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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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!)
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!)
Monday, January 14, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 7, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
For God and Underwear
So chances are, you don't go past Exits 14/15 on I-95N in Connecticut that much. It's a shame, really, because God is watching all those who do. And He wants all those motorists to know He cares. He is with them. How do I know this? He has a billboard telling me so. It's even signed "God." I didn't know He was into outdoor advertising, but what do I know? I know I should be comforted to know He has his eye on me and the other motorists on I-95N, but frankly, it's slowing down traffic, and I wonder how many motorists have gotten into accidents staring at that billboard when they should be focused on the road ahead. God knows.
And another thing, I know there's a writers' strike going on but who's brilliant idea was "What would Jesus REALLY do?" airing tonight on CNN? Is this REALLY a good idea? Do we REALLY need to hear Jerry Falwell's views on the war in Iraq (again) and how Jesus would have/would handle it? REALLY? At least they could have included Anderson Cooper. But no.
Moving right along...
So about two weeks ago, I take my daughter to her tae kwon do class, make myself as comfortable as possible on one of the metal benches in the waiting room, and crack open the latest New York Magazine (my "gift" for renewing some membership, though I didn't have a choice). And there, somewhat spread-eagled on the very first spread, is a guy in a dazzlingly white bikini, though I first thought it was underwear, apparently advertising cologne -- of course! -- in a boat... on a lake... practically naked.
I quickly shut the magazine and reopened it. Yup. Still there. I couldn't quite believe it. (OK, maybe I'm just a prude... about some things. Just seemed odd to have a near-naked guy spread-eagled on the first spread of New York Magazine.) So I turned to the father of one of my daughter's friends and said "Dan, check this out." There was no denying it now. Clearly there was a near-naked man poking out from the very first spread of New York Magazine.
Ah, how times have changed. Remember the days when if you wanted to advertise a bra, you had to show it next to or on top of a fully clothed woman -- a woman typically wearing a turtleneck or a modest dress? And I can't remember a single ad for underwear, besides Underoos, which were for the six and under set. Don't those days seem so long ago and quaint? Now, thanks no doubt to Madonna, undergarments are outergarments. And long gone are the days of modest advertising.
Go into any Abercrombie or Hollister, stores that attract a tween and teenage crowd, and you are surrounded by packages featuring perfectly sculpted males in briefs or boxers or the oh-so-popular boxer briefs. And these boxes of boxers are not tucked away in some dark back corner. Oh no. They are prominently displayed. Oh how today's young women are going to be disappointed. Tip: Don't judge a package by the cover.
So while I am on the topic of underwear... I must have received at least three emails and as many catalogs from Victoria's Secret since I started typing this note. OK, I exaggerate a bit. But REALLY (Thank you, Jesus), why me? I've got an OK body, but I'm no Gisele Bundchen. Not even close. Though frankly, besides Gisele, who is?
Over the years I have bought some shirts, a pair of men's style PJs, and what could best be described as a granny nightgown (long since discontinued, clearly because of lackluster sales) from Vicky's Secret. (What's the secret you say? These women have no nipples!) But nothing to elicit this deluge of catalogs and emails. And another thing: Who the heck buys this stuff, specifically those skimpy undergarments? I mean, there are, what, 122 women out there who actually look like a Victoria's Secret model? Maybe it's an aspirational purchase? Buy this push-up bra and thong and you too will look like Heidi Klum?
So I asked my spouse, who thinks women look sexiest in large, flannel pajamas, and he said, men. Men buy Victoria's Secret stuff. I am assuming for women (most likely a mistress), but you never know. Still I am curious. If you know, let me know. Enlighten me.
And another thing, I know there's a writers' strike going on but who's brilliant idea was "What would Jesus REALLY do?" airing tonight on CNN? Is this REALLY a good idea? Do we REALLY need to hear Jerry Falwell's views on the war in Iraq (again) and how Jesus would have/would handle it? REALLY? At least they could have included Anderson Cooper. But no.
Moving right along...
So about two weeks ago, I take my daughter to her tae kwon do class, make myself as comfortable as possible on one of the metal benches in the waiting room, and crack open the latest New York Magazine (my "gift" for renewing some membership, though I didn't have a choice). And there, somewhat spread-eagled on the very first spread, is a guy in a dazzlingly white bikini, though I first thought it was underwear, apparently advertising cologne -- of course! -- in a boat... on a lake... practically naked.
I quickly shut the magazine and reopened it. Yup. Still there. I couldn't quite believe it. (OK, maybe I'm just a prude... about some things. Just seemed odd to have a near-naked guy spread-eagled on the first spread of New York Magazine.) So I turned to the father of one of my daughter's friends and said "Dan, check this out." There was no denying it now. Clearly there was a near-naked man poking out from the very first spread of New York Magazine.
Ah, how times have changed. Remember the days when if you wanted to advertise a bra, you had to show it next to or on top of a fully clothed woman -- a woman typically wearing a turtleneck or a modest dress? And I can't remember a single ad for underwear, besides Underoos, which were for the six and under set. Don't those days seem so long ago and quaint? Now, thanks no doubt to Madonna, undergarments are outergarments. And long gone are the days of modest advertising.
Go into any Abercrombie or Hollister, stores that attract a tween and teenage crowd, and you are surrounded by packages featuring perfectly sculpted males in briefs or boxers or the oh-so-popular boxer briefs. And these boxes of boxers are not tucked away in some dark back corner. Oh no. They are prominently displayed. Oh how today's young women are going to be disappointed. Tip: Don't judge a package by the cover.
So while I am on the topic of underwear... I must have received at least three emails and as many catalogs from Victoria's Secret since I started typing this note. OK, I exaggerate a bit. But REALLY (Thank you, Jesus), why me? I've got an OK body, but I'm no Gisele Bundchen. Not even close. Though frankly, besides Gisele, who is?
Over the years I have bought some shirts, a pair of men's style PJs, and what could best be described as a granny nightgown (long since discontinued, clearly because of lackluster sales) from Vicky's Secret. (What's the secret you say? These women have no nipples!) But nothing to elicit this deluge of catalogs and emails. And another thing: Who the heck buys this stuff, specifically those skimpy undergarments? I mean, there are, what, 122 women out there who actually look like a Victoria's Secret model? Maybe it's an aspirational purchase? Buy this push-up bra and thong and you too will look like Heidi Klum?
So I asked my spouse, who thinks women look sexiest in large, flannel pajamas, and he said, men. Men buy Victoria's Secret stuff. I am assuming for women (most likely a mistress), but you never know. Still I am curious. If you know, let me know. Enlighten me.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Of Carl Banks, Hollister, and Top Secret Cow Abductions
Though my mother, who only occasionally lives in New York and has no clue what sports radio and The Fan (WFAN 660 AM) are, as many of you know, I have become rather addicted to sport talk and the Fan in particular. It all started with Imus in the Morning, which used to be on WFAN weekdays from 6 - 10 a.m.
Every morning since moving to CT, we either woke up to Morning Edition on NPR or to Don Imus on the FAN. And even after the I-Dude was fired (a bit unfairly, if you ask me, though you didn't), we continued to listen -- to the point where I know listen to the Fan on my own, in my car or in the kitchen, when Kenny is not around.
Indeed, I have become a bit of a Fan/sports radio junkie, even watching ESPN at the gym while working out. I watch sports, too. I watch the Giants (and, until they SUCKED, the Jets -- sorry Gette and Rich) every Sunday. I used to watch the Patriots, too, until Tom Brady (who, okay, is pretty cute) started knocking up supermodels and Belichick was caught cheating (and who says cheaters never prosper?). And I have a soft spot for Green Bay since my Chicago area days. (Go Brett Favre!)
When we lived in Evanston, Illinois, back in the 1990s, when Michael Jordan and the triangle offense were king, I was a HUGE Chicago Bulls fan. I even listened to the playoffs while giving birth to Abby, until the doctors and Kenny insisted we turn off the game because I wasn't paying attention to the job at hand -- or cervix, as was the case.
And yes, I was a HUGE Mets fan as a kid, attending my first game when I was around 8 and becoming hooked. (You think I don't know suffering? Try being a Mets fan post-Tom Seaver, from the mid-1970s through the mid-1980s. Cubs fans: You know of what I speak.)
