The Unpredictable Puncturist

I don't remember if I've told you, but my right shoulder has been hurting for over a year now.  And so after numerous doctor's visits, cortisone shots, physical therapy appointments, reikki sessions, deep tissue massages, and chakra balancings, I returned to acupuncture.

Only I was fooled.

On my last round of acupuncture, my puncturist and I had gotten to a point where a session was almost predictable.  I would inform him I had neuropathy in my feet.  He would query me about my bowel movements.  And then he would insert needles into my head and my ears.  After a few sessions he decided that he needed to treat me more systemically and so he started to put those needles into my (cringe) belly button.

And so the morning of my first follow-up session I got myself ready - or so I thought.  I polished my ears; inside and out.  I made sure my belly button was squeaky clean. (No "smelly" button for me.) My fictitious answers to his all-too-private questions were well memorized. (Yes, exactly in the shape of a banana!  How'd you guess?)  By the time I reached his office, I believed I was all set.

Only my puncturist didn't ask me those questions.

I informed him that my shoulder was "killing me."  And so he went right to work.  As logic would have it, he began pushing on my lower back and stomach.  "Where does it hurt more?  Here?  Or here?"  And then he had me lie down and began to wiggle and roll my seriously-unshaven legs and proceeded to put needles at the juncture of two of my un-pedicured toes, one hand, and my stomach.

Of course!

Reminded me somewhat of this post from years ago!  

Go Commando!

Do you remember when your mother told you that you should always wear clean underwear because you never know when you will end up in the emergency room?   Did she ever tell you that you needed an additional dozen in reserve?

I posted my experience with ending up in the ER without my legs shaved, but it never dawned on me to prepare for the possibility that I would end up in the hospital for days on end.  And who would ever guess that - after my close brush with death - one of my anxieties would center around underwear?  Underwear?

It just so happened that a week or two before I got sick I cleaned out my underwear drawer, leaving myself exactly ten pair of the same underwear.  Ten of the same thing; three different colors; exactly how a control freak like myself wants life to be.

Except I don't do laundry often enough any more.  Those three thong-wearers have moved out of the house and Drip Dry no longer trusts my laundering skills.  And so I do my own laundry about once a week.  I think you can do the math.  This, my friends, leaves one vulnerable to getting sick and landing in the hospital with only three pair to spare.  What's worse, if you happen to be really sick for two days in advance of heading to that hospital, you are sporting your last pair of clean undies in the ER!!!!

There has to better a better way. . .  Yes, I know I could buy more granny panties or do my laundry more often, but I have come up with a better solution:

Go commando!

That way all ten pair of undies can stay neatly folded in my drawer and be available for any emergency.  Like suppose that aliens invaded and I had to go hide in an underground bunker.  I would have a ten day supply of underwear.  Likewise, if an asteroid came crashing into earth and all water and electricity were disrupted, I'd be spanking clean for ten full days.   How about earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes?  We would be forced to take refuge in a shelter and everyone around me would be stinking by the second day.  But not me!  I'd be as fresh as a daisy.

Go commando.  It's brilliant.

Hair Did Our Love Go?

 For years I have cringed as I watched my daughters' hair fall out due to their various autoimmune and rheumatological conditions.  Oh, I know I complain about that "Hair Art" plastered to the shower.  If I recall correctly, even Seinfeld had a stand-up routine based on a stray hair making its way down a shower wall.  And if he could make fun of it, so can I.

But this time I'm not laughing.  This time the hair is mine.  It's mine, but it's no longer mine as I wrap it in a tissue and throw it away.  It's no longer mine as I pick it off of my clothing or sweep it off the bathroom floor.

Oh hair, why can't I glue you back in?  I'm sorry if I have taken you for granted in the past.  I'm sorry if I subject you to blow dryers, sprays, and straighteners; to pony tails, braids, and messy buns.  You weren't messy, mind you, the bun was. It was all my doing!  And I'm sorry for coloring you every four weeks, making you feel unloved in your natural state.

