Confession.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Evil Things
I realized today, weeding my browser bookmarks, that I haven't looked at That Really Popular Blog Everyone Reads These Days in weeks. So I gave it a look, and was something less than riveted. Add that to the list of Things With Which I Became Terminally Bored Right Before Everyone Else Started Thinking They Were Super Fab, along with the Santa Ynez Valley wine region, Sex and the City, Melrose Place, the Doors, novelty-print purses (e.g., sushi menu illustrations, Audrey Hepburn movie stills) and fake-retro tank tops (e.g., Lazy Daze Trailer Park).

Cutting edge? Or just easily bored? You decide.

I'm Scared Of Claudette Colbert's Eyebrows.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
Every time Ben falls asleep watching TCM, which is pretty much nightly, I'm frightened anew by Claudette Colbert, and in particular her eyebrows. What is it about old-time actresses and scary eyebrows? Barbara Stanwyck is particularly frightening; she looks like a man in addition to possessing scary eyebrows and a large arsenal of those freaky '40s hairdos.

Once, on vacation, I turned on TCM while Ben was out in the kitchen. What's on? he yelled.

I see Joan Crawford in a nightie, I yelled back.

Oh, he said. A monster movie.

I Would Sleep With This Man For A Vacuum Cleaner.
Mood:  party time!
Topic: Evil Things
This is, of course, James Dyson, the guy who developed the famous and extremely expensive Dyson vacuum cleaner. Ben has told me I absolutely can't have a Dyson, probably mostly because I never vacuum except in emergencies; our house is cleaned every two weeks by hired Polacks who probably don't have a goddamned Dyson, either. I recently found myself discussing with a friend the concept of getting an expensive vacuum cleaner by offering erotic favors to its inventor, and the more I think about it, the more the idea grows on me.

In fact, in the elevator at work today two men were discussing, of all things, vacuum cleaners; and as a further coincidence, I heard one of them mention that he had a Dyson and they are great. Stealing a sidelong glance, I ascertained that the guy who had spoken looked, by further coincidence, a bit like James Dyson. I briefly entertained the idea of offering to sleep with him in exchange for his Dyson, but restrained myself. The notion was, after all, ridiculous. Sex with a stranger for a used vacuum cleaner? It'd have to be a new one.

It's the geek thing, of course. I've already mentioned my big geeky crush on a National Weather Service guy I've never laid eyes on, and the whole scientist thing is inexplicably attractive to me; since my earliest memory, I have thought guys in white lab coats were hot. (Oddly enough, I only dated one science major in my day, and my main memory of him is that he spent a year doing research at the Amundsen-Scott base at the South Pole, and I tried to persuade him to bring me back a penguin, which I proposed to keep in the freezer. I never got my fucking penguin.)

James Dyson is an ubergeek, a geek's geek. I hate to say this, but I'd do him. Which may go a long way toward explaining the Elvis Costello thing. And a whole lot of other things.

P.S. to Still Bill, if you are looking on: This is not meant to be a personal confession. You are my absolute favorite mad scientist on earth, but the truth is I never got my mind out of your roommate's trousers long enough to think about much else, in those days.

The Gayest Thing I've Ever Seen.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
Today I met Ben at South Coast Plaza for soy lattes and a little shopping; we've been needing to spend more couple time, and lunchtime rendezvous are the perfect vehicle for that. It involves fighting the noonday traffic, and South Coast Plaza is swarming with both housewives and the work/lunch crowd on a Wednesday noon, but it's well worth it in time spent laughing and flirting like we used to do. See what kissing leads to? Two little kids snapping at your heels, one enormous belly, and not enough of the stuff that produced the kids in the first place, that's what.

In our travels we stopped off at the Sephora store to sample the new Philosophy shower gels. After some sniffing and some discussion, we settled on one bottle of Coconut Milk and one of Hot Cocoa, then approached the cash registers. Our cashier had hair cut in a cute chin-length bob and bone structure reminiscent of Jennifer Aniston's. Imagine our surprise when our cashier spoke to us and we realized that our cashier was a man.