Now I derive almost equal pleasure listening to guys talk about sports. Not all guys mind you. Just the ones who actually seem to know what they are talking about.
Which brings me to Carl Banks, who now has a regular gig on the Fan, one or two days a week for an hour. For those of you who don't know, Banks (this is taken directly from Wikipedia)
is a former American football linebacker who played for three teams from 1984 to 1995, the New York Giants, the Washington Redskins and the Cleveland Browns in the NFL. He made the Pro Bowl in 1987, had 39.5 career quarterback sacks, and was a member of the NFL's 1980's All-Decade Team. He attended Michigan State University and was the 3rd overall pick in the 1984 NFL draft. He was a member of the Giants teams that won Super Bowls XXI and XXV. Banks was a standout in their Super Bowl XXI victory in which he recorded 14 total tackles, including 10 solo tackles.
He also happens to be a very good analyst. Seriously. I don't usually pay attention to what's being said on the Fan. I just like listening to guys talk sports. I find it strangely soothing. But Banks had me hanging on every word. He doesn't just talk sports, he explains sports, in a way I hadn't heard before, kind of like a sports scientist, which, being a former political scientist, impressed me.
Among Banks's words of wisdom: Donovan McNabb is an underrated QB with a powerful arm but no good receivers -- and don't be surprised if the Jets go after McNabb or the Eagles pursue Laveranues (pronounced "Lavernius") Coles, the Jets wide receiver. Just saying. Cause Carl did. And Carl is good.
Moving right along...
So on Saturday I met my friend, Larissa, who lives in MA, at the West Farms Mall in West Hartford, or Farmington (depending which map service you use), CT, to catch up and do a little holiday shopping. I don't like crowds or shopping, so I kind of had to psych myself up for this little foray.
As we all know, shopping during holiday time has its own special challenges. But is it my imagination or does everyone want to be 21 with the latest cell phone and lots of bling, regardless of the time of year? 'Cause I swear every other store, with the exception of Gap Baby and Build-a-Bear and the Calendar Store (more about that in a minute), seemed to be targeted at/for teens or twentysomethings with lots of $$$ to burn.
Every major cell phone carrier had a store. There must have been at least three nail salons. There were jewelry stores every 10 feet, each one practically giving away charms and pendants. And I didn't begin to count all of the stores selling accessories. (Seriously folks: how many feather boas and bulldog hair clips does a girl really need?) And the displays in every clothing store positively screamed: Are you young and hip or want to be? Shop here!
I have to admit, though, some of those stores do a great job of marketing, particularly Hollister, where Larissa and I went to get my niece a gift card. The place was like a beach house, albeit a very upscale, classy one, with dark woods, wooden shutters, a painted tin roof, atmospheric lighting, sepia-tinged photos of surfer Dudes and Bettys (how Hollister refers to its female demographic), a live beach cam showing live images (mostly waves crashing) from Huntington Beach, CA, on 3 x 3 rows of TV monitors, and MUSIC BLASTING SO LOUD WE COULD BARELY TALK OR THINK. That may have been why Larissa was briefly tempted to buy a $90 sweatshirt, which, I admit, did have the softest lining ever. Very furry. About 20 minutes later, after polling a bunch of Bettys as to which gift card I should get my niece (the one with cute gay guy or one with cute gay guy and chick who looked like a young Daryl Hannah? They unanimously chose the latter), we left the beach and re-entered reality, or whatever passes for it at the mall these days.
After wandering around and deciding against having our portraits taken with Fred Claus or the Mafia Elves, we headed into the Calendar Store, so I could acquire a 2008 weekly engagement calendar. (Hey, just because I write about technology doesn't mean I have to use it.) Who knew there were so many choices? I figured I'd just waltz in and pick up another "Cats" one, because Abby likes looking at the pictures. But that would have been too easy. Maybe I should have chosen the Bichon weekly engagement calendar, or the one devoted to Yorkies, or to Pugs, or Kittens. Nah. Too tame. Like hard bodies? Take your pick, though they were all wall calendars. (More flesh to love, I guess.) Btw, who knew there were so many hunky NY firefighters? Or that they were still putting out Baywatch calendars? The things you learn at the mall.
I had pretty much decided to go with the "INSPIRATION 2008 HARDCOVER WEEKLY ENGAGEMENT," all in caps, the word "CALENDAR" omitted, because the pictures were pretty -- and it was on sale -- when I spotted the calendar that would change my life (well, at least for the next few minutes): "Top Secret Cow Abductions!" There was only one copy left, on the top shelf, near the back. I reached up on my tiptoes and gently grabbed it. These were not just any cow abductions, my friends. No. These were TOP SECRET. Which is why you cannot find this calendar on Amazon.com, only Amazon.ca (http://www.amazon.ca/Cow-Abductions-Calendar-Top-Secret/dp/1595434909) and a few hush-hush sites. Carefully, quietly, surreptitiously, Larissa and I flipped through the calendar, keeping a careful eye out for government agents and aliens who might not take kindly to us discovering their evil cow machinations. And while I was sorely tempted to purchase the calendar, I put my family's safety and security first and replaced the calendar back on the shelf and made my way to the register, where I paid for my "INSPIRATION" engagement calendar and left the store.
As far as I know, I was not abducted by aliens on my ride home, and had an uneventful rest of the weekend, waking up this morning to the sounds of Boomer and Carton on WFAN.
Wishing you easy shopping and easy listening this holiday season,
Jennifer
P.S. And if you happen to notice any levitating cows, take pictures! I know a guy with a calendar who will pay you top dollar!
Every morning since moving to CT, we either woke up to Morning Edition on NPR or to Don Imus on the FAN. And even after the I-Dude was fired (a bit unfairly, if you ask me, though you didn't), we continued to listen -- to the point where I know listen to the Fan on my own, in my car or in the kitchen, when Kenny is not around.
Indeed, I have become a bit of a Fan/sports radio junkie, even watching ESPN at the gym while working out. I watch sports, too. I watch the Giants (and, until they SUCKED, the Jets -- sorry Gette and Rich) every Sunday. I used to watch the Patriots, too, until Tom Brady (who, okay, is pretty cute) started knocking up supermodels and Belichick was caught cheating (and who says cheaters never prosper?). And I have a soft spot for Green Bay since my Chicago area days. (Go Brett Favre!)
When we lived in Evanston, Illinois, back in the 1990s, when Michael Jordan and the triangle offense were king, I was a HUGE Chicago Bulls fan. I even listened to the playoffs while giving birth to Abby, until the doctors and Kenny insisted we turn off the game because I wasn't paying attention to the job at hand -- or cervix, as was the case.
And yes, I was a HUGE Mets fan as a kid, attending my first game when I was around 8 and becoming hooked. (You think I don't know suffering? Try being a Mets fan post-Tom Seaver, from the mid-1970s through the mid-1980s. Cubs fans: You know of what I speak.)
Now I derive almost equal pleasure listening to guys talk about sports. Not all guys mind you. Just the ones who actually seem to know what they are talking about.
Which brings me to Carl Banks, who now has a regular gig on the Fan, one or two days a week for an hour. For those of you who don't know, Banks (this is taken directly from Wikipedia)
is a former American football linebacker who played for three teams from 1984 to 1995, the New York Giants, the Washington Redskins and the Cleveland Browns in the NFL. He made the Pro Bowl in 1987, had 39.5 career quarterback sacks, and was a member of the NFL's 1980's All-Decade Team. He attended Michigan State University and was the 3rd overall pick in the 1984 NFL draft. He was a member of the Giants teams that won Super Bowls XXI and XXV. Banks was a standout in their Super Bowl XXI victory in which he recorded 14 total tackles, including 10 solo tackles.
He also happens to be a very good analyst. Seriously. I don't usually pay attention to what's being said on the Fan. I just like listening to guys talk sports. I find it strangely soothing. But Banks had me hanging on every word. He doesn't just talk sports, he explains sports, in a way I hadn't heard before, kind of like a sports scientist, which, being a former political scientist, impressed me.
Among Banks's words of wisdom: Donovan McNabb is an underrated QB with a powerful arm but no good receivers -- and don't be surprised if the Jets go after McNabb or the Eagles pursue Laveranues (pronounced "Lavernius") Coles, the Jets wide receiver. Just saying. Cause Carl did. And Carl is good.
Moving right along...
So on Saturday I met my friend, Larissa, who lives in MA, at the West Farms Mall in West Hartford, or Farmington (depending which map service you use), CT, to catch up and do a little holiday shopping. I don't like crowds or shopping, so I kind of had to psych myself up for this little foray.
As we all know, shopping during holiday time has its own special challenges. But is it my imagination or does everyone want to be 21 with the latest cell phone and lots of bling, regardless of the time of year? 'Cause I swear every other store, with the exception of Gap Baby and Build-a-Bear and the Calendar Store (more about that in a minute), seemed to be targeted at/for teens or twentysomethings with lots of $$$ to burn.
Every major cell phone carrier had a store. There must have been at least three nail salons. There were jewelry stores every 10 feet, each one practically giving away charms and pendants. And I didn't begin to count all of the stores selling accessories. (Seriously folks: how many feather boas and bulldog hair clips does a girl really need?) And the displays in every clothing store positively screamed: Are you young and hip or want to be? Shop here!
I have to admit, though, some of those stores do a great job of marketing, particularly Hollister, where Larissa and I went to get my niece a gift card. The place was like a beach house, albeit a very upscale, classy one, with dark woods, wooden shutters, a painted tin roof, atmospheric lighting, sepia-tinged photos of surfer Dudes and Bettys (how Hollister refers to its female demographic), a live beach cam showing live images (mostly waves crashing) from Huntington Beach, CA, on 3 x 3 rows of TV monitors, and MUSIC BLASTING SO LOUD WE COULD BARELY TALK OR THINK. That may have been why Larissa was briefly tempted to buy a $90 sweatshirt, which, I admit, did have the softest lining ever. Very furry. About 20 minutes later, after polling a bunch of Bettys as to which gift card I should get my niece (the one with cute gay guy or one with cute gay guy and chick who looked like a young Daryl Hannah? They unanimously chose the latter), we left the beach and re-entered reality, or whatever passes for it at the mall these days.
After wandering around and deciding against having our portraits taken with Fred Claus or the Mafia Elves, we headed into the Calendar Store, so I could acquire a 2008 weekly engagement calendar. (Hey, just because I write about technology doesn't mean I have to use it.) Who knew there were so many choices? I figured I'd just waltz in and pick up another "Cats" one, because Abby likes looking at the pictures. But that would have been too easy. Maybe I should have chosen the Bichon weekly engagement calendar, or the one devoted to Yorkies, or to Pugs, or Kittens. Nah. Too tame. Like hard bodies? Take your pick, though they were all wall calendars. (More flesh to love, I guess.) Btw, who knew there were so many hunky NY firefighters? Or that they were still putting out Baywatch calendars? The things you learn at the mall.
I had pretty much decided to go with the "INSPIRATION 2008 HARDCOVER WEEKLY ENGAGEMENT," all in caps, the word "CALENDAR" omitted, because the pictures were pretty -- and it was on sale -- when I spotted the calendar that would change my life (well, at least for the next few minutes): "Top Secret Cow Abductions!" There was only one copy left, on the top shelf, near the back. I reached up on my tiptoes and gently grabbed it. These were not just any cow abductions, my friends. No. These were TOP SECRET. Which is why you cannot find this calendar on Amazon.com, only Amazon.ca (http://www.amazon.ca/Cow-Abductions-Calendar-Top-Secret/dp/1595434909) and a few hush-hush sites. Carefully, quietly, surreptitiously, Larissa and I flipped through the calendar, keeping a careful eye out for government agents and aliens who might not take kindly to us discovering their evil cow machinations. And while I was sorely tempted to purchase the calendar, I put my family's safety and security first and replaced the calendar back on the shelf and made my way to the register, where I paid for my "INSPIRATION" engagement calendar and left the store.
As far as I know, I was not abducted by aliens on my ride home, and had an uneventful rest of the weekend, waking up this morning to the sounds of Boomer and Carton on WFAN.
Wishing you easy shopping and easy listening this holiday season,
Jennifer
P.S. And if you happen to notice any levitating cows, take pictures! I know a guy with a calendar who will pay you top dollar!
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