Whatever Happened to Spandex?

I've been thinking a lot about spandex lately. I'm not sure why.

And whenever I think about spandex, which, until recently, was pretty much never, this image comes to mind:

For those of you who were not into 1970s - 1980s sci-fi, it's a picture of the actress Erin Gray in the role of Col. Wilma Deering, from the movie and then series "Buck Rogers in the 25th Century."

If you had ever watched the series (which I did, regularly), which ran from 1979 - 1981, or glimpsed the various versions of "Star Trek" or other sci-fi shows airing in the 1980s and 1990s (guilty), you would know that spandex was the fabric of the future. (A future, of course, envisioned by a bunch of horny fortysomething guys.)

Per the description of spandex I just read on Wikipedia, the stuff is stronger and more durable than rubber. (Who knew?) And it is one of the most used materials in lingerie. (Again, who knew? Clearly, I have not been reading those little tags in my bras and panties.)

Btw, I encourage everyone reading this to click on the link above to view the image of "spandex" shown in the Wikipedia article and tell me what you think that is. I'm stumped (though have a couple of ideas.)

All I know, from personal experience (when I was 16 my mother bought me a purple spandex dress from Fiorucci, which had a front zipper lined on either side with golden nailheads), is the stuff makes you look (and feel) like a sausage stuffed into a too tight casing. And I think Tabitha, who I believe saw me in the dress, will back me up on this. Of course at the time, I thought I looked hot. Though that could have been because the damn dress made me sweat a lot.

My less than satisfying spandex experiences aside, the stuff is apparently here to stay, and is more popular than ever, as evidenced by the number of men who insist on wearing Speedo racing-style suits (I could not bring myself to include an image) and more prosaically the number of websites selling the stuff. (There's a Spandex House, a Spandex World, American Spandex, and Spandexwear, just to name a few I found during my Google search, though sadly they mostly sell fabric. However, I did find this cute little black dress while searching for "spandex dresses." If only I had a place or occasion to wear it...)

Now, having satisfied my curiosity about spandex, I will conclude this entry.

Only five more days until Super Bowl XLII!

Counting Crows (Feet)... Coffee Madness... The GQ QB...

There are days I am glad I work at home and keep my face hidden from the rest of the world, like the day this article in The New York Times came out. It's a quasi review of a new self-help book (though really "help" is not the right word, unless you are into self-mutilation) titled "How Not to Look Old." It's by a former beauty editor for Glamour who wants to help us gal pals over 35 to better compete in a man's world, where apparently showing some gray, having a few wrinkles, and yellowing teeth if not grounds for getting fired are grounds for not getting hired or not getting that promotion.

The solution, of course, is only a box of L'Oreal, a shot of Botox, and some white strips away (for those of us lucky enough not to require full body plastic surgery). I am still depressed.

I confess, I did have my hair colored (brown) for the first time late last year. (For the record, the colorist just laughed as the gray was pretty much confined to a small stripe emanating from the upper-left corner of my forehead, a little like Alexandra Cabot from "Josie and the Pussycats," and only charged me half price.) But if going back into the workforce full time means a "Twilight Zone" or "Outer Limits" style makeover, no thank you. My crows feet and I will just roost right here.

Talking about depressing or bizarre trends... The New York Times (for the record, I read many other news sources, but the NYT, which a friend refers to as "a Socialist organ," is my hometown rag) just this past week ran yet another article about where to find great coffee. (Clearly the paper is run by a bunch of caffeine junkies, though I am now eager to check out the offerings at Cafe Grumpy in Chelsea).

Apparently the latest in caffeine connoisseurship is coffee brewed by an exclusive, halogen-powered machine (the only one in the U.S.!) imported from Japan (which is so well known for its coffee ; ), or at least one that costs a minimum of $11,000 and was designed by rocket scientists. (How many Stanford graduates does it take to make a cup of coffee? Apparently three.)