If I could only take back the times in the past when I have declared that it was a Bad Hair Day, I would. You were never bad, hair, it was the day that was bad.  It was always just a bad day.

And I'm especially apologetic for taking this god-awful medicine which has caused you to jump ship and abandon me.  I think it may be poison.  The warning on the package insert says that a woman has to be off of this medicine for SEVEN YEARS before she can attempt to become pregnant!  This medicine stays in your body for that long.  I guess that's one way to reduce the number of Sjogren's sufferers:  Don't allow them to reproduce.

 Oh hair did our love go?

 

 

Drip Dry and the "D" Word

I don't usually complain about my husband, Drip Dry, here on the public airwaves.

Nor do I make it a habit to discuss my digestive distress.

But in this post I'm going to do them both together.   And - for the ease of my readers - let me just tell you that when I refer to the "D" word, I am defining that disgusting word which I absolutely detest - diarrhea. . .or the word I most decidedly prefer - dysentery.

So it all started last week when I began having some vague abdominal discomfort along with a low-grade fever.  By Saturday morning I had determined that the pain was so debilitating that I decided to drag myself to the ER.  Now, mind you, I begged Drip Dry to drop me off at the door so I could en-dure the or-deal alone, but he refused to be deterred.

Now, I can't determine if Drip Dry has developed an innate defense mechanism to deflect his own discomfort in hospital settings, but he definitely turns into a decidedly different person when he goes through those revolving doors.  He enters them a relatively-sane and intelligent creature, and exits on the other side - not exactly dumb or defective - but we'll just call it a tad bit. . .  deranged.  You see, Drip Dry is decidedly inquisitive by nature, but somehow his whole "inquiring minds want to know" thing goes spiraling out of control and instead of dealing with the medical data at hand- he morphs into some kind of detective and attempts to discover everything - and anything - he can about his surroundings.

So as I'm signing in at the desk - in decided discomfort - the receptionist takes a palm scan of my hand and explains it's a new way of i-dentifying patients.  Now this little discovery made Drip Dry almost delirious with joy and he began to try and discern everything he could about this new display of technology. . . all while I am standing next to him in debilitating pain and dying to drop myself into the wheelchair next to me.  But - alas - the two receptionists are so enthralled by Drip Dry's disruptions and diversions that they forget all about me and then proceed to deride me when I incorrectly assumed that the process of placing myself in the chair had devolved on to me.

Eventually, despite the distractions, I am somehow delivered into the inner sanctums of the ER and Drip Dry meets my designated nurse for the first time, where his detective skills are further put to work - bombarding her with a deluge of questions and demanding to know all about her life. . . in other words distracting her from her tasks with his discussion. . . at which point I try to divert his attention by suggesting he take a walk and make his discoveries elsewhere.  And when he came back from his exploratory trip (and I swear to God he used this word) he asked her about the demographics of ER patients at that time of day - which he had decidedly determined were. . . well. .  .old.  I then reminded Drip Dry that the pediatric ER was directly on the other side of the building and suggested that he go check out the demographic data over there, but he definitively declined.

Enter the doctor.

So the M."D" proceeds to ask me to describe my symptoms in detail, and - after I am done - he does his due diligence by asking me if there's "anything else" I've been experiencing . . .  like, perhaps, the "D" word????  Now actually I had been battling with the "D" word for about two weeks, but I was raised to believe that a lady doesn't discuss those kinds of things unless directly asked. . . so, hence, I demurely divulged that - yes - I had been experiencing the "D" word.

And at this precise moment Drip Dry proceeds to enter the discussion and defiantly declares, "But that's not unusual for her."

Excuse my momentary diversion here, but did you know that back in the dark ages a British king would have a dignitary designated as "Groom of the Stool"?   Now this particular job was a decidedly distinguished  position because he got to deliver the king's daily dump to the royal doctor each morning. . . after which the doctor would dissect said stool - trying to decipher and detect  signs of royal disease, dysentery, decay, or other debilitating defects in the king's deposit which might indicate the king's untimely demise.  If he found none, he then duly decreed the king fit to do his duty for another day.

