what's religion got to do with Christmas?" It's become a reason to buy stuff, to sell stuff, and for retail businesses to plan their revenue for the year around. It has more to do with talking snowmen and flying reindeer than with shepherds and wise men. Put up a decorated tree or a nativity scene in a public place and watch all the government-types clamor for separation of church and state.

But they all take the day off work that day. After all, it's a holiday. And they want to be home to see their kids unwrap all their toys. Made in China. Because they work cheap over there and keep the price of toys down.

And now I've rambled into a circle.

An extra hour

At long last, Daylight Saving Time ends. It keeps getting dragged out every year, and no one has been able to convince me that it has done anything more than make people reset their clocks and deprive us all of an hour's sleep in the summer.

The days get longer on their own. They don't really need any help from the government, which is where Daylight Saving Time originated. The same bunch that thought up the tax code. And $900 toilet seats.

This weekend the time will be back to normal. Employees who start work at 8 a.m. will actually start at that time and not what's really 7 a.m., but says on the clock that it's 8 a.m. because we're fiddling around with the natural order of things.

Can you tell I don't like Daylight Saving Time?

So now we have that hour back that we lost in the spring when we kicked up the clock. Think about what you can do with that extra hour.

Read a book. Or a magazine. A newspaper.

Write a blog. Gripe about a lack of time to do anything.

Stop and smell the roses. If they're no longer in bloom, stop and smell something. May I suggest the inside of a bakery.

Contemplate philosophical questions. Such as, if big box stores and large supermarkets have an in-store bakery, why can't we smell it? Isn't it a shame that there are children growing up out there who have never smelled a bakery?

Cuddle a cat. Better yet, adopt one or two and increase the cuddle opportunity beyond a lousy hour.

OK. Get a dog. What do I care? Find a pet something or other and snuggle with it. Good for the soul.

Make homemade soup. So much better-tasting than canned stuff.

Reset all the clocks you had to bump up last spring. I won't have to do that in my car. My car is my corner of the world, and in my world there's no Daylight Saving Time. Feels good to rebel sometimes, if only in small ways.

Find something else to rebel about. What's so great about the status quo anyway?

Who says you have to do anything with that hour? Aren't we over-structured enough as it is? Waste it. Fritter it away. Sleep late.

Savor it. For before you know it, it'll be time to go back to that ridiculous Daylight Saving Time and it'll be taken away from you. Then you won't have the time to gripe about it.

Boo!

Halloween is coming, and along with the "ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night," are some pretty scary things out there.

Witches don't scare me. The older I get, the meaner I get and they're probably afraid of me now. At least I hope so. I find that being curmudgeonly and outspoken is kinda fun.

It's scary how fast time flies. It seems that once you get over the hill you start picking up speed. At my age, moving fast isn't an option; time oughta slow down too.

I've noticed that when I'm applying makeup, I tend to look upward, and I don't look too bad then, between that and fresh makeup. But if I reapply lipstick in the car and my head ducks a little, I'm scared half to death by that old crone with the beginning of a turkey wattle staring back at me. Who is that old broad anyway?

Losing my mind scares me. Not that there's much of it there. I have trouble remembering simple things, but no problem at all recalling song lyrics from 50 years ago. But isn't it funny how when you bump into an old classmate you haven't seen in years how old they look compared to you? Scary isn't it?

I have never seen a ghost, but I know people who say they have and I find it intriguing. I wanna be a ghost someday and play the kind of tricks they must be playing on me. Like hiding my car keys right in plain sight, moving my car from one end of the parking lot to another when I'm not looking, and sneaking into my closet and altering my clothes so that they no longer fit. The really evil ones move the darts on my blouses and make the bustline impossibly high.

I find it scary that all cars look pretty much alike to me, but I can tell a 1952 Ford from a 1954 Ford. I remember Studebakers and Hudsons. But I have trouble remembering — well, you know — I can't recall, oh, hell! Where was I going with this?

It's frightening to realize that people forever young in my memory are now eligible for Social Security — Annette Funicello is 65. She has Mickey Mouse ears older than my boss! Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones is 71, for heaven's sake.

So while kids are creeping each other out with fake teeth, I need a map to remember where I put my partials. While they dress up with fright wigs, I resign myself to the fact that long hair draws attention to wrinkles and lines and a short do brings the eye upward and away from the lines but toward the crow's feet. And forget about the scary blackbirds and crows: I'm dodging vultures!

Time has nothing on Halloween. Time is all trick and no treat. Well, except for black cats. And chocolate.

Blatant self-promotion

This blog has been nominated for a Blogger's Choice award. There's SO--O-O-O many of those nominated that it'll be tough to win in 2007, but all blogs are automatically entered for 2008.

If you like this stuff, then please vote for it. Log onto www.bloggerschoiceawards.com. You'll have to do a little searching, but hey -- what else do you have to do to kill time, right?

This week I'm all ranted out, but I'll be back next week with more stuff.

Celebrate freedom from hair

Jay Leno mentioned on a recent program that someone in medical research had come up with a scalp transplant that would grow hair from a deceased donor on the bald head of a recipient.

It probably is just a joke, but I would imagine bald men the world over and thinking, "Dang! Where can I get one?"

My guess would be these are men, who like women, are in their M&M years. For women it's between Menopause and Medicare; for men, make that between Menoxidil and Medicare. Young men seem to embrace baldness.

And well they should. I've always thought bald was sexy. Think Sean Connery. Yul Brynner. Rob Keefe (he's the guy on the Real Simple program on PBS. I think he's hot.)

Young men who notice they're getting a little thin on top just take it to the next step and shave their head. Some of them shave their heads anyway because it's a good look.

Guys in the M&M age bracket have long been in denial about their hair. These are the guys who first gave up flattops and crew cuts in the 1960s in favor of the hippie look. It was a protest back then. Back then the musical "Hair" was making a statement. Barbers were becoming an endangered species. Hair was important.

As men have evolved, so has their outlook about hair and politics. The young men of the 60s who protested the Vietnam war and social inequities by looking anti-establishment have spawned sons and grandsons who embraced the look of firefighters who have always been heroes and who keep their hair short for practical reasons. After 9/11 it became cool to look like a firefighter or a military recruit out to kick al-Qaeda backside, so they shave or buzz cut the hair.

It's a good look.

What's not a good look are some of the traditions M&M men hold on to like a rubber band on Willie Nelson's braids. Also not a good look. Comb-overs are fooling no one. Especially in a high wind.

Toupees are fairly obvious. Some are more obvious than others. I recently saw a man of M&M age who should have known better: his toupee was several shades darker than the fringe that actually grew on his head. The line of demarction that circled his head could not have been more obvious if he had put a piece of red linoleum on his head.

Now Leno comes up with the joke about the scalp transplant.

Here's the deal, gentlemen: Embrace your chrome dome. Younger guys are doing it successfully; you don't have to use the razors and shaving cream they're consuming. Think of the savings. The comfort. The ease. The extra area where your significant other can kiss you.

There's even two days set aside to acknowledge that bald is beautiful: Oct. 7 and 14 are both recognized as "Be Bald and Free Day."

Go for it! Be free! Be bald!

Things I'm cordially sick of

Today I'm feeling curmudgeonly. There's a lot of stuff I just wanna gripe about.

I am cordially sick of

*Britney Spears and her children. Not every woman is good motherhood material. Britney's behaving like a child and having a meltdown she should have had years ago when she was having success for being untalented and blonde. Ignore her and maybe she'll go away. Help her quietly and maybe she'll be a good mom.

*The election. I've heard all I want to hear about Rudy, and Mitt, and Barack and Hillary and John. We can't vote for any of them for more than a year yet, so they should just shut up for now and get down to real issues when we're getting ready to decide which one of them is going to do the least possible damage to the country.

* Petty election stuff. Who cares if Hillary laughs out loud? Who cares if Barack wears a flag pin on his clothes? Who gives a rat's patootie if Hillary shows cleavage; if she has some at her age, she should consider herself fortunate. Most 60-ish women not only could fail the aforementioned pencil test, they could hide a spare roll of toilet paper.

* And yes, I've been waiting for just the right time to use that one.

* George Bush's approval rating. He's got a tough job. Anyone might do better, but who can predict the conditions we'd be asked to do them under? This ain't high school; it's not a popularity contest. He's our president and deserves our support.

* Anyone who takes seriously Angelina Jolie, Madonna and Paris Hilton.