We ain't talkin' about no frou-frou coffee drinks with Italian or French names, infused with syrups and/or foamed. Mais non. We are talking basic (though these machines are anything but basic) brewed coffee. Like Maxwell House, if that house happened to be a multimillion dollar mansion in Palm Beach.

Maybe my fellow blogger, "Betty Cracker," who calculated how many people died in Iraq each time someone in the Bush administration lied, can calculate how much a cup of coffee made by a $20,000 machine is worth.

Moving right along (while I still have my caffeine buzz)... A note on the GQ QB contest. Deprived of a Tony Romo - Tom Brady matchup/walk off (a la "Zoolander"), we are faced with Eli Manning v. Tom Brady. While that might make for good football (though a Giants fan, I was kind of looking forward to a Brett Favre - Tom Brady matchup), it doesn't make for good runway. Though this hasn't stopped some writers from trying to sex up these two Super Bowl QBs.

While Tom Brady does have model good looks and some might consider him a sex symbol, though not me (and boys, for the record, when a woman says a guy is good looking, it doesn't mean she wants to have sex with him -- unlike many (most?) men I know who I have heard utter on more than one occasion "yeah, she's OK; I'd do her"), I would in no way place Eli in either category. Of course, that didn't stop Allen Salkin of the NYT from doing so. You can check out Mr. Salkin's analysis by clicking here.

In other news... Did you see that Dennis Kucinich withdrew from the presidential race less than 24 hours after my last blog post?! Coincidence? I think not. I also signed up for that golf class (though that means I'll have to get Botoxed, colored, and whitened if I want to get any attention from the instructor -- good thing I have a couple months to prepare), and found out that I had a nail in my left rear tire (the second one in less than two months!), which I had patched. A very big week. ; )

OK. That's enough ranting and raving for one blog post. Until next week...

Politics and Fore Play

I cannot believe we have to endure more than NINE MORE MONTHS of campaign torture before we can pick a president. Nine more months of debates over who is more like Ronald Reagan (or isn't). Nine more months of mudslinging, pandering, obfuscation, and mind-numbing one-on-one interviews with Mitt and Mike and McCain (and Rudy, unless he gets a call from his wife)... Hill and Bill (two, two presidents for the price of one!), Obama, and John Edwards (who I am convinced must have a portrait stashed away in his attic or basement 'cause the man barely looks a day over 40) on the Sunday morning talk shows and NPR (which I love, but the story on what it really meant when Obama voted "present" in the Illinois Senate just put me over the edge).

Nine long, agonizing months. (Oh and before one of you writes, "What about Dennis Kucinich?" let me just say that although he has some good ideas, and can be very funny, he ain't going to be our next president. Of course, neither will most of these folks, but I had to draw the line somewhere.)

Nine months. That's about how long it took Rosemary to give birth to her baby, the anti-Christ, right? I was just reading a synopsis of "Rosemary's Baby" on Wikipedia (Cliff Notes for the Internet set!), where it says Rosemary, shortly after discovering she is pregnant, "soon finds out the horrible truth, that Guy [her husband] allowed the devil to impregnate her in exchange for a successful career." Sort of like finding out that candidate who you trusted, who you naively believed was acting in your best interests, who you dutifully voted for, was actually in the pay of some nefarious special interest -- and now there's the devil to pay. Let us all pray this is not the case.

I have not fully made up my mind for whom I will vote. (Look Ma, no dangling preposition!) But I like the idea of Obama. Yes, yes, he's weak on experience, especially on foreign policy. But so was Abe Lincoln. To me a good leader is someone who is smart, well educated (on the issues, not necessarily that he or she had to have attended a good college), passionate, with good ideas, who surrounds him- or herself with smarter people who can execute on those ideas. OK, there's a lot more to being a good leader -- especially President with a capital P (which rhymes with "T," which stands for Tool!) than that, but you get my drift.

So back to Obama. I believe, perhaps naively, that Barack Hussein Obama -- whose father was from Kenya, who lived and studied in Indonesia when he was a kid, who has worked with and for the poor, who is young and, yes, seemingly full of hope (though technically Mike Huckabee is too, Hope, Arkansas, that is) -- would send a powerful, positive message to the rest of the world, if just in name and resume only, and would make it more difficult for foreign extremists to rationalize attacking us. Like I said, that may be naive on my part, but that's not the only reason I want Obama to succeed, nor why I am, for now, an Obama Mama. (For some truly insightful, well written, and humorous political prose, check out Gail Collins of The New York Times. And for all you lefties with a sense of humor, do visit Betty Cracker's blog.)

On a MUCH lighter note... I did mention the words "fore play" in the subject line, and I don't want to disappoint, though I'm afraid I will anyway. Having come to the sad realization that I can't smoke (makes me sick and is bad for you anyway), can't do drugs (ditto), can't drink alcohol (ditto, though I hear a little bit is actually good for you), or caffeinated beverages (ditto), can't carbo load (ditto), can't eat tuna sushi (ditto), can't drive over 55 (at least when there are cops around), can't be center for the Knicks (too short, too old, and can't dunk), and a few other other things which I know I shouldn't do (and you know who you are ; ), I have come to the conclusion that the only two vices left to me are gambling and golf (hence the "fore" play).

Yes, yes, I hear what some of you are thinking, and I will deal with you later. (Did I mention I can read minds?) You are thinking: But gambling isn't good for you either. You could lose your shirt! (Which could lead to drinking... or worse, eating a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream or that one with the fudge core.) Take it easy. I always go with a buddy and take only what I can afford to lose -- much less actually. Hey, a girl's got to have a little fun, right?

As for golf, my father was (at one time) a scratch golfer and always hoped I would play. But I somehow managed to resist the urge (actually, there has never been an urge) to play a round, or even nine holes, confining my play to courses of the miniature variety. Until now. There I was, in the kitchen the other day, flipping through the upcoming local Continuing Education offerings when I saw it, an opportunity to pick up a club and whack at something small and hard. How could I resist? So far I have, but I am seriously thinking about. The first class starts in April. Stay tuned...

Big Blue Haze

Several people pinged me this morning about the Giants' victory over Brett Favre's Green Bay Packers (who, btw, are one of my favorite teams) last night -- and wanted to know why I didn't post something first thing this morning or even last night. The embarrassing truth is that I fell asleep in the first few minutes of the third quarter. Just keeled right over (the problem with having the HDTV flat screen in the bedroom and drinking wine on a somewhat empty stomach). Must have been my hypoglycemia acting up as it surely wasn't boredom.

I was so mortified by my not having watched the entire game that I didn't dare post until I at least watched the highlights and recaps on ESPN and SNY several times and read as many reports online as I could stomach. (Btw, if I hear placekicker Lawrence Tynes, who I think is just as cute, if not cuter, than Tom Brady, described as going from "goat to hero in a matter of minutes" one more time, I will throw up.)

The really interesting thing about last night's game to me was that even though he didn't throw a single pick (nor has he in the entire post season, unlike a certain New England QB), and was amazingly accurate with this throws, Eli Manning, who is not cuter than Tom Brady, though has a pretty foxy fiancee, still seems a bit like a deer in the headlights -- and almost as surprised as the rest of us when the Giants win.

Watch Tom Brady throw the football and you see a guy full of quiet confidence. He just looks, aims, fires. And usually hits his target. Except yesterday afternoon when the San Diego Chargers' Jammer (apt name, no?) intercepted a throw early in the game. (Seconds before Brady threw, Kenny turned to me and said, "Watch. He's going to throw a touchdown." Oops.) Watch Eli and you think (pray?), please let someone catch the ball -- and not a member of the opposing team. Maybe the guy's got a bum rap (all the sportscasters were falling all over themselves this morning saying "Eli is THE MAN," and how great he is, after saying for months how mediocre he was). We'll find out come Super Bowl Sunday.