Now, what the devil possessed Drip Dry to deduce that he had been deputized as my own personal "Groom of the Stool", is beyond me.  And perhaps I was a tad bit delirious with discomfort at that point - but I'm still wondering why I didn't debunk his statement then and there. . .  for, in truth, the duration of the "D" word was - without a doubt - decidedly unusual for me.  But - whatever the determining factors - his statement had the effect of dissembling, detracting, and derailing the discussion - while disguising what may have definitely been an i-dentifying symptom and perhaps depriving me of a direct diagnosis.


All to my detriment!
  
So to make a long story short. . . after Drip Dry decodes the meaning of the "crash cart"  in the CT room. . . and discovers that he, himself, has a swollen and distended thumb that may need the doctor's attention. . . I then needed to direct old Drippy to desist trying to operate the blood pressure cuff himself. . . which was quickly followed by a heated debate about whether the little thingy they place on your dorsal digit (otherwise know as a finger) displays your oxygenation rate or your pulse ( I was right - it determines and displays both) the doctors decide to send me home with a un-dignified diagnosis of the detection of gallstones.

And told me to wait it out.

Which I did. 

Diligently, I might add.

Until I dragged myself unaccompanied to my own doctor on Monday who - due to the discomfort and duration of the "D" word - diagnosed diverticulitis and placed me on antibiotics and a special diet which is destined to solve my digestive dilemma!

With no thanks to Drip Dry . . .

who I just may now designate as my deranged, yet dedicated, 

"Duke of the Derriere "

Selling Grandma's Stuff

 I never was one to pass judgement on the neighbors.

Until today.

When the folks across the street gave their recently-departed good reason to roll over in her grave.

Now tell me. .  . two months ago, as her loving family kept vigil in the living room and Grandma lay there oh-so-slowly passing into the life hereafter. . .  do you think that she envisioned a day when a sign on her lawn would read:  HOSPITAL BED.  LIKE NEW! $600

And do you think they timed her usage of said bed?  Do you think they studied their watches and said. . . Well, if she passes in the next half-hour it will be less than 24 hours of wear-and-tear.  I dare say this bed will be like. . .well like. . . BRANDY NEW!!!  (And don't you think they weren't second-guessing their overly-optimistic decision to purchase, rather than rent, the bed in the first place?)

Let's face it. . . wouldn't Grandma have shuddered at the thought all of her life's treasures out on the front lawn for others to snatch up?  Her chotchkies displayed for vultures to paw through?  Her clothing now a bargain for those nature had endowed large enough to wear?

Could she ever - even with the prescience which sometimes arrives at death's door - imagine her loved ones selling her wheelchair out from under her?  Her walker with tennis balls still attached?  Her "big-girl" geriatric port-a-potty when she was barely cold in her grave???

Now here's a little tip for you, neighbors . . . You may be trying to hide it from your customers, but the unfortunate life-event which prompted your HUGE SALE!  is painfully apparent to even the most casual observer (like moi!)

Yes, it is abundantly clear that one rather-large woman with an Imelda Marcos-sized appetite for purple pumps and a peculiar proclivity for purchasing polyester pantsuits suffered a physical decline in that house. . . that she deteriorated through the various cane-walker-and-wheelchair stages and was forced to suffer the ultimate indignity of having the bathroom brought to her until - at last - she peacefully passed away in that bed that is now suddenly LIKE NEW!

Now can I ask you.  . .  Just who you think is going to dance on her grave by purchasing a pair of those gaudy pumps??? 

Oh tacky, tacky neighbors!

Have you no respect for your dearly departed?

And wouldn't a sign which read, ESTATE SALE! be a little more palatable?  Or perhaps:  BUYER BEWARE!?!?

May Grandma rest in peace,

despite the bad taste of her loved ones. . .