It wasn't Pat; he was far more effeminate than that, clearly female, or so it seemed to the casual eye. Now, I'm the last person to be put off by gay men, or if not exactly the last, I pretty much shrug and think Cool, whatever floats your boat. But this cashier was the knee-jerk caricature of gay, the epitome of gay, the embodiment of every gay stereotype you've ever seen or heard. Lisping, limp-wristed, ever so consciously camp. Now that was shocking to me.

Imagine happening upon a black guy who was walking along making goo-goo eyes, eating watermelon and picking cotton. To me, this was the same thing, and I'm not at all sure what to make of it. Gay people don't make me uncomfortable; I've known a whole bunch of them, and they are just like everyone else. We all do our own thing when the lights are off, after all; we all prefer to have sex with whatever kind of person is attractive to us. But this cashier made me uncomfortable. It was the stereotype thing.

Why is this? Am I really uncomfortable with gay people deep down, and don't like to be around them unless they "blend in"? Who's to say? I don't have time to think about it right now, but I wish I knew.

Coo Coo Ca Coochie.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Evil Things
This morning I was about to step out of the shower when I suddenly realized my coochie was still full of soap. As I sighed and turned the water back on, I figured that stood to reason; I haven't seen the benighted thing in weeks. Which could only mean one thing: the hedge must be in need of a pruning by now.

I sighed again and pulled out the scissors, reflecting that this particular exercise is a lot like carefully tending a garden no one can ever enter or indeed approach, because it is guarded by three angelic imps who never sleep. But a girl has certain maintenance duties, and these days, the grooming of the woo-woo has found a place on that list.

It wasn't always that way. Back when I was coming of age, the only thing required was that we keep the area squeaky clean. The upkeep of the Fun Zone with razors and such was considered racy indeed, in those days when Fear of Flying topped the bestseller lists. Gamely, I tried the shaving thing when I was about 18, with the result that I suffered first razor burn and later, of course, stubble. My boyfriend at the time, who was also an English major, dubbed the region the fretful porpentine, a la Bill Shakespeare. (Thanks a lot, hon. You got yours later, the time I tried to give you a "sensual massage" with that homemade cinnamon oil concoction. How was I to know cinnamon was so caustic? That wasn't on purpose. I swear it.)

These days, I act my age and adopt a style best described as well-trimmed retro, which like my taste in all hairstyles is hopelessly outmoded. In the 21st Century it's deemed obligatory to go Brazilian, or at least do a landing strip. Shit, even Morgan Fairchild, who is even older than I am, shaved down for her Mrs. Robinson stage role, as Miss Doxie hilariously revealed. Razor burn is no longer an issue, thanks to modern technology; I think Howard Stern's girlfriend has her parts sanitized of secondary sex characteristics by laser removal. Me, I'm sticking to my guns. I figure that if God had intended for men to tangle with bald coochies, He would have made it legal to have sex with eight-year-old girls.

The people I really feel bad for are gynecologists. Before my beloved former coochie doc retired, I used to puzzle over the etiquette of how to present my see-you-next-Tuesday when I went in for my pelvic -- he was around 70 years old and I figured too much grooming might scare him to death. But if the guy's a gynecologist, you have to figure he sees plenty of scary coochies anyway, what with yeast and chlamydia and what have you. The idea of that dear old man spending his day facing down twats with infections and heart-shaped curlies was more than my mind could handle. So I refused to think about it, and so should you. However mightily some of them might dispute it, that would be enough to turn any man gay.

The God-Help-Us In The Mirror.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Evil Things
I must preface this entry by pointing out that I am not a beautiful girl, nor am I artfully groomed or coiffed. I have large teeth, fine hair, "natural" fingernails, and Eastern European thighs (thanks a bunch, Ma!). My looks are routinely described, at least to my face, as elfin, not pretty. My body, while not unbearably hideous, is nonetheless in the process of producing my third child after the age of 40, with all that entails (except stretch marks! Ha ha!). And my hair, although pregnancy this time round has mysteriously made it curly, has been in a style best described as God only knows what, with bangs, for the last 25 years or so.