Speaking of The Big Game, I was so excited when I heard the news this morning that I actually thought about buying tickets. Even went to StubHub.com to see how much they would set me back. While I love the Giants (and my spouse), $3200 a pop for not great seats is a bit too rich for my blood right now. And friends of ours are throwing a really fun sounding Super Bowl party (Thanksgiving in February!), which we'd hate to miss. But who knows? If the cold weather keeps up here, I may just do it. Stay tuned.

There are other things I could write about, but I actually need to get some work done while my daughter is out watching "Alvin and the Chipmunks" with a friend. Watch this space for a discussion of why I am an Obama Mama, if it's ever okay to laugh during sex, and why I may take up golf.

Damsel in Distress Day at the Wilton Getty

I am really starting think there are gremlins in my tires. As many of you know, I had to have two (the front ones) replaced in November, just after my Mini (which I still love, despite the tire problems) turned two and had only about 17.5K miles on him. But my troubles were far from over. Since then, I have been mysteriously losing pressure in different tires, though, of course, never at the same time -- and have become completely paranoid.

I inflate one and another loses pressure. It's like a friggin' game of Whac-a-Mole. It finally got to the point this week where I called Mini of Fairfield County and asked what was up with that?! Pete, poor, long-suffering Pete, patiently explained that tires lose pressure over time (duh -- but surely not every week?) and I should be checking mine once a month. Once a day is more like it.

So, after having my pleasant little conversation with Pete, who also lives in Wilton, and scheduling my annual service appointment (still under warranty!), I marched downstairs to the garage to check my tires and fill them with air using our plug-in air pump if necessary. Sure enough, three out of four tires required more air.

I got out the air pump, plugged it into that thing that used to be called "a lighter," turned on the ignition, and went to work. Only to find to my horror that I was LOSING air, not replacing it. I checked to make sure the pump was indeed plugged in and air was coming out (check and check) and tried again. Same thing. So I immediately stopped and did what any female, except for Tabitha, who can take apart and put back together a motorcycle and change flats on the A1 in whizzing traffic, would do: I emailed my husband and told him to do it.

So this morning we trundled downstairs to the garage together, he to pump, I to observe. As he went to apply the pump to the valve he noticed that the clamp was broken. Clearly gremlins, again. But at least I was off the hook. Sort of. I still needed air.

Minutes later, I had arrived at the Getty station, where another unfortunate victim of tire gremlins was trying to pump air into her Lexus, with apparently not much success, at least until the attendant helped her out. (Clearly these gremlins do not like women but are okay with men.) When they were done, I took the pump from the attendant and said a silent prayer.

I set the tire pressure on the pump. So far so good. Lovingly unscrewed the valve caps. Didn't lose one, so still feeling pretty good. And applied pressure. Well, two out of three isn't too bad, right? Yes, dear reader, once again, I was sucking wind, or air -- out of my tire. Trying not to panic, I sweetly called over to the attendant, who informed me I had to hold the pump to the valve until I heard three dings. Aaaah. "Guess it's damsel in distress day at Getty!" I chirped, after thanking him, to which he just grunted and turned away.

When I returned home, I proudly informed Kenny of my accomplishment. "Did you check the air with your gauge?" he asked. No, I replied, I didn't need to, I explained. The gauge on the pump said I was good to go. "You have to check your gauge," he repeated. "Can't trust those things." Great. I'm sure he's right, but it's cold out, and I'm hungry, and I just don't have the energy to go another round with the tire gremlins right now.

Please say a prayer that I make it safely to tae kwon do and back with Abby this evening. It's going to be a cold one, and these tire gremlins have a nasty sense of humor.

The Price of Happiness... the Difference Between How Men and Women Think... More on Happiness

I was not going to post until later this week, but I just had to share. (Okay, two of my projects just blew up, I don't have an interview until 1 p.m., and I have a rather large cat asleep in my lap, so figured I'd blog.)

According to a study released Monday in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences and reported on on MSNBC, the more we believe an item is worth, the happier we are with our purchase. In other words, my friends, money can buy happiness — at least temporarily. So by my calculations, a 2007 Aston Martin V8 Vantage Coupe, with a base price of $110,600, should go a long way towards helping me through the winter blahs. Of course, if it snows, or the roads are too icy drive on, and I cannot drive my new Aston Martin, I would be unhappy.

Quoting from the MSNBC article:

"The study's participants were hooked up to brain scan machines and instructed to take a sip from five glasses of wine, which ranged from $5 to $90 a bottle. When they were told they were drinking a glass of wine from a $90 bottle, brain scans showed increased activity in the medial orbital frontal cortex, the area of the brain that registers pleasure — even if the person was actually knocking back the price equivalent of two-buck chuck."

The takeaway: People (or their brains) believe that the more you pay for something, the better the quality, and the happier they are with their purchase (that or that two-buck chuck just makes people happy) — at least until the credit card bill shows up.

Anyone notice a problem with this? Apparently at least one psychologist did. Per her, some people may be confusing an item's worth with their own self-worth. (Really? I'm shocked. Shocked, I say.) These folks, she worries, will always be racing toward their next purchase, always inwardly questioning: Will this make me happy? And as we all know, or should know, the answer to that is almost always no, or at least after the initial buzz wears off. There are even brain scans to prove this.

My favorite quote on this subject, which I am paraphrasing, came during an IM session with my friend/client Dan, who wrote, maybe money can't buy happiness, but it sure does help numb the pain. Amen, brother.

So while (somewhat) on the topic of brains and how they work, I wanted to share this very funny clip my friend, Jill, just emailed me (thanks Jill!), about the difference between male and female brains. If you can find five minutes to watch it, do. It will definitely put a smile on your face. (More about that three paragraphs down.)

Interestingly, the clip, while very funny, is from a place called the Marriage Resource Center, which takes itself and its mission, "Helping couples create loving and lasting marriages," very seriously. So this would probably not be the time to start writing about why I think all couples should, under the guidance of an attorney, create and sign a five-year renewable contract before they can get married. But I promise to blog about it in another post.

Want to know the real secret to a happy and long-lasting marriage? Enzyte, "the #1 selling supplement in the world for natural male enhancement." At least that is what their commercials would have you believe. Me, I just find their ads highly entertaining, especially when folding the laundry, cooking my man his dinner, or cleaning house.

For those of you who have never encountered Smiling Bob, the spokesman for Enzyte (who actually never speaks), I highly recommend you check out this clip on YouTube, where Bob attends the office party dressed up as Santa, and women line up to sit on Santa's lap.

I think that's enough for this blog post. Stay tuned next week to see if my husband is still talking to me. ; ) (Hi Honey! Love ya!)

The Curse of Jessica Simpson?

I'm starting to actually feel a little sorry for Nick Lachey's ex. I mean, could she really be the reason why Tony Romo failed to help his team win their playoff game against the Giants yesterday? I think not.

Even more disturbing than all the media attention/speculation regarding a Jessica Simpson - Gisele Bundchen -- I mean Tony Romo - Tom Brady --matchup on Super Bowl Sunday, which will now not come to pass, was watching Cowboys wide receiver Terrell Owens choke up in a postgame interview. Even his blackout shades could not hold back the tears (though I was momentarily distracted by his 10-carat diamond studs).

"This is not about Tony," Owens said, sobbing. "You guys can point the finger at him. You can talk about the vacation. And if you do that, it's really unfair. It's really unfair. It's my team. It's my quarterback. If you guys do that, man, it's unfair. We lost as a team. We lost as a team, man." [For more on TO's tear up, check out this article in Newsday.]

Oh grow up. Next thing you know, he'll be on the ticket with Hillary.

And to all those who didn't think the Giants could beat the Cowboys (final score: 21 - 17) I say this: Pppppphhhht. And to those in the NFL and at the networks who were counting on the Packers playing the Cowboys and the Colts playing the Pats in a rematch of their Nov. 4 game I say: boohoohoo -- tough titties (though, I admit, I was rooting for the Colts and am bummed they won't be playing on Sunday).

Speaking of titties (tough or otherwise)... I continue to be bombarded with Victoria's Secret catalogs and emails. Usually, I just throw 'em away, but as I had some time to kill waiting for Abby's bus the other day, and I'm contemplating getting a new bikini for our February trip, I (foolishly) decided to flip through the swimsuit edition.

My take: Instead of grouping their swimsuits by brand or style, I think they should have one section or catalog for those who have been surgically enhanced and another for those who, for better or worse, have decided to leave be what their mommy and daddy's genes bequeathed them. Seriously, I think there was, maybe, one model who did not look surgically enhanced. And it made me kinda sad. These were pretty girls -- who looked like someone glued a couple of balloons to their chests and painted them flesh color. Granted, I am not a guy (next life), but do such obviously fake orbs really appeal?

And have you seen the size of the bikini bottoms? I've seen fig leaves bigger than some of those things. I know, I know: Why are you so cranky? What do you care? You should have seen me before I had some sparkling wine and a couple of cupcakes (lunch of champions!). Maybe it's sour grapes (the sparkling wine was kind of flat -- like me!).

And since I seem to be fixated on bikinis today (as I stare out my window watching huge flakes of snow fall, even though ALL the weather reports this morning said Southern Fairfield County would be clear of snow by 8 a.m.), here's a humorous tidbit I came across on MSNBC the other day:

"Now you see it, now you don’t. Eagle-eyed newshounds at the Sun [British tabloid] noticed soccer stud David Beckham appears to be significantly less bulgy in his latest ads for Emporio Armani underwear. Hmmm."

So, keep your eye on the ball(s) and have a great week!

Glowing Green Pigs, NFL Cheerleaders, Stag Mag, and Toga Parties

Forget about green eggs and ham. Now we have green ham -- hold the eggs. Yes, dear reader, scientists have done it again. Not to be outdone by their South Korean counterparts, who made a bunch of kittens glow red under ultraviolet light, some Chinese scientists have managed to make a bunch of piglets glow fluorescent green under ultraviolet light. Why, do you ask? Good question.

According to a report by the Associated Press, making the pigs glow fluorescent green "could lead to the future breeding of pigs for human transplant organs," a Chinese university reported -- that is, of course, if you don't mind your new organs glowing green in the dark. To learn more about this fascinating experiment, click on the link above.

On a lighter note (perhaps a pale pink or a baby blue?), I received two very interesting freelance writing opportunities in my in box this week. The first, which was on a mailing list I subscribe to, sought "writers for NFL Cheerleaders Blog." Writers, according to the posting, do not need to have professional writing experience, just be able to write at a high school level, not use swear words, and know who is hot and who is not. Alas, I am not up on my NFL cheerleaders, so I passed. But if any of you want to get up your pompoms for the cause, let me know and I'll send you the link.

About the same time I found the above, I received a solicitation (from my listing on Mediabistro.com) to write for a new, soon-to-be-launched lad mag called "Simply Stag." Unfortunately, in my stomach-flu-induced haze (I am happy to say I much better now), I deleted the request after my reply bounced (no such domain). But in his email the author, who my friend, Steven, discovered was a recent graduate of UNLV, and probably not to be taken seriously, said he read a lot of my work (could it have been my fascinating discussion of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure or how small businesses can get discount shipping?) and thought I had an edge that would suit his new magazine, a publication for the guy who knows who he is and is proud of it (whatever that means).

I have to admit, a part of me thought it would be great fun to write for a lad mag, as I am rather fond of men, sports, cars, politics, and beer. (I am trying to keep this entry PG.) But alas, I fear it is not to be. I don't work for unfunded startups and as I just wrote my reply bounced. Not a good sign. But keep your eyes out for "Simply Stag." One day it could be on a newsstand near you.

Speaking of men and beer...

John Tierney of The New York Times had a wonderful entry in his blog on January 5 entitled "The Science of Toga Parties," which I felt I had to share. The entry was based on a study published in the January issue of Alcoholism: Clinical & Experimental Research.

The headline of the press release: "Inside college parties: surprising findings about drinking behavior." Surprising to whom, I wondered? (Apparently to scientists working at universities who have never been to a keg party.)

The study's main findings:

1. People who go to parties with drinking games have higher blood-alcohol concentrations.
2. "Young women at theme parties, especially with sexualized themes and costumes, drink more heavily than men."

To this I respond, duh. But hand it to those researchers, they put in a lot of time and effort, attending 66 college parties held "close to an urban public university in southern California."

Survey says: The more you drink, the drunker you get. Nice to know our tax dollars are so well spent.

As to why women drink more, if you ever spent a night at one of these "themed" keg parties (as I unfortunately did, at MIT of all places, in my youth), you'd drink heavily, too.

Monkey Sex, Football, and Cucumbers (and rated PG-13!)

I will get to the Giants convincing win over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in just a minute. (My headline: "One Giant Leap for Manning Kind.") But first, I wanted to share with you the findings of a recent study that suggests that primates may treat sex as a commodity. (I know what some of you are thinking: Male primates paying for sex is news?!)

Yes, dear readers, according to the researchers who apparently had nothing better to do than to watch macaques fornicate (primate porn?), male monkeys must "pay" for sex, in the form of grooming.

As an expert quoted in the AP report noted: ''It is not a rare phenomenon in nature that males have to make some 'mating effort' in order to get a female's 'permission' to mate." He then went on to liken the effort to a ''fee'' that the male pays.

So, in other words, boys and girls, when the male macaque wants some nookie action, he's gotta do something the female really wants him to do (like the dishes or laundry or vacuuming) or no nookie. (You paying attention, boys? Cause if it works in nature...)

And here's the bit the researchers got really excited about: when there are fewer females, the male macaque needs to up the grooming ante (i.e., spend more); a plethora of primate lovelies and he gets off flicking a flea or two (i.e., not so much grooming -- or these chimpy chicks can be had for cheap). Apparently the laws of supply and demand rule the jungle, too.

Moving right along...

DID YOU SEE THE GIANTS GIVE IT TO TAMPA YESTERDAY?! DID YOU?! Okay, chances are if you are a female reading this (though not you, Sherry, cause I know you were watching -- and my condolences) you did not. So you can skip down. But for those of you who care about football, unless you are a Steelers' or a Redskins' fan, in which case, sorry dudes, keep reading.

For those of you who don't know (though you do now), the Giants beat the Tampa Bay Buccaneers very convincingly yesterday afternoon. Frankly, I don't think the boys on The Fan (Sports Radio 66, WFAN) or on ESPN thought they had it in them. And for a while there, as in the first quarter, it didn't look too good for Coughlin's boys. But what a difference a few minutes can make. And contrary to what Georgette said to me this morning, it was NOT luck. The Giants won, 24 - 14, and they earned it. (Btw, I can NOT believe the Times Online did not have a giant banner announcing the win right on the front page at the tippy top. Had to scroll down at least a half a page. Feh.)

Will the boys in blue continue their aggressive play and defeat the Dallas Cowboys this coming Sunday? I think they can. (And I used to really like Tony Romo, until he started dating Jessica Simpson. What's up with THAT?!) Stay tuned.

Lastly, I wanted to share a bit of roadside humor my good friend, Tabitha, who lives in Great Britain but grew up here in the U.S. of A., emailed to me after reading my email (now blog post) about God's bulletin board:

"As you drive deep into N.E. Pennsylvania, you see a huge sign with a giant cucumber that urges you to 'Call 1-800-CUCUMBER for all your cucumber needs!' And in case you missed the message, it is repeated in Hebrew. (I assume that it is a repeat of the above message, though I haven't had that verified). It's my personal signal that I have reached the 'area of outstanding natural beauty' (a formal designation in GB) favoured by the Hassidic community in Brooklyn for their holiday homes.... Ah America, home of the tasteful cucumber empire!"

So if any of you happen to pass this billboard AND can read Hebrew, could you please confirm that is what the Hebrew version says? Also, I strongly recommend that the next time you have cucumber needs, you call 1-800-CUCUMBER.