The Language of Giggles

So in my own clumsical way, something about my last post reminded me of one of my greatest loves in life.

Words.

Yes, A Mom on Spin is unabashedly in love with the English language.  Yeah, sure, English may not be officially listed as one of the snobby Romance Languages, but it tops the list of Giggle ones.  There are countless words in the dictionary that make me smile.  Words like . . .

betwixt

and

akimbo. . .

Oh, and I absolutely adore the word askance. (Truth be told, I've recently discovered that I love any word with an "a" placed in front of it. .  .words like. . . akin. . . aggrieved. . .and aforementioned. Add an "a" to any word and "A" Mom on Spin will be adamantly "b"smirched with it!)


Curmudgeon.  I ask you, is there another language that would have such an appropriate-sounding noun for such a bad-tempered person?   Add to it the fact that you can put the adjective cantankerous in front, and even a cantankerous curmudgeon would be begrudgingly beguiled about the sound it made.

Cahoots!  I, personally, would be debilitatingly delirious if I were decisively in cahoots with someone. (And while we're hovering over the letter "d" for the moment, I also feel the need to tell you that I feel what might be an unnatural attraction to the word debunk.)


If  you're a regular reader of this blog you must know by now that I have been both enthralled and enamored with the words feckin' and fiddler's fart ever since I watched Angela's Ashes for a second time.  Enough said.

Kindred. Only kindred souls would be in cahoots with each other.


And how about some of those big time words like loquacious?  Obfuscate?  Ubiquitous?


Ginormous.  There.  I have used the word ginormous in a sentence.

Did you know that Mr. Webster only officially approved of the word ginormous in 2007?   (Before its entry in the dictionary we were forced to use the equally-giggly humongous in its place.) And this beauty of a word was only able to take up residence in the dictionary after it won Webster's on-line poll of Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary).

And then, like my own clumsical word that set this whole post aflight, there are the whimsically-mish-mashed  words that I absotutely adore in what can only be described as a Suessish kind of way. Words that vocabularians - like moi -  have simply made up because they make us smile. These words, like ginormous, may still be officially classified as neologisms, but they still top the list of my Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary).   Words like. . . .  

Fa-cocked. . . Fer-clooked . . . Fash-muncked. . .

and let's not forget

. . . beautious . . . confuzzeled. .  .schlumped. . . piffulous. .  .schmiglet. . . flusterpated. . .slickery. . .and . . . schlopp. . .

So romance-schmance. . . .here's to the Language of Giggles!




Do you have a neologism to share?  Have at it. . . .

Could It Be 2Facebooked?

So the last time we talked about my foray into the world of Facebook, I wasn't quite sure I liked it.  I hadn't yet navigated around the whole Fb world and didn't feel comfortable enough in its space.

Truth be told, it hadn't done anything for me.

Not so anymore.

Facebook is my new BFF.

And, at the risk of further alienating Trigger, I'll tell you why.   (It's okay if I alienate Trigger right now because this weekend was parents' weekend at Ponzi's college and Drip Dry and I went and bonded with her and so she's now like my second BFF and so I even have one to spare and won't be needing Trigger for a while. . . )

That disclaimer noted,  I was simply glancing at Facebook last week and noticed a post that read, Trigger Spin has changed her status.  And, like any good gossip worth her salt, my new BFF displayed my daughter's updated status which read:  Bye, Bye Art History!  Now, I - being the whirlybird parent that I am - happened to know that my darling Trigger was taking an Art History class.  I also happened to know that I did not get any phone calls, emails, or texts discussing the possibility of dropping a class in mid-stream.

And this would be the appropriate time to introduce you to another added benefit of this whole social networking scene - Facebook Messages.  For where else could a college sophomore - and the woman who risked her life giving birth to her - toss around barbs, insults, hysteria, and accusations while her profile picture remained stoically smiling at her adoring public and her arm firmly planted around her sorority sister?

I'm not sure, but I think they ought to call it Two-Face-Booked. . . 