So you might say I lack standing to criticize anyone's appearance. But I'm going to do it anyway, because Christ Jesus alive, what in hell are some people thinking?

First of all, let's take men's hairstyles; or more to the point, let's take most of them and thrust them away from us with a sharp stick. In the '80s we had spiky hair for men, and wasn't that an eyesore all round? I have never seen a hairstyle that can spoil the good looks of 95% of everyone like a spiky 'do. Take Sting, for example, who is a handsome man and who completely ruined his looks in the '80s because someone (who was THAT asshole?) decreed that spiky 'dos were de rigeur for male rock stars. Even today, there's a guy in his 20s who works in my office building and who would be perfectly adorable if he'd just wash out the three tons of gel and let his poor tired hair have a lie-down. But he's doing the retro spike thing, and as it is, he looks like a science experiment.

I was so relieved when that look mostly died, then nearly plotzed when it was replaced not so many years later by shaved heads and goatees. Y'all -- what the smeg are you thinking? Patrick Stewart you ain't, nor Yul Brynner, nor even Telly Savalas. If you shave your head, then everyone can see your bumpy ol' noggin, which would look perfectly acceptable if you'd just drape it in a Beatle cut instead. Rule number one: Unless you have science fiction bone structure, everyone on earth looks better with some hair around their face. As for goatees, I have two words for you: prison pussy.

(By this time, I have succeeded in insulting the husbands of almost all my female friends, plus half the other random males who are reading this, except for those who happen to be my old old friends, because y'all have retained your common sense as far as what not to do with your hair, and y'all look great. To anyone who is insulted, I can only say (1) you should know to expect that from me by now; and (2) tell him to shave his damn chin and grow his hair back already, because damn, why would anyone want to look like he's just walked out of Rahway? I will admit that yes, my tastes are hopelessly behind the times, and yes, I would be perfectly happy if every male on earth would just put on a Beatle wig and have done with it. And to that I reply, to paraphrase Calvin's dad: I blog what's right, not what's popular.)

I would like to close by sending shout-outs to (1) the woman in my building with the teased, black-black dyed hair with the three-inch-wide streak of purest snow white in the front (Hi, Cruella!); (2) the chicks who are 50 pounds overweight and run around in belly shirts, because y'all make it so easy for my husband to honor his marriage vows (I have the good sense to cover my fat from his sight with flattering clothing until the lights go down); and (3) that broad with the femullet at the Arco station this morning, for making ordinary girls like me look not only good, but relatively educated and affluent.

I would never ordinarily encourage anyone to emulate Michael Jackson, but in this case, some people should definitely start with the man in the mirror, because he's apparently the only one not going oh shit, what's up with THAT?

But Why Would He Want To Be A Skeleton?
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
The Michael Jackson prosecution has rested, and that odd Ben Franklin/William Penn clone, Mesereau, has commenced putting on the defense. First up: A "dancer/film director" (!!!) who testified yesterday that although he visited the Neverland Ranch over 20 times as a boy, Michael never tried to put a move on him.

Maybe it's just that Michael didn't think he was cute enough to molest. Do you think that's ever occurred to the guy -- that Michael simply didn't find him sexually attractive? I wonder if his feelings are just a little bit hurt.

Sam came up to the computer and saw a photograph of Michael leaving the courthouse with his poor mother, Katherine Jackson, and here is how that conversation went:

Sam: Eww, Michael Jackson. Who's that lady?

Me: That's his mother.

Sam: She's not a skeleton.

Me: No . . . his mother is just a lady. See, Michael Jackson wasn't always a skeleton. He became a skeleton, later. At first, he was just a kid.

Sam: He was?

Me [realizing that Sam might now be worried about becoming a skeleton himself]: Yes, but see, he wanted to become a skeleton. People don't just turn into skeletons, but when he grew up, he wanted to be one, so he went to the doctors and told them to turn him into a skeleton. Nobody knows why.

Sam: Is his mother scared of him?

Me: Probably.

Sam is not a fearful child, and I'm glad of that. That's some strange world his mind cooks up, populated with deliberate skeletons lurking in courthouses and dead birds flying through the air. He's a sunshiny kid, really, but who knows -- perhaps I have given birth to the next Tim Burton.

Newport Bitch.
Mood:  special
Topic: Evil Things
As further proof that I'm an utter asshole, I have to confess that one of the perks of having Julia at a different hospital from the boys is that her birthplace will be Newport Beach rather than Orange, California.

If you're local, you know all about Newport Beach; if not, my best explanation is that Newport Beach is the Orange County equivalent of Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, or Manhattan's Upper East Side. I have lived in the Newport Beach vicinity for 15 years. Not in the best neighborhoods, where the houses are 10,000 square feet and are situated on hills with simultaneous ocean, mountain, valley and city light views. But for ten years I had a Newport Beach address.

Five years ago, Ben and I bought our current home. It is located in a weird gerrymandered neighborhood where our cul-de-sac is in Newport Beach and the next block is unincorporated Orange County. But our address? Is in Costa Mesa. And I am such a shallow bitch that I have a bit of a complex about this.

Y'all, we are so close. Many days I park my car in Newport Beach and walk into my front door ten seconds later. We take our evening walks in Newport Beach. My official CV recites, Mrs. Crumpacker resides with her family in Newport Beach, California. But our zip code is 92627, not 92660, and we don't even like to think about how many thousands of dollars that tiny fact shaves off the value of our home.

The really funny bit is that I lived in Newport Beach, actually and technically, at the time I started dating Ben. The neighborhood was lousy compared to the one we live in now. Well, not lousy if you don't mind people peeing and barfing in your front bushes and having loud drunken parties by the pool; definitely by no means upscale. The slums of Newport Beach, Ben called it.

The hospital where I'm having Julia is considered one of the best in Southern California, and is very close to home; you can't beat that. But I take guilty satisfaction in its Newport Beach address. You see? Shallow.

Dear Starbucks: Kiss My Ass.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Evil Things
Dear Starbucks: I'm mostly a very loyal girl, but it turns out that in your particular instance, I'm one fickle bitch. As recently as last week I was singing your praises to everyone who would listen, but today I'm leaving you. Oh, maybe I'll stop in for a quickie now and again, but I've replaced you, and you won't be seeing much of me anymore.

After a few days of playing around in my kitchen, I've perfected a homemade latte recipe and can reliably produce a lowfat latte which made both my husband and my daughter, in independent taste tests, say Damn! and drain what was left in my cup. That makes them evil, evil people who only claim to love me, but they did corroborate my belief that I had come up with a rather brilliant cup of coffee.

Better yet, I have done calculations of the out-of-pocket costs and determined that the stuff I make at home costs $0.36 per cup versus the $3.45 I've been paying at Starbucks, plus I don't even have to tip myself unless I've given really, really good service. So, Starbucks? I mean this in the nicest possible way, but fuck off.

Because I have a generous spirit, and also because I am a bit startled to realize the full extent of the anal rape I have been undergoing at the hands of Starbucks these past months, here is the recipe, for which you will need a Senseo or an espresso machine, a microwave, and one of those whirly twirly milk frothing thingies:

Big Latte

2 shots espresso
3/4 cup lowfat or nonfat milk (lowfat froths better)

While espresso brews, pour milk into 2 cup Pyrex measuring cup and microwave on full power for 60 seconds. Empty espresso into a large latte mug. Froth milk with the whirly twirly thing until, well, frothy. Pour atop espresso. Admire the esthetically pleasing blend of brown espresso foam and white milk foam. Laugh like hell at the $3.09 you did not just spend at Starbucks. Repeat as it may please you.

Schadenfreude Department.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
My husband and I don't get to spend enough time together, but most workdays we have long, entertaining e-mail conversations. This afternoon we were discussing Paula Abdul and her increasingly shrill, insistent denials to the press that she is addicted to drugs. Apparently the lady is unacquainted with the concept of protesting too much. I am proud to say that I have never seen American Idol, but I understand from Howard Stern that poor Paula is barely coherent.

Ben's take on the situation: These days, drug abuse is a more acceptable explanation than brain damage or sheer stupidity. Sadly, Anna Nicole Smith's public behavior incorporates unmistakable elements of all three.

We have also been talking about Central Coast dry riesling, a 56-year-old Los Angeles attorney who moonlights as a porn star (I find the fact that the guy is appearing publicly naked at his age far more shocking than the fact that he's a member of the Bar), and the "finger in the Wendy's chili" hoax that spawned so many tasteless comments about finger food.

And, of course, we can't mention schadenfreude without bringing up Michael Jackson. Did you hear the one about Michael Jackson, the young boy, and the jar of Vaseline? It would be funny if it wasn't the subject of proposed testimony barred from evidence by the presiding judge yesterday because it was too inflammatory. You can't make up stuff like this. I'm sure that kid could tell us a thing or two about what's inflammatory.

Hello, I'm Eleven Years Old.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
About ten minutes ago I read in the Sts. Simon & Jude RCC parish newsletter that Karol Wojtyla, later known as John Paul II, was appointed Titular Bishop of Ombi [Poland] on July 4, 1958.

I've been giggling to myself ever since.

Corporate Juggernaut.
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Evil Things
I have surrendered to the corporate juggernaut known as Starbucks Coffee Company. It's true: I glibly toss about words and phrases like venti, frappuccino and no whip, and an almost invariable part of my morning commute is the stop for a venti (that's Starbucksian for large) nonfat cappuccino.

Even on the weekends and away from my standard morning route, I will track down a Starbucks and get my usual. That's not hard to do, given that there appears to be a Southern California zoning ordinance mandating at least two Starbucks stores in each square mile. I'm not really exaggerating -- in Newport Beach, a city of 25 square miles, there are ten Starbucks.

I know. Reprehensible. I don't even care if it does turn out that Starbucks is merely a corporate front for an evil empire bent on world domination. Hey, I'm a registered Republican -- according to some of you, I'm all about that sort of thing anyway, right?

And I must give due credit to Nicole, the girl who mans (womans?) the coffee bar at the Starbucks at Harbor & Adams in Costa Mesa during weekday morning drive time. That chick has a photographic memory and the quickest hands in the business. The moment I walk in the door, she queues up my drink, and it's always ready by the time I hit the cash register. Her personal best is two minutes from the time I shut off my car until the time I start it back up with cappuccino in hand. Nicole is fucking awesome, and I hope the corporate juggernaut is taking good care of her. Hell, for all I care, she's sleeping with Number Two. (Eeee, sounds messy.)

Morning Commute Soundtrack: Show Some Emotion (1977) by Joan Armatrading. Her style was echoed in ensuing years by Tracy Chapman and then Macy Gray, with increasingly limited success. As with most things, nothing can compare to the original.

Roo-Roo.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Evil Things
By popular demand:

Two men were captured in the bush by cannibals and taken captive. They were brought before the tribal chief, who informed them both that they would be killed. He advised the men that they could choose to be put to death one of three ways: By boiling water (and he pointed out a large cauldron being heated over a campfire); the quick death by spear; or roo-roo.

The first man thought for a moment and asked the chief what roo-roo was. The chief replied that roo-roo was an ancient sexual ritual. The first man chose roo-roo.

The chief replied, "That's an excellent choice." He led the man to a large tree, where he was tied naked to the tree, raped by all of the men in the village, and left to die.

The other man had witnessed his partner's demise and told the chief that he preferred to die the quick death by spear.

The chief looked at him and said, "That is also an excellent choice. But first, roo-roo."

Papal Conclave.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Evil Things
As you can imagine, I await the results of the papal conclave with bated breath. (That's bated breath as in breath held in abeyance, not baited breath as in breath which smells like dead fish or perhaps breath designed to lure and entice.) It is important to be clear about these things, and if you're among the approximately 98% of Americans who tend to confuse the two, there went a complimentary spelling lesson! You're welcome.

One of the topics of my most intensely burning curiosity, vis-a-vis the papal election, is the name which the new Pope will choose for himself. This is the subject of much speculation, and I believe Vegas is even posting odds. My choice? I vote for Pope Vinnie I. You'd think, with all these Italians holding the office over the years, someone would have picked it by now. I have a strange affection for that name. I once had a turtle named Vinnie, and in fact, when I was in the hospital having my oldest, I tried very hard to persuade my roommate to name her newborn baby boy Vinnie, just to see if I could do it. God, I'm an asshole.

Yikes.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
See? I told you he's a skeleton. No wonder Sam is scared of him.

I yelped out loud when this photo popped up on my News front page. Do NOT do that to me, Netscape! It was much like the yelp emitted by Ben one day when he turned on our big TV only to have a close-up of Barbra Streisand's face fill the screen. I will never forget the startled, horrified sound he made. It was as though the ancient Frank Zappa curse had been fulfilled upon him, and his shit had come to life and kissed him.

I saw some rather close-up footage of Skeleton Girl on CNN, I think it was last night. Guilty or not, the guy is falling apart before our eyes. It's just ugly all the way around, and I can't take my eyes off it (or, apparently, shut up about it). It's a freak show from start to finish, and I'm just waiting for the geeks to show up and start biting the heads off chickens. One of US! One of US!

Blind Items.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
Item! WHICH popular, nationally known blog appears mysteriously to have jumped the shark of late? I can't put my finger on exactly when it happened, but suddenly I just don't find it readable anymore. I hope it comes back from whatever strange place it's got to. I don't know where that is. I only know that I don't have fun going there. Note to people who may be friends of mine: It's not you. It's someone else. Just making sure you realize.

Item! WHICH popular, nationally known hosting website, whose EZ Blog Builder Lite offers highly peculiar and apparently arbitrary "mood" icons to idiots who don't know enough code to create their own, doesn't know how to spell mischievous? That's M-I-S-C-H-I-E-V-O-U-S, boys. The letter i appears twice. Not three times. Do y'all have spell check, or what? I'm just asking.

Really No Excuse.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
There is a three-person team of local talk radio personalities, Frosty, Heidi and Frank, who end each show with a list of apologies to anyone they may have offended during the day's broadcast. In that spirit, today I would like to apologize to Catholics, pot smokers, adolescent girls, crickets, and the sour divorcee next door.

* * *

A 12-year-old boy gets hit by a car while riding his bike. The paramedics arrive at the scene and see that his injuries could be life-threatening. Concerned, one of the paramedics leans down and whispers Kid, do you want a priest?

The kid looks up and whispers back, How can you think of sex at a time like this? (Thanks to Mark L.)

* * *

A father takes his 11-year-old daughter to the doctor for a sore throat. While you're at it, doc, he says, why don't you throw in some birth control pills? The doctor, shocked, asks, Do you mean to tell me an 11-year-old girl is sexually active?

Nah, says the father. She just lays there, like her mother.

* * *

See? I told you. Appalling. But I'll bet you tell at least one of them to someone today.

Confession.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
I am not ordinarily a cruel person, unless Michael Jackson is involved, but I must confess I sort of enjoy feeding the tarantulas, whose diet consists of live crickets.

I don't bear the crickets any ill will, but there is a guilty kind of fun in dropping them into the cage and watching the realization dawn: Holy shit, there's a FUCKING TARANTULA in here!

Shit. Now I feel terrible. I must do penance. That's ten Bloody Marys and ten how's your fathers. *

* I totally stole that. It's the title of Elvis Costello's 1980 UK compilation release of non-album cuts and B sides. Credit where credit is due, and all.

Here Be Skeletons.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
Not long before bedtime last evening, the family unit was watching Daddy Day Care. The boys love that movie, except (1) don't let your kids watch it before bed, because it's worse than caffeine, and (2) find a way to bleep out the word "butthead" unless you want to hear it in nonstop stereo for the next three days.

The soundtrack includes ABC (1970) by the Jackson Five (actually, I believe the official band name was The Jackson 5ive). "Hear that?" I said to Sam. "The guy singing that song is Michael Jackson, back when he was pretty much a kid, back before he turned into a skeleton."

"Wow, it is?" Sam said. He was impressed. I am evil.