* Sen. Larry Craig. Larry make up your mind if you're guilty or not guilty, in the closet or out, if you're going to resign or not, and then shut up. If this is the best you can do with your 15 minutes of fame, then you need to get off the clock.

* The Diana inquest. For Pete's sake, let the woman rest in peace. Nothing anyone can find will make any difference; she'll still be dead.

* People who don't learn. Like the papparazzi who recently chased after Diana's son William in a car with his girlfriend, while the inquest about his mother's death was going on. How often must history repeat itself?

* Pink ribbons and pink everything this month. What makes breast cancer so much more important than any other awful disease so much so that we're shamed by marketing ploys into supporting research for it? There's enough guilt in the world to go around, don't go around manufacturing a need for more.

* Most network TV. Except for Desperate Housewives, Dirty Sexy Money, and Mad Men. Why can't all programming be as entertaining and intelligent as these? Cavemen? Feh!

There. I feel better now.

Remembering the pencil test

Funny how some things trigger long ago memories.

I noticed a college girl running up the street the other day. College girls, and guys, do that a lot, but this one stood out because her bosom was bouncing so hard it made me cross my arms in front of me and cringe with pain. I thought, get a good support bra, dear, before you bruise your knees.

That brought to mind the pencil test. Remember the pencil test? Back in the day, my day anyway, it was a test that determined whether or not you could safely go braless. Slip a pencil underneath your breast. If it fell to the floor you could; if it stayed put, you and Maidenform forged an alliance.

That in turn made me remember the last time I heard about the pencil test. I was new to a job, recently moved to a new area, and walked into a dispute between a few county commisioners and my boss, which for reasons I don't need to go into made it necessary for me to tape record county commission meetings in addition to my note-taking.

On a slow morning, the commission had little business to do, but was waiting for an appointment to show up when they decided to use the time to open the mail. One commissioner found a flyer advertising a seminar regarding a feminist topic and shot it over to the county attorney, a rather buxom woman, who said something about needing to attend that particular seminar. From the commissioner: "Ah Sarah (not her real name) go burn your bra."

From Sara: "James (not his real name) I've told you before. It's bad enough when you fail the pencil test, but when your hairbrush stays up here (pause) omigod, I'm on tape!"

Two things became apparent that day.

One, barriers between people come down when you share a good, long belly laugh.

The other: my hairbrush didn't budge either.

Time for a little religion

OK. We've discussed sex and politics here. Time to talk about religion.

It seems that public schools and universities across the country are considering Muslim students' requests for religious accommodation during Ramadan, the holy month of prayer and fasting, which continues through Oct. 12. Accommodations can include separate rooms where fasting students can go during lunch; places for students to perform daily prayers; the consideration of requests to make Eid al-Fitr, the holiday that ends Ramadan, a school holiday; and the installation of footbaths in restrooms to make it easier for students to follow prayer rituals.

What's wrong with this picture? Let's not even get into the touchy subject about associating Muslims and terrorists. Most Muslims are peace-loving, upstanding people. This is America. We are proud of our religious tolerance and our all-inclusiveness.

However, I'll take more kindly to footbaths in restrooms in public schools to accommodate Muslim religious traditions when school districts get over that ridiculous notion of "winter holidays" and bring back Christmas holidays and celebrations in the classrooms, anad when Halloween returns to the classrooms and scares the wits out of "harvest holidays" and chases them completely out of existence. When children in school can wish each other a Merry Christmas or Happy Hannukah without worrying they might offend someone, then talk to me about Ramadan.

Then there's the Nebraska lawmaker who has filed a lawsuit against God.

State Senator Ernie Chambers accuses God of causing untold death and horror and threatening to cause more. Chambers says God can be sued in Douglas County, Nebraska, because He's everywhere.

The Omaha senator, who skips morning prayers during the legislative session and often criticizes Christians, blames God for natural disasters and is seeking a permanent injunction against Him.

Angered by another lawsuit he considers frivolous, Chambers says he's trying to make the point that anybody can file a lawsuit against anybody.

Two points here: Never tick off someone who can smite you a good one.

God lives in Heaven. Where's He going to find a lawyer to defend Him?

Some random thoughts, part 2

Just some random thoughts today:

It seems that OJ Simpson has been questioned, this time for allegedly breaking and entering and stealing some sports memorabilia. Apparently he needs to pawn it. He owes the Goldman family some money. He says the memorabilia belongs to him. Why didn't he just ask for its return? The news report said he's not been arrested; he's believed to be still in the Las Vegas area where the theft occurred. Of course he is, he's looking for the real thief. Good luck with that, OJ.

The biggest baddie of them all, Osama bin Laden, wants America to embrace Islam. I think it's safe to say America wants Osama bin Laden to embrace a cactus.

America observed another 9/11 anniversary this week. It is nice to remember those who were so wrongly killed but something's missing. Where's the moral outrage that united us? Six years ago, we were united in wanting to kick terrorist butt. We flew flags on our cars, put them on our porches. We organized parades and got impromptu parades together, in case any terrorists were watching. We wanted them to know you don't mess with the United States, or we'll mess with you right back. Now we're sounding like we did when we were fighting in Vietnam. Let's bring the soldiers home. Yes. Let's. But let's do what we went to do: find Osama, make him pay, and let those people know that they'd better mind their own business and leave us alone. What have we done? We created snafus in airports. We have lists of passengers who shouldn't be let on airplanes and we detain children with the same names of some of them.

OK, we have done some good. Saddam is gone and so are his carbon copy sons. If they got their promised 70 virgins in the hearafter, I sincerely hope the women all have PMS, and the ones who don't are menopausal with severe hot flashes. That's my idea of what their Hell should be. Seventy crabby, mood-swinging, sweating women ready to kill at a glance.

Our CIA/FBI/other agencies involved have thwarted attacks and saved our freedom. That's good. But we no longer feel as safe and secure as we once did. Maybe that keeps us from becoming complacent.

And bin Laden is out there somewhere thumbing his nose at us and rattling his saber. Still. I don't want to feel the fear and the pain I felt six years ago but I do miss the unity we had in wanting to defend America.

On a lighter note, I bought a sweater set today that bears the label Sag Harbor. I'm wearing a shirt with the same label. Why do I feel like I should buy a brassiere from the same company?

Brittney Spears made the news again. (Sigh) OK. Once and for all. Brittney, put some clothes on. No one's impressed by the sequined bikini. You can't sing. You're paying someone big bucks to advise you on your career, and that person is failing badly. Your kids need you to grow up and raise them to be good citizens. Go back to school, get a real job, and fade into the sunset. You owe yourself and your kids more than just being a good bad example. Maybe try something with computers so you can telecommute.

It's all about marketing, Part 2

It's amazing what consumers will consume. Creating a demand for a product isn't so much about finding a need and meeting it. It's all about marketing. Creating a desire whether you need it or not.

That's how so much useless stuff gets sold. If it weren't for useless stuff, there'd be no yard sales, thrift stores, and the uniquely American concept of re-gifting.

Remember the pet rock? Someone stuck some googly eyes on a rock, pasted on some fabric scraps, stuck it in a cardboard box printed to look like a pet carrier, and voila - the pet rock was born. It sold like Bic Macs. Who buys hotcakes anymore?

Much of modern art is more about marketing than it is about art. Take this guy Christophe. He wraps fabric around large objects — really large objects like bridges and buildings — or he puts up a series of poles with fabric on them, and calls it art. Before he calls it anything other than what it really is — gigantic sheets flapping in the wind — he does a media blitz. The great artist Christophe has struck again. Can it be compared to a Rembrandt? Not even close.

Marketing.

There's a big hulking piece of metal sitting in downtown St. Louis. It looks like a metal wall. A metal wall waiting for vandals to come with a blow torch and a pickup truck and haul it away to scrap metal dealers and make a fortune. Actually they'd do the city a favor if they did. It's rusting and ugly. But those who claim to be art experts call it the Serra Sculpture.

Marketing.

Want to do something nice for a person who has everything? Buy them a star. There's a place one can go to and for a fee you can have a star named after a friend or relative. Someone looks on a solar map, picks out a star, and then fills out a form that says OK, from now on that star will be called the John Smith star, assuming your friend's name is John Smith. But what really went on here? You gave someone some money and they gave you a piece of paper with your friend's name on it.

Marketing.

It takes a certain amount of verve to pull something like this off. It isn't illegal or immoral. In some instances it can be fun. How people spend their money is their business, and all it takes for some creative thinker to get rich is making people want to cut loose of some money for basically nothing in return.

What brings this on is the most recent marketing ploy. The Nicole Richie Cookbook. Author Robert Smith says it's aimed toward dieters who would be interested in knowing what scrawy Nicole Richie likes to eat. It's a book of empty pages. Sells for $11.99. Probably the easiest writing gig he ever got paid for.

Marketing.

What's next? A Paris Hilton Guide to Sobriety?

Check it out: http://www.nicolerichie.citymax.com.

Say what? Not cheese!

It's kind of fun to read about frivolous lawsuits and feel morally superior to people who file them and the lawyers who take their money. And feel outraged when some idiot judge rules in their favor.

I always thought it was a black/white issue until I read about one who brought shades of gray to my way of thinking.

It seems a man in West Virginia sued McDonald's for $10 million because he got cheese on his Quarter Pounder. He's allergic to cheese and had asked that no cheese be put on the burger. In justifying his suit he said he "took multiple preventive steps to assure his food did not contain cheese."

James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal said, according to the Lawsuit Abuse Fortnightly from the Heartland Institute, "So apparently the 'multiple preventive steps' he took 'to assure his food did not contain cheese' did not include looking at the damn sandwich before eating it."

So here's the deal. I hate cheese. I'm not allergic to it, I just don't like the stuff. If I had to depend on government commodities for sustenance and had to take the cheese they give out, I'd starve. I can sympathize with the guy.

It's not as easy as just "looking at the damn sandwich." What's so difficult about honoring a request to leave off a slice of cheese. Quarter Pounders are listed on the menu as Quarter Pounders and Quarter Pounders with cheese. He ordered a Quarter Pounder. He didn't mention cheese; he should not have gotten any.

For some reason there's a move afoot to force cheese on people. Many times I have gone through a drive-through and asked for a hamburger. From the squawker: "You want cheese on that?"

Had I wanted cheese I would have said "with cheese." I didn't. I say no. Sometimes I get cheese. Then I get cheesed off.

I used to say, no, thank you, but they never heard the no, heard only the thank you and slapped cheese on my burger. I wouldn't know that until I got it home and then it became a choice: do I drive back, go through the line and ask for an exchange, or do I just scape off the cheese? You never get all of it off and there's always that residual taste of cheese lingering on the burger.

So I got to the point where I wouldn't move the car until I opened the bag, took out the burger and did a cheese check. Didn't endear me to the kid at the window, but what do I care? They don't work for tips; he can wait until the customer is satisfied.

It happens in classier restaurants too. Especially those steak houses that offer a "loaded" baked potato. One waitress took my order for a steak and baked potato with butter. No sour cream. Don't like that stuff either. No cheese. She came back with a loaded baked potato. I sent it back. She brought me a second one. I sent it back. She asked "don't you want cheese on your potato?" I said "I don't want cheese anywhere near my plate." How much more simple can a request be? I hope she wasn't surprised when I left no tip.

It's safe to say that I dislike cheese about as much as I dislike sleazy lawyers. But I can understand the West Virginia guy's frustration. One should reasonably expect to order a burger without cheese and not have to think about whether or not some kid on a burger assembly line didn't go the extra mile. It's his right to be able to bite into a burger when he's hungry and not be surprised and then suffer the consequences of his allergies.

This is a case I may follow to see if the shades of gray turn black or white. If he wins the $10 million in damages, that sets legal precedent. It's been a while since I ordered anything at a fast food restaurant. Maybe we can get a class action case going.

Tips for women of a certain age

It's hard to be an aging sex symbol, but somebody's gotta do it.

Looking, feeling and being your very best takes more effort than it used to. And that comes at a time when making an effort wears you out, not lifts you up.

But it can be done.

Heads up! Literally. Never look down into a mirror. It'll ruin your day.

A girdle is no longer the enemy. Go ahead, buy one and gather unto you all that is thine own. Pack it in there. Affirm yourself.

However, don't be fooled into thinking you can carry off Spandex pants. Even with a girdle, unless you have the figure of a broomstick, Spandex is not your friend.

Resist the urge to say "when I was your age" to younger people. It dates you. They don't believe you ever were their age and would never believe the differences between then and now anyway. Besides, things were so much better then; they don't deserve to know what they're missing.

Remember the pencil test from the 1960s? Even if you passed it then, chances are good a roll of toilet paper wouldn't budge now. Sag is a drag; think underwire.

Bright blue eyeshadow was never a good idea. It has not gotten any better.

Blue and green nail polish look like bruises on older women. They look ridiculous on younger women too, but younger women can carry off ridiculous better than we can. We just shake our heads and say, "they just don't know any better."

Here's one my mother used to say, back in HER day: "Well reared girls shouldn't wear pants." Same goes for shorts. Cellulite has been known to frighten animals. Do you want that on your conscience? If you want comfort and style, try a loose summer dress. A flowing caftan adds drama.

An exercise tip: Say you got down on your knees to check for dust bunnies under the bed. OK. Just say it and humor me. So you're on the floor and can't get up. Turn it into an exercise opportunity. Turn over and sit on your backside; then scoot across the floor one cheek at a time until you get to the nearest piece of sturdy furniture to support you as you pull yourself up. You'll get a little exercise and either polish your hardwood floor or fluff up the nap on your carpet. That's multitasking.

Invest in a strong light in a private area of your house. Hide in there alone, switch on the light and grab some sharp nail scissors. Nose hairs: they're not just for guys.

If you're thinking about recapturing your youth with a tattoo, remember that rosebuds can turn into long-stemmed roses. See above remark about underwires.

Gray hair is beautiful. White hair can be dramatic and strikingly beautiful. Gray or white roots are just plain tacky.

Kathy Bates in a movie once said something to the effect of being older makes women invisible and easier for them to shoplift. They don't get caught because no one notices them. I'm not advocating petty theft; I'm saying tart up and be noticed! The world needs more aging sex symbols.

If they can send a man to the moon...

If they can put a man on the moon, why can't they:

* Invent a device to be installed on the dashboard of all cars that lets you zap the headlights of any oncoming car with its high beams that are blinding you.

* Program that same device to lower the volume of any blasting radio or CD player for a minimum of six hours.

* Oh heck, might as well make it able to disconnect the cell phone connection of any idiot driver who nearly smashes into your car because s/he wasn't paying attention.

* Make rear window wipers standard equipment on all vehicles. They look so practical. Why are they an option?

* Create a fat-free, calorie-free, healthful, good-tasting jelly doughnut.

* Ditto black forest torte. Pizza. Any flavor of pie. Cookies.

* Create a computer program that can figure out what you're trying to get across when you're composing on it, and automatically correct your grammar and spelling. And punctuation.

* Invent a clothes dryer that has a setting to take the wrinkles out of cotton clothing and leave them looking starched and pressed.

* Send Lindsey Lohan there until she dries out.

* Send Brittney Spears there until she learns parenting skills and a profession.

* Send Paris Hilton there just because.

* Send Osama bin Laden halfway there and leave him.

* Send Congress there and not let them come back until gas prices are less than $1 a gallon. Until health care costs don't mean choosing between going to the doctor/pharmacy/hospital or going to the grocery store.

* Leave them there until our borders are secure from terrorists and English is not only spoken here, but mandatory.

* Leave them there until they stop wasting our money. And then make them pay to come back.

The machines will take over

I have an inherent distrust of anything automated. Once I got used to automated banking, I didn't mind driving by the ATM now and again because I would get money. I don't mind interacting with machinery if I'm going to end up with a fistfull of cash, even if it is my cash.

But when I'm confronted with automated answering services I cringe. I cower. Then I cuss.

I'm convinced that the answering service for the flexible pay account I'm a member of for medical expenses is programmed to be as uncooperative and as useless as a screen door in a submarine.

The flex pay people send me notices by e-mail now and then if they want to advise me that they suspect one of my purchases. It's as if they think that the money I just spent on diabetic test strips actually went toward eye shadow and firming cream, and they want proof that I really bought something medical. They suggest if I have questions or if I want to know the balance of my account that I call their toll free number.

So happens that I did want to know my balance, so I called the number. It wasn't one of those answering services that ask you to punch 1 for one service, and 2 for another and 5 if you want a foreign language. This one wanted to chat. It wanted me to say my social security number so it could identify me as a member and "best serve my needs."

I felt like a real idiot sitting there repeating the same 9 numbers over and over and over, while the gizmo repeated back to me for verification numbers that sounded not even remotely like the ones I just said.

I muttered, "I want to talk to a real person."

The machine responded, "I don't understand. What did you say?"

I responded with an expletive suggesting sexual congress that's anatomically impossible. It played dumb.

Finally I got the number through; then it wanted to know my account number.

Uh oh. It's not on the debit card the company supplied me. It wasn't on the e-mail they sent me. Where in blazes is my account number? Since the gizmo wasn't patient enough to wait for me to look, nor did it understand when I asked where is the number, I responded to the e-mail, rather curtly, asking where the hell do I find the account number. I guess they don't know either; I never heard back.

All this is leading up to my latest encounter with automated answering. A scary scenario.

Flipped on the remote and got a snowy reception on the TV. Cable must be out. So I get the cable bill and look up the number it provides because of course the cable company isn't listed in the phone book. I get another automated answering service that wanted to chat. This cannot be good.

"Tell me in a short sentence what is your problem."

Snowy reception.

"I think you said you're getting a reception with snow. Hmmm let me see."

Oh my. A machine that ponders; makes small talk.

It directed me to check high and low number channels. Do they all work equally? Yes? Then it asked if I had a cable box. No. Then it said, "Maybe your connection is loose. Please check your connection. If that isn't the problem, you can always call back."

Then it hung up. I checked. Danged if it wasn't right. Now that's just creepy. It solved my problem, it was somewhat articulate, didn't have an accent, and it made sense. I didn't have to schedule an appointment with a cable guy who would make me feel like an idiot when he found the loose connection in the wall and then charged me for the call.

I feel useless enough trying to cope at work with a computer that younger employees seem to be born knowing how to work with. Then I get an answering machine that appears to be smarter than I am. I'm taking the cable company gizmo to be a warning of things to come. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

My theory on global warming

Being a citizen of the world — and especially one who would like to rule the place — it's time to tackle this global warming thing.

Now if memory serves me correctly, this isn't the first time in the Earth's long history that things have heated up a bit. And, what heats up usually cools down. That's how archaeologists have found evidence of tropical forests and sea life in areas now not tropical and all that wet. And remember, there was an ice age that formed all those glaciers we're now worried about melting away.

Point being: the earth changes. We're not all that significant in the higher order of things to affect change that much one way or another. For the creationists out there: it's all in God's hand.

However I do have some opinions about how we are contributing to global warming that Al Gore may have missed.

(As an aside to Al, your son running a Prius as 100 mph while high on weed ain't helping.)

Here's what I think is heating up the Earth:

Daylight Savings Time. That extra hour of daylight we are stuck with six months out of the year that get naturally lighter anyway is causing polar ice caps to melt. Stop messing with the clock, leave time the way it's supposed to be, and we'll never have to fear that polar bears will be homeless.

Physical fitness. All those joggers, runners, bicyclists that create traffic hazards at rush hour are working up a sweat and raising the heat index. Same with people who do high impact aerobics. When they get that burn going, that burn is creating heat and melting the ice caps and the ozone layer. Chill, people. Literally.

Methane gas. Some scientists somewhere claim that eructating cattle — how's that for a two-dollar word — are belching and farting our environment into a danger zone. I think they have help: spectators at minor league baseball games and guys at family reunion picnics, sports bars, frat houses; anyone who says "pull my finger."

All those people who gather together throughout the day outside businesses and smoke. That much smoke from cigarettes and all those matches and lighter going off at one time have some responsibiity in this supposed crisis. And with many more cities and states banning smoking indoors, it's not going to get any better. Quit smoking people. The penguins' lives are at stake.

For my part I'll give up thinking about Harrison Ford and getting all hot and bothered.

Do It My Way

Are you as sick of Barak Obama, Hillary Clinton, Mitt Romney, and all the other presidential wannabes as I am?

Ever wish there was a space on the November ballot that read "None of the above"?

Ever get the feeling that choosing a president is kind of like voting for a prom queen?

You think I have a solution for all of the above? Of course not. But there's a way of making one small statement about the whole mess. You know you're spitting into the wind, but you do it anyway.

The solution is to run for president.

A list published by Project Vote Smart includes about 100 Americans who have declared their intentions to seek the most thankless job in the world. Some of them are Republican, some Democrat, some Independent, Green, Humanistic, and some of them we've actually heard of.

For the rest of them, there is a greater likelihood of running into Queen Elizabeth at Wal-Mart than there is getting on a ballot. But why not be that one voice in the wilderness saying "Forget these clowns and vote for me."

Couldn't hurt. Who knows. One of them might be an improvement over the better known candidates — one whose first name sounds like a belch, a woman with a no-good cheating husband, and a guy whose name reminds you of a barbecue tool or a baseball catcher. This is what we have to choose from?

So I'm going to join them. Haven't filled out my PVS questionnaire yet, but I already know the party I am forming will stand out among the Republicans, Libertarians, Democrats, ad nauseum. I'm the founder and so far sole member of the DIMWIT party - Do It My Way, It's Time.

On the PVS-sanctioned issues, or some of them anyway, I stand firm in my belief that we've got the immigration issue backwards. Instead of trying to stem the flow of people coming here looking for jobs, we should be bringing back American jobs that went to Mexico (and why are they coming here if our jobs are going there? Go figure.) Global warming? Quit sending up that space shuttle. The thing goes right through the ozone layer. Terrorists? Remember Hiroshima? That worked.

Wanna know what else PVS wants to know about presidential candidates? Really important stuff that voters really are concerned about:

Pets (include names); Hobbies/Special Talents (does finding an 80 percent off sale count as a special talent?); First Job;
First Car; Current Car; Favorite Food; Favorite Movie; Favorite TV Shows; Favorite Actor/Actress; Favorite Book; Favorite Websites; Favorite Author; Favorite Color; Favorite Type of Music, Favorite Musician, Favorite Sport; Favorite Athlete; Favorite Vacation Spot; Favorite Quote; Personal Hero and Why; Favorite President and Why; Name one thing you would most like to do before you die (besides being President); and Person you would most like to meet (dead or alive) and why.

If this is what voters base their decision on, then maybe one of us has a shot at it. But I'll tell you why I stand out. I'm the only one who won't be insulted if you call me a DIMWIT.

Oooh! I'm such a rebel

It has been said that older people take more risks because they no longer care about impressing anyone. Or maybe it's because we no longer fear the consequences.

Whatever.

Today on my way to a doctor's appointment, I dutifully turned off my cell phone because a sign on the lab wall said to. I could have been rebellious and left it on. It's not like it rings all that much anyway; I just use it for business calls - usually when I'm lost and need directions.

But I turned it off because what if it had rung while I was sitting there? It might have made a difference in my lab results.

If I were really rebellious I'd have left it off and taken the consequences.

I'm working on it. When I pay my bills and the instructions ask that I write on the return slip how much I'm sending them I leave it blank. I don't know if it's being contrary or because I figure whoever is opening the envelope can look on the check and figure it out.

Same with those instructions "please write your check number on the slip." What for? They got a pencil same as I do.

Here lately I've had this nagging desire to be obnoxious just for the heck of it. I leave my shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot where I unloaded bags of groceries into my trunk instead of pushing it over to the designated gathering place at the end of the aisle for carts to wait for their return to the store. Sometimes I'll push it away and if it blocks the adjacent car, so what? I get a certain thrill out of knowing I have inconvenienced some stranger.

I noticed a couple of weeks ago that the store installed some more of those shopping cart pens in the middle of the aisle to accompany the ones at the end. Did I cause them to go to all that trouble and waste a perfectly good parking space so more shoppers would push their carts into the pen? Don't know. But I like to think so. Do I push my cart to those more conveniently-placed pens? Get real! After so many years of being told to be considerate of others, I'm enjoying being a pain in the tush.

One of these days I'm really going to go for big time obnoxious. It's been on my mind for some time to do it, and soon I'm gonna cut loose and be a real pain. After all these years of being deliberately nice and thinking of others, I'm building up to obnoxious-hood, albeit slowly. But I have a plan.

You know those drive-through stations at the bank with the hydraulic tubes? You put your transaction into the plastic container and shoot it over to the banker at the window? One of these days, when I take my deposit slip out of the plastic container and put the container back into its place at the station — ooh, I just tingle at the thought of all this rebellion — I'm gonna hit the green button and send that empty container through the tube, then take off!

I'm walking on the wild side here. What a trip!

Be cool; chill out

It's the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The beginning of hot, sultry summer — unless you live in Southeast Missouri and have already had a taste of that since about April.

In the interest of public safety and comfort, here are some tips for staying cool during the upcoming summer months.

+ Smoothies. All you need is some fruit, yogurt and a blender. Oh yeah. And a glass.

+ Co-exist with dust bunnies. Cleaning works up a sweat. They'll be there when the fall comes and you can deal with them then.

+ Rent movies with a winter theme: White Christmas, Dr. Zhivago, Ice Age, documentaries on penguins or polar exploration.

+ Check out You Tube videos of the baby polar bear Knute. He's not only in icy surroundings, he's also so darned cute you'll forget how hot it is.

+ Frozen grapes. Eat them or stuff them in your bra.

+ Find someone heavier than you and sit in their shadow.

+ Check into a luxury hotel for a day or a weekend, one with an indoor pool in a climate-controlled area.

+ Root beer floats.

+ Popsicles. Red ones.

+ Jell-O pie. Red Jell-O with fruit cocktail in it, poured into a graham cracker crust and topped with graham cracker crumbs.

+ OK. Orange Jell-O. What do I care? Whatever cools you down.

+ Cucumber soup for lunch. Or Gaspacho.

+ Take a walk in the cool of the evening. Through the lawn sprinkler.

+ Lemonade. Sipped while lounging under a shade tree.

+ Tomato sandwiches.

+ Iced coffee. With lemon.

+ Wear loose clothing. Tuck ice packs in the folds.

+ Remember last winter and how you griped about how cold it was.

Feeling cooler yet? Chill out.

I gotta remember - what? I forget

So there I was one day last week. I'd just put a load of groceries in the trunk of my car and was headed home. I cranked the ignition, set the air conditioner at "meat locker blast" and as I was buckling up, the Righteous Brothers started crooning through the radio:

"You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your lips...."

That song could always send me into ecstasy. It's a short trip from the supermarket parking lot to home by way of ecstasy, and en route I sang along with those groovy Righteous Brothers. I know all the words. Can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I know the words. All of them.

So I leave the 60s and memories of a smaller waist, and unload the trunk. Dang! I forgot to buy paper towels. And that was one of the reasons I went to the store. I need paper towels. Can't microwave dinner without them.

So what's the deal here? Why is it I can remember the entire score of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" but can't remember to buy paper towels?

Like most M&M-age women (between Menopause and Medicare) I worry about getting Alzheimer's disease. If I don't have all my marbles, I don't care to stay in the game. Just how many marbles are left, and is my shooter rolling straight? I worry about that.

No Alzheimer's in my family, but my mother could never remember my name. And I was her only daughter. But she could rattle off the date and time down to the second of every stupid thing I ever did or thought of doing. I guess as we age there's only so much room in one's memory bank, and my name got edged out.

I seem to have the same problem. I go from the living room to the kitchen to — what? It's not that long a walk. What did I come in here for? So back to the living room; I trip over the cat. Oh yeah! Feed the cat.

Yet I can tell after hearing three seconds of violins that what follows will be the Drifters crooning "This Magic Moment." And yes, I know the words to that song too.

Why is it I can remember my parents' first telephone number, but every now and again I wonder if I remembered to take my meds? The ones I have to take every morning.

A poem I had to commit to memory in the 6th grade is still there. Every time I vote — and I vote every time — I have to look up the precinct location.

This wouldn't be so frustrating if there were really a need for me to remember that Question Mark and the Mysterions recorded the song "96 Tears." There's other stuff I NEED to remember, but useless stuff clogs up my memory like chicken fat in the kitchen sink drain.

You know, I've got half a mind to — um — well — oh heck. I forgot where I was going with this.

In the name of what — justice?

In case lawyers even wonder why they're so universally disliked:

According to the Heartand Institute a woman sued Stabucks for damages she supposedly suffered when she was sold "scalding" hot coffee. McDonald's was also sued in Texas by a different woman who said the server failed to warn her the coffeee was hot. This same thing happened in 1994 when a woman successfully sued McDonald's when she got hot coffee at the drive through, put the cup in her lap for a moment, and — duh! — was burned when it spilled after the car moved.

OK. Once and for all, Listen up people. Coffee is HOT. It will HURT! If it does it's YOUR OWN DAMNED FAULT! If you can't keep from burning yourself, you don't need a lawyer. You need a sippy cup.

There. I feel better now.

And then there's the Ohio high school student who was disciplined and criminally charged for hacking into his teacher's computer to look at a biology test he had to take. He — and his parents— sued the school after he was suspended for five days and given an F for the test. The suit alleges that the student was denied special counseling and treated more harshly than other students because he was in the country on a student visa. He claims his rights were violated.

OK Kid. Here's how it works. Cheating is wrong. You cheated. You are responsible. You take the punishment. It work that way in all countries.

And here's one for his parents: You're supposed to teach him that. Someone should sue you for malreproduction.

And while we're at it, here's another one - same source as the other two. A disability rights group in California sued a school district - and won in federal court - saying that the school's playground discriminated against wheelchair-bound disabled students because there are wood chips on the ground and their wheelchairs get stuck and prevent the children from wheeling themselves to swings and slides. The federal judge concurred with the plaintiffs that the children don't have the strength to move the chairs through the wood chips and can't be mainstreamed with other children. So the district is considering installing rubber mats on the playgrounds that will cost $2.7 million.

It should be obvious. Apparently it isn't. Why would those kids be allowed to go on swings and slides if they're disabled and can't maneuver their chairs?

Sounds to me like another lawsuit just waiting to happen.

Has common sense been outlawed or is it just hiding until all the lawyers go away?

If Betty could see this now

Does anyone besides me remember reading Betty Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique"? In the book, she describes women in the 1950s who had this feeling of restlessness, wanting something more but not knowing what it was. Some of them, established in a marriage and family, didn't know what to do so they had another baby. It wasn't quite what they were looking for, Friedan concluded, but it was what they knew.

I thought we'd come a longer way than that. But recently in New Jersey, a 60-year-old woman, Frieda Birnbaum, had twins.

What was she thinking?

I'm sorry, but I just don't get it. It's not like she had to answer a problem with no name. She's a psychologist. And she's not one of those women who longed to have a child but never did. She's got three. A son, 33, a daughter 29, and another son, 6.

To be honest, I wonder why she had the 6-year-old at an age when most women become grandmothers.

Birnbaum told Fox News she wanted her younger son to have siblings closer to his age and wanted to remove some of the stigma attached to older women giving birth. Stigma? I speak for the women who welcomed menopause; stigma my Aunt Fanny! It's time to find other things to do in the so-called golden years.

What about her older two kids? Do they want siblings so far from their own age?

And I can just hear the 6-year-old now. "Twins? Ah, gee Mom. I wanted a puppy. What am going to do with twins?"

What is SHE going to do with twins? Babies are hard work. When they start school, she'll be 66, if she survives their terrible twos. She and her husband of 38 years won't be around for their high school graduations most likely. Who's going to put those kids through college?

Who's going to teach them to drive when they're 16? Who's going to wait up all night for them to come home from their first date? At 60, she needs more naps than they do. When they need to be driven from school to activity to sport to the mall to heaven knows where else, will she still have an unrestricted driver's license? How will she remember when to pick them up from soccer practice, or where the soccer field is? We get forgetful as the years pile on.

She's 60 years old and facing years of changing diapers, cleaning up baby barf, getting up in the middle of the night with ear infections, tantrums, ad nauseum — times two.

Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.

A new use for the internet

Many of us who are in our M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) tend to resist innovations. More likely we're baffled by them. That's why we have to find children to program our VCRs and unscramble our computer.

I recently stumbled across a technological advancement that is worth embracing — lovingly, with passion, remember passion?

Think fantasy sports teams. Sports enthusiasts put together teams they'd like to see playing, and go so far as to make up games and outcomes.

Makes sense. You've got the best of all teams, you control the plays, and it's all done in the air-conditioned comfort of your own home, most likely in your underwear.

Now mix in a little phone sex. From what I remember of the Clinton administration, he and Monica Lewinsky talked dirty to each other over the phone. It's not quite sinful, although it can get you into trouble. It depends on what the meaning of is is. Whatever.

So here's the deal. I stumbled across this when I was visiting a blog I occasionally log onto, and I think this is something M&M women will latch onto like fuzz on a cheap sweater.

Cyber food sex.

One blogger begins by inviting another to a virtual meal. "Come to my dining room for breakfast. We'll have rich, freshly ground, just-brewed, steaming Costa Rican coffee. Crisp, hot Belgian waffles, with juicy strawberry sauce laced with cinnamon and vanilla. Savor the maple-y goodness of crisp gourmet bacon."

Salivating yet? Breathing a little heavy maybe?

It gets better. Here's lunch: "Stop by chez moi, and I'll make you an omelet to die for — fresh, brown eggs whisked with a little cream, a little cracked black pepper, some chopped prociutto, succulent chopped green and red bell peppers, whipped into a soft frenzy and gently cooked until tender and lucious. Then some juicy, ripe, sweet melon slices, crusty, lusty Italian bread with sweet butter oozing as it melts..."

You get the picture.

Cyber food sex has definite advantages. There's no limit. You can indulge in an entire afternoon, or evening, in deep, rich, dark chocolate; light, lucious freshly-whipped cream; creamy, rich, decadent caramel — somebody stop me!

The only danger is sensory overload. There's no gristle in your steak because you have only the best cuts. The rice is never gluey and the lettuce never wilts. The tomatoes never have bad spots and they always taste like tomatoes should.

The oven always works, the microwave never explodes, and — best of all — there's never any cleanup, dirty dishes, or scorched pots.

You come away from the experience satisfied, looking forward to more, and you don't have to worry about your hips expanding.

So next time you see a woman of M&M age glued to her computer, a faraway look in her eye and a wistful smile on her face, you know what she's cooking up. And it's delicious!

Paris in the rain

Every now and then, when you feel that life is simply unjust and there is no fairness in this world, something happens that actually makes sense. It gives one hope - or at least makes one feel a little smug and self-righteous.

Paris Hilton is going to have to do some jail time.

I can't begin to describe how funny I find that. Everybody with a pulse knows that when your driver's license is suspended for DWI you can't drive and you certainly ought to be watching your intake of the sauce. You don't just go around boozing it up and driving like an idiot and getting busted again without some consequences. But Paris believes she's above all that. She says she didn't read the judgment leveled aginst her. She says she has "people who do that for her."

And now she's saying that 45 days in the slammer is "unjust." Can't you just imagine a petulent little girl, sticking out her lower lip in a pout and stamping her foot and whining: "It's not fair!"

Sorry, Paris. Life ain't fair. It rains on the just and the unjust, and you just got rained on. Sometimes the system works.

(Pardon me while I dissolve into fits of giggles.)

And don't you just love the judge? Not only did he say that the girl who is a living definition of vacuous has to do the time, if she doesn't, or if she follows through with an appeal, he's going to double the sentence.

Consider the possibilties here. Poor little rich girl goes to the slammer. She'll have to clean her own toilet. Wait'll she tastes jail food! Imagine if she has to share living quarters with street-wise ladies who behave pretty much like she does but without her money that has so far helped her get away with it. Someone who shops at thrift stores. Someone whose drugs of choice are of the street variety. A big broad who could body slam her just for funsies.

Don't you get the feeling that if you shined a flashlight in one of Paris Hilton's ears, the beam would come out the other ear?

The sad thing is that if she really does go to jail, it's not going to teach her what it should. Chances are it'll make her more famous for — what? Having no purpose in life other than to have a good time? Be a spoiled little rich girl who thinks she doesn't have to play by everyone else's rules? She'll come out unscathed and just go back to doing what she does best — whatever that is. Being a good bad example?

Now that's not fair!

(But let's hear it for the judge anyway!)

What money can buy

Someone once said that the rich are different from you and me. Well, duh. Of course they are, they have more money.

Money seems to make a difference in more than just the ability to buy stuff. Only the very rich seem to be able to take up causes. The rest of us are too busy trying to keep up with gas prices. It seems that Sheryl Crow has taken up saving the earth and her suggestion for conservation is that people should use only one square of toilet paper per visit to the restroom.

Now I don't know where she's buying her Charmin, but the stuff I buy won't cut it. One square? Maybe you can blot your lipstick on one square, but you can't blot much of anything else.

Decency prevents me from exploring this subject further. We could, you know, consider the possibility of recycling as in taking it a step beyond cloth diapers vs. disposable ones and make reusable bathroom cleansing devices. Or bring back corn cobs. Better Ms. Crow should consider, as has been suggested elsewhere, curtailing the use of her private aircraft if she wants to help save the earth.

Or she could take up another cause. I once lived in the same town she comes from. I know some of her family. They're nice people. In that town is a courthouse that, at one time and maybe it still does, had signs posted admonishing "no spitting on walls or floors."

Seriously.

In this day and age that sign is still needed? So imagine my glee when I learned that the city council of Fairview Heights, Ill., is considering an anti-spitting ordinance. They say it's to protect their police officers from people who spit on them.

Rough crowd there.

I've been to Fairview Heights. Maybe they need that. But men in other communities seem to regard spitting as a right of passage into manhood. But it seems that men who have money and a certain amount of class don't spit. At least not in public.

You don't see men in chauffer driven limos roll down their tinted windows and hork one on the street.

You don't see bankers driving their own Lexuses or lawyers in Mercedes lean out and spit. You do see bubbas in pickup trucks lean out and aim for the asphalt.

It doesn't always have anything to do with tobacco use. Some men expectorate because it seems to be expected. But it seems that the higher one goes on the social strata, the less inclined they are to spit in public.

Maybe they can afford to hire someone to do that for them. Whatever. It can't be doing the earth any good. It's unsanitary, unhealthy and it's disgusting.

Good luck to Fairview Heights. You can't legislate good sense. Otherwise, there wouldn't be people who demand the right to ride motorcycles without a helmet and cars without seat belts. And spit on the streets. Or in courthouses.

Maybe money does buy class. The rest of us can afford the toilet paper.

What are the odds?

This week has a Friday the 13th, an unlucky day.

Some people would have no luck at all if it weren't for bad luck. Others just seem to land on their feet no matter what happens to them. Some of them deserve that; others I work with and wonder about.

A wagering web-site BetUS.com predicts some of the odds of having a truly awful Friday the 13th:

The World to End: 1,000,000/1
You lose your job: 100/1 (been there)
Your spouse leaves you: 500/1
You throw out your back: 250/1
You go bankrupt: 500/1
You get a flat tire: 50/1 (been there several times)
You break your leg: 100/1
A bird will poop on you: 100/1 (been there, blasted pigeon)
You will get sick: 50/1 (oh give me a break, been there, done that, got the T-shirt)
You will get locked out of your house/apt: 50/1 (hate to admit it, but been there)
Your car will get towed: 100/1 (ditto)
You will get a ticket (speeding, parking, etc.): 50/1 (oy vey!)
You will lose all your hair: 250/1
Your car will get stolen: 100/1 (twice in one weekend)
You will find money: 50/1 (found a penny this morning)
You will slip on banana peel: 100/1
You will win the lottery: 500/1 (seriously overestimating my luck)

For women of my generation, the M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) it was a matter of great luck that our birth control worked. For Anna Nicole Smith it didn't seem to matter. Three men fought for the privilege of admitting paternity to her child and now Larry Birkhead is jubilant about his fatherhood. And our mothers always said no man would respect us, and would deny paternity, if we gave in to temptation and then got pregnant. It worked for her. What are the odds?

Maybe the same odds as a ditzy former stripper has of marrying a rich old man about to buy the farm.

About the same as Don Imus getting invited to speak at an NAACP Convention.

What if....?

You know, I'm not sure this world is in good hands.

In a reflective moment, I was wondering what I'd do if I had only 24 hours left on earth and knew it. I wasn't being deep. A much younger co-worker in a job it usually takes years to work up to, but got it because he's young and works cheap, had asked me a really dumb question. And I was feeling frustrated by my limited diabetic diet. I pretty much know what I would do, but it made me curious. What would other people do if they had only 24 hours left?

So, I googled the question and read several sites. Then I was goggled, if that's a word, by what I found.

Granted, most people who post blogs and respond to stuff like this are young people who are more computer savvy and have more time on their hands. Maybe it's because they haven't lived long enough to achieve any measurable depth, or maybe they were just being smart-asses as young people can be, but I found their responses dismaying.

Many responded they'd go sky diving without a parachute. Or they'd steal a car and go out in a flaming crash. You got 24 hours; you're going to die at the end of it, why hasten it so painfully?

Predictably some said they'd party hard, get drunk or stoned, and be wild and crazy.

Many said they'd go on stealing and killing rampages; some said they'd rape every woman they could. Where is all this anger coming from? I found that chilling.

One was honest: "I'd wallow in self pity." What a waste of a day.

Another said he/she would "say all the things I wanted to say, good or bad." Silly kid. When you get to be older, you do that anyway. Besides, 24 hours to say a lifetime of what you've always wanted to say isn't enough.

Some said they'd travel as far as they could. Obviously they have no experience with waiting in an airport or rush hour traffic; they wouldn't get far in 24 hours. Can we say anticlimactic?

Maybe they're just too young to realize how important it is to make the most of a day. In other words, why wait until it's your last day on earth to tell people you love them, make your peace with your enemies, and try to earn brownie points into heaven?

What would I do if I had only a day left? I know what I wouldn't do: unlike the people I found on the web, I wouldn't steal money to give it away, or max out my credit cards for useless items to give to friends. Let them get their own stuff.

Nor would I be as altruistic, and as poetic, as the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King who said, "Even if I knew that tomorrow would go to pieces, I'd still plant an apple tree today."

I got one day left on this earth, I'm gonna put on some baggy sweats and eat my way out of a bakery; jelly doughnuts, look out!

Just a few questions

As we contemplate the meaning behind Easter - and I'm not talking chocolate rabbits and psychedelic eggs here - some questions come to mind. Not that they have any relevance to Easter - or anything else for that matter - but I do have some questions that I'd like to ask God.

1) When You created the duckbilled platypus, did You glom together some spare parts or do You just have a whimsical sense of humor?

2) Do you look at human accomplishments over the millenia - social improvements, medical advancements, space travel, and (You forbid) computers and cell phones, and consider that we've done well?

3) Ever wish You had reconsidered the free will thing?

4) Cats. Chocolate. Lilacs. Elephants. Fresh corn. Tulips. Sunsets. Wow! Thanks!

5) Brussels sprouts. Mosquitos. Wolverines. Tornados. Earthquakes. I suppose You had Your reasons?

6) Whatever happened to Amelia Earhardt? Just curious.

7) Of what possible value to You are dust mites?

8) How come birds get to fly and we don't?

9) I have a list of people who need a good smite. Can I fax it to You? I suppose You have Your own list.

10) Spiders and insects who devour their mate after mating? What's up with that?

11) People who gripe about separating church and state, keeping Christmas observances out of the public, yet insist on not working Christmas Day. You must find that ironic?

12) What goes through Your mind when You look down at inflatable snowmen and plastic eggs hanging from a tree?

13) What do You do for fun? Or do we want to know that?

Not Just Another Dumb Award

Finally. An award I can hang my hat on. I don't want this particular award, but I know a lot of people who should have it.

It's the International Twit Award. I haven't found much about where it is held, how to nominate someone, what the prize money amounts to or if it's for international twits or it's an international award. Has to be the latter because there's just so darned many of them.

I also couldn't find any notice of who previous winners have been.

I only know that there is such an award and it's awarded in April. And I know that twits are silly and annoying people.

I might have found some of this stuff out if I 'd looked harder, but I was so taken by the notion of the award, and its possibilities, that I just didn't care much to do the research.

I'm too busy now thinking of people who deserve the award.

There's the guy in Michigan I read about who sued his sister's insurance company because her cat bit him. She told him not to mess with the cat; it tends to bite. But no-o-o-o-o. He teases the cat and the cat, rightfully, chomped him. What a twit.

A jury awarded him $122,400 in damages. Twits by the dozen.

It's a little harder to pinpoint the next nominee, but I'm sure you've met people like this. They have adopted a cat, and they like the cat, and the cats apparently like the respective adoptive people. Then they go and say something like, "he's more like a dog than a cat." Like that's a compliment? If a cat shows affection and follows someone around, it's because it's a nice cat who likes the person - and probably thinks it will get some food if it follows far enough. Dogs don't have a corner on that market. Twit!

Or how about the guy I saw yesterday walking down the street. It was a warm, spring day. His shirt was off, showing the tattoo on his scrawny, pasty white back, and his pants were about six inches from where they were supposed to be, showing off the top of his green underwear. He thought he looked hot. Or looked tough. He looked like a twit.

And don't you just love to see men roll down the window of their pickups and hear the melodic sound of their throat clearing and see the accuracy with which they can expectorate? Listen to the song of the birdie: twit, twit, twit!

The possibilities are endless: smokers, mothers who let their children run wild, people who want to rewrite history by banning the Confederate flag, those who claim it's their God given right to individual freedom not to wear seat belts or motorcycle helmets. Congress. I could go on and on.

I can't imagine what the prize is for being a twit award winner. Nor can I imagine who is qualified to judge and have the final say in selecting the grand champion, big-time, grand hoo-ha international twit.

But I'll volunteer anyway. I know one when I see one.

It's Your Day - Maybe

I've always said that there's an Internet site for just about everything — photos of cats with markings that make the poor critters look like Hitler, for instance.

Before that, I said there's a magazine for just about everything. Ever heard of Coon Dog Monthly?

Seems there's a holiday for just about everything too. Not those legitimate proclamation-type holidays like Cancer Awareness Month or American Chocolate Week (next week!), but stuff that makes you wonder if people aren't stretching things a bit - National Spandex Month, if there is one and there probably is, notwithstanding.

This month, in fact we missed it, some folks acknowledged "What if Dogs and Cats Had Opposable Thumbs Day." It was March 3, too late to do much about it now, but I can tell you what would happen if my two cats had opposable thumbs. They'd figure out how to work the can opener, write checks on my bank account, and kick me out of my own home, that's what they'd do. Don't even think about that. They're wily enough as it is.

This month we celebrate spring fever week. Just a week? I've had it all month.

March 27 is Quirky Country Music Song Titles Day. Do we really need to encourage that?

We missed National Name Tag Day, March 9. Well, I didn't miss it; I would have ignored it if I had known about it. I hate those things. Everybody in a room walks around looking at everyone else's chests. You wanna know my name? Ask me! Who else among us has forgotten they had a name tag stuck on their blouse, and ran through a checkout line wearing it, like you want the world to know your name. And then, if you're as forgetful as I am, you throw the blouse with the tag on it in the washer, and the dryer, and you have a permanent tag on that blouse.

That leads to March 18 - National Awkward Moments Day. Oopsie!

March 23 is pretty much like any other day when I don't embarrass myself, and shouldn't be limited to just one day: OK Day. Most of my days are just that, OK.

In the event there isn't a day commemorating crabby Baby Boomer women looking for chocolate and a day when I'm not wondering how long it's going to take the 20-somethings to totally mess up our world, it's pretty much covered by March 31: "She's Funny That Way Day."

Here's to ya.'

Yes! Chemise please!

It was like a bad dream. There I was in a clothing store, and there were racks and racks of items all marked down 60 percent. That's a good markdown, not like some places that think they're giving you a bargain with a 20 percent off sale. This was 60 percent. There was even a rack of stuff all marked $12.95.

I had money. They had my size. Alas, they didn't have anything my age.

When did that happen? I seem to be caught in the crossfire between "I want something that's pretty" and "I don't want to look like an old woman." Trouble is, I'm about to hit a birthday that ends in "0" and I'm not ready to go matronly.

But there seems to be a choice only between "old lady" and "really, really young." Lots of baby-doll blouses with high waistlines that, if you're 20, accentuate the bustline. If you're ?0*, your boobs are so far below that empire waistline nothing can save them. It's the same with dresses. All you find anymore are dresses with a high waist and a skirt that goes to the ankle. Boring. Not flattering, especially if you have hips.

Spring fashion predictions extol the clothing line called "Baby Phat." Cute. But show me something to cover up "Old Broad Fat."

Hot for this spring are skinny leg jeans. Ain't no way I can get my substantial thighs into skinny leg jeans. At my age, if I get winded just zipping up my pants, then they ain't worth wearing, as the song goes, "skinny legs and all."

So what's in style this spring and summer? Baby Phat is also pushing high neck halter dresses with bubble-hem skirts. Just the thing to wear with an industrial strength bra and support hose.

Marie Claire magazine touts wedges and platform shoes. I couldn't walk on them in the 70s without breaking an ankle. Thank heavens I can still find flats.

According to Harper's Bazaar (or is that Bizarre?), those blasted empire line dresses are still with us, but wait! I can't believe my eyes! Sack dresses are coming back!

Oh, joy! I loved sack dresses. They're comfortable, they're slimming, and they flatter every figure. Not only that, they're pretty.

In the 1970s they were called shifts. But in the 1950s they were called chemises. Remember Gerry Ganahan's 1958 song "No Chemise Please?" "You can take back the sack, leave it hanging on the rack, and bring the sweater back."

These days I wear sweaters for warmth, not for any fashion statement (see above reference to sagging boobs). But I would wear a chemise. Or a sack. Whateaver you want to call it. A shift? Why not; it describes what's happened to my body. Everything has shifted.

(And no, I didn't automatically know who sang the song. I remembered the words, and I knew it was the '50s, but I had to Google it. Amazing what one can find on the Internet.)

*Here's a hint: the last line James Garner says in the movie "Murphy's Romance."

Pssssst. How 'bout a little weed.

So here we are again — hail the size of apricots, winds that make you glad wraparound skirts are out of fashion, enough rain to gladden the gills of any tadpole. Ah, spring is coming! Such a warm, gentle season has such a violent beginning.

It's safe to say that March came in today like a lion. Which leads me to anticipate a lion of my favorite variety: dandelions.

Say what you want about having a lush, green pristine lawn. It's too much like work, and we have enough demands on our time as it is. Who inscribed it in stone that lawns must be without blemish in the adolescence of summer? I love those little yellow eruptions on the complexion of the lawn.

But I wax poetic here. Or something. The fact is, I like dandelions. I always pick the first one I see and inhale its scent. I'm transported back to being 5 years old in the warm spring sun, picking a bouquet of dandelions to give to my mother who would put them in a juice glass of water and brightened up the kitchen table with them.

Say what you want about a velvety green lawn that needs to be fed, aerated, pampered and coddled like a blonde starlet. On those lawns you'll never find a stem with a sphere of dandelion seeds waiting for someone to pick it, make a wish, and blow the seeds across the world. If you blow all the seeds off in one whoosh, your wish will come true.

I'm not the only one who loves dandelions. Ladybugs like to eat the pest aphids on them, and ladybugs are good for the garden. And ladybugs are cute.

Some people eat the dandelion greens raw in salad or cook the greens in a soup. The leaves are high in Vitamin A, Vitamin C and iron. Dandelion root makes a good coffee substitute which is believed to aid digestion. And it won't keep you up at night. Dandelions contain Luteolin, an antioxident.

The yellow dandelion flowers make a really good wine, an unpretentious little wine with a unique sweet bouquet and an unassuming attitude that, if made correctly, will knock you right on your keister.

An ode: Roses are red. Shoes are for buyin.' Nothing says spring, Like a dandelion.

I like clover flowers too. But that's another blog.

Yawn. I'm So Bored

Paris Hilton's photo was plastered all over the papers and internet sites recently. It seems that she went to the Viennese Ball, and was bored. There she was, checking her cell phone, looking for all the world like she was bored out of her empty little blonde head.

Why is that news? It's bad manners, but rudeness is so universal it's hardly worth reporting. The least she could have done was look interested, maybe talk to some of her fellow ball-goers.

Well, guess what? Somebody call the Associated Press, because I'm bored. And here's what has me zoned out of my skull:

Paris. Not the city; the bimbo. I'm bored with the likes of her and Jessica Simpson, and other marginally talented people whose only contribution is to serve as a good bad example. Excuse me for a moment while I yawn deeply.

Britney Spears is boring as cat litter. No one's heard her sing for a while, or whatever it is she does. All we know is that she can't stay married, loses her undies, and likes to go out and get wasted. Boo-o-o-o-rring! Since no one apparently is paying attention, she bounces in and out of rehab like a rubber check, and now she's gone and shaved her head. And gotten a tattoo. Whatever it is you're trying to say, Britney, I'm not listening. La la la la la la la --I can't hear you.

Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. The nominating convention is so far off in the political distance that you can't even see it, yet these two are already sniping at each other like a wife at her philandering husband (about which Hillary has some knowledge). It's even too early to speculate if one will be the other's running mate, and they'll HAVE to make nice with each other. I'm tired of these two already. If this keeps up by the time 2008 rolls around, the country will know more than we ever will need to know about how these two feel about each other. And, all of it is totally booo-o-o-o-ring.

Global warming is deadly boring. Al Gore is back in the fray warning everyone like Chicken Little that the ice caps are melting, the ice caps are melting! We have to find cleaner burning fuels, drive less, fly less, it's too late we're doomed. But we still send that Space Shuttle up through the ozone layer and call that progress. Sigh.

A Viennese ball sounds exciting to me.

Life as a warning to others

There's a quote from somewhere to the effect that "may your life serve as a warning to others." That quote kept coming back to me after Anna Nichole Smith died.

After a flurry of publicity surrounding the birth of her daughter, followed immediately by the suspicious death of her son, Anna Nicole pulled off the biggest publicity stunt she ever could by her own death. She couldn't have planned it better.

Anna Nicole will forever be remembered as a ditzy blonde who was an exotic dancer and posed nude for Playboy. She wanted to be like Marilyn Monroe and developed her "look" to emulate the late actress. She was like her in death too, dying suddenly, at a young age, the cause of death a mystery. Reportedly her nurse, shades of Marilyn's housekeeper, didn't call 911 right away when she found Anna Nicole unconscious and unresponsive, and didn't do any CPR - waiting instead for the paramedics to do it. Can't help but wonder if a Kennedy is going to surface somewhere amidst all the hoopla.

Having no discernible, marketable skills, Anna Nicole parlayed her sexiness into marriage with a rich old man. You do what you can.

She starred a TV program that focused on Anna Nicole being Anna Nicole. Nice work if you can get it.

Then, having exhausted all her resources, she dropped dead. It may be the end of Anna Nicole Smith, but it isn't the end of the saga. In death, as in life, Anna Nicole is serving as a warning to others.

Three men claim to be the father of her infant daughter. All three are willing to submit DNA to prove it. How could a ditzy bimbo like Anna Nicole find three men who are so devoted to fatherhood? A lot of unmarried mothers no doubt are wondering that after hearing "are you sure it's mine?" and chasing after child support money. It's tempting to wonder if -after what you know will be years of litigation and lawyer fees, it is determined that young Dannielynn is as penniless as a high school dropout who has to get work as a stripper - how long it will take paternal concern to fly out the window.

A warning to others. Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband, who claims to be the baby's father, told a news source that he had an affair with Anna Nicole because she was a very sexy woman and sex with her was at the top of - what? All possibilities? Not because he loved her, not because she cared for him - and from all indications, she cared for and trusted very few - but because having her was something to brag about.

Not that he's any great prize. He is willing to dump his wife to bring in a baby who apparently has more money. Doesn't say much for marriage, but then again Zsa Zsa - an Anna Nicole precursor - always took it rather lightly herself. It's just that now that she's 90, who's going to take care of her in her senior years?

What a mark Anna Nicole has left for posterity. Pretty impressive for a ditzy blonde. Here's hoping that she's resting in the peace that she could never have in this life.

Valentines we'll never see

To Tara Conner:

You guzzled booze; you snorted coke
You partied like a slut.
The embodiment of class and poise
You were anything but.

But now you have a second chance
To make my heart beat gladder.
Which shows I really can forgive,
Except for Miss Nevada.

The Donald


Barak:

You want to be the president
But just what does that mean
When Biden says you're handsome
Articulate and clean?

It means that someone's looking hard
At pieces of your past
And dragging up all kinds of stuff
To see how long you'll last.

Rest assured, I know the score
You don't deserve that strife.
So back away, no need to play,
Let's just elect my wife.

Bill


Bill

Do you recall the time we had?
We thought the world was ours.
But then you had to mess things up
With Lewinsky, Jones and Flowers.

I'll be the brand new comeback kid
I'm here to tell you, son,
I'm sure to win, there's be no spin
I'll show you how it's done.

Hillary


Astronaut Lisa Nowak:

Roses are red
Pigs live in pens
For Valentine's Day
A box of Depends.

Violets are blue
Whaddya say?
To blasting a rival
With some pepper spray.

Your three-sided romance
We won't forget soon.
You just gave new meaning
To over the moon.