Here Lies Liz. At Least Her House Was Clean.

So I have arrived back home from my weekend in Massachusetts safe and sound.

And let me tell you that I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't. . .

For all weekend long, aside from the whole fear of death through the flailing of limbs and splattering of organs, lurked the obsessive - but very real - thought that my house wasn't clean enough when I left it. Doesn't everybody just dread having the misfortune to die when their house is not in order. . . and then, horror of horrors, what would the next-of-kin think?

Suppose for a minute both Drip Dry and I were to die in a tragic multi-car pile-up the likes of which have never before been seen on the East Coast.  In that instance family and friends of unknown origin would be entering my house, rifling through the remnants of my earthly life, holding garage sales, trying on my jewelry, and claiming this very netbook as their own.  Do I want them encountering dust bunnies in the process?  No!  I want them to walk into my house and proclaim, This woman must have had her s**ff together, for I have never seen such a clean house in all my life!  For let us not forget, my friends, that the very same next of kin are the ones who would logically be called upon to write the obituary and deliver the eulogy at my funeral.

But for some reason Drip Dry just doesn't get it.

No, my husband subscribes to the theory that leaving the house for the weekend is a simple two-step process.  1) You pack.  2) You leave.

How could anyone in their right mind live by the two-step process?  What about the myriad of steps in between?

Why would you skip the step where you clean the dribbled toothpaste remnants out of every bathroom sink lest your grieving family mistakenly think it was an experiment and your obit would read, before their untimely demise the deceased and her husband had plans to enter the candy-manufacturing business?

What about  the step where you clean out the refrigerator before a one-night journey?  Would you want it known in your eulogy that you had been harboring a jar of capers longer than you have owned your youngest daughter? 

And the clothes hangers?  Why would a sane person leave hangers on the bed in the wake of packing?  Do you want an insurance investigator thinking you somehow lacked the physical prowess to hang hangers back up after placing an item in your suitcase?  What does that say for your driving skills?

And how about the bill paying?  Do you want the as-yet-unnamed executor of your estate knowing what you paid Macy's for the dress you wore to the fatal wedding? The very same dress, in all likelihood, they would decide to bury you in?  Do you want all the guests at the wake to know that the to-die-for-dress in that coffin was on sale for a mere $79???

What about the clean-up-of-every-last-bit-of-dog-hair-lest-the-next-of-kin-find-out-that-the-deceased-loved-ones-owned-a-dog?  Does that step mean nothing anymore? (Oh sure, I'm fully aware of the fact that 99% of the time we leave the dog home under the watchful eye of our niece next-door, and that the dog runs around generating more furballs with each passing minute, but suppose the tragic accident were to happen within a half-hour of leaving the house.  What then, smartypants?)

So I guess it all comes down to this:  Who wants to look down on the remains of their earthly life from within their new heavenly home and see all their good work spoiled by a few dust bunnies?

I don't.

And I'm close to being positive that they don't even allow dust bunnies in heaven anyway. .  .

Of course I'm the one who once smugly left her beach house thinking to herself. .  .There!  If a burglar breaks in and ransacks the house, at least he'll note that it was perfect when he started. .  .

Is that Poop on the Floor or Are You Happy to See Me?

 

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Ms.) President of PetSmart PetsHotel,

I know you may be surprised to hear from me again so soon again after our last correspondence, but I could not let another day pass without apologizing for the scene my favorite doggie daughter made in your store yesterday. I would have called you on the Bone Booth to offer my apologies in person had I not been so ashamed.

Now before I go any further, Mr. President, I have a question for you:  Do you actually take your hotel guests outside to. .  .well, you know to. . . do their "business" while their owners are away?  Especially the "Big Business" part???

And, assuming the answer to the first questions is Yes, I also have another question for you:  Why is it such a long walk from your hotel lobby to the great outdoors?

The reason I'm asking is that a most unusual thing happened as I was retrieving Kasey after my big weekend in Cleveland for my nephew's wedding.  Instead of being all tail-wagging happy to see me, she seemed to be fixated on sniffing the floor of the hotel.  And before I knew it, a turd of unknown origins had appeared on the lobby floor.

Oh my stars!  I declared, Is there another dog around here?

No, only your dog . . .  the pet concierege politely replied as she went to grab my sister's dog, who I was also bringing home.

And suddenly there was another.  

Turd, that was, not dog.

And that was the moment my little dim-witted brain kicked into high gear. . .

Safe toilet syndrome.  

Now Kasey has been known to suffer from the ravages of safe toilet syndrome at times when we take her with us to the shore, but never did I dream that her vacation constipation would rear its ugly head so close to home.  And the Pawgress Report the concierge gave when I checked her out stated that - along with being a Party Animal - she had Taken Care of Business while she was a guest in your establishment.

But it soon became painfully clear, Mr. President, that my little doggie daughter had not taken care of nearly enough business while she was on vacation.

Because once I left the lobby of your hotel I found myself pulled forward like a musher through the Alaskan tundra while juggling two newly-sprung dogs and their belongings on a race out of the ginormous PetSmart store.  And my unique perspective from the behinds-area allowed me to see, Mr. President, that she and I were about to lose the race for the door.  

And we did. 

I am ashamed to say that this musher lost  the I-Did-a-Poop.

Yes there, in the center aisle of your PetSmart store, my dog took care of an additional  full quarter's worth of business on the spot.

At which point  I found myself faced with a terrible dilemna.

I had seen a display of doggie bags upon leaving the PetsHotel (indeed, that was how the concierge had taken care of the previous two - at this point we'll just call them - mole hills of doggie poo) but how was I to leave a mountain of dog poo sitting unprotected in the center aisle of a superstore on a busy Monday morning to go and retrieve a clean-up bag, with two dogs and a suitcase full of their toys, food, and belongings no less?  But since it was painfully clear that the mountain was not going to move to the bag, I needed to quickly devise a plan to bring the bag to the mountain.   

Should I flag down the nearest customer and ask her to watch my poo while I dash to the bag display?   Do I enlist the help of the employee cleaning out the gerbil cages and tell him I have a more-urgent task for him?  Do I cup my hands, make a pretend megaphone and call out, Clean up in aisle four! and make a run for it????

Now A Mom on Spin has been accused by her daughters of not being many things, Mr. President, but no one has ever said that I am not resourceful. . . 

And so it was that I left the suitcase of belongings on the floor of the store right in front of the poo to mark its place. .  . kind of like a Caution, wet floor sign. .  .and ran quickly to get a bag - tripping over the paw of my sister's poo-ly behaved dog in the process (and don't you think I felt bad about that, knowing all-too-well what it's like to have piggies who wished they had stayed home. . . ) and returned to the scene of the crime just in time to clean up the evidence.

Only to discover that Kasey's hind-quarterly output had been more than one mere bag could comfortably contain.

Holy Crap!

At which point I - along with two newly-sprung dogs, a poo-stained suitcase full of toys, food, and belongings, and a five-pound bag of doggie poo - quickly mushed out of the store . . . leaving only the faint smeary traces of evidence that we had ever been there.

And when we got home, Mr. President?

Well, after the dog had relieved herself two additional times. .  . I happened to read the following under the Happy Homecoming section on the back cover of Kasey's aforementioned Pawgress Report:

After you leave the PetSmart PetHotel and before getting into your car, allow your dog the opportunity to relieve himself.  Even if he just went in the PetSmart PetsHotel before you picked him up, the excitement of seeing his Pet Parent will probably prompt him to go again.

and again. .  .

and again. .  .

But I ask you, Mr. President. . . isn't it nice to be loved?

A Rose by Any Other Name. . .

Being that Drip Dry and I have been on vacation alone now for like two whole days, we've had a long-awaited opportunity to converse with one another in the way that married couples should, but rarely do. . . ' cause, despite what your husband tells you . . . Could you hand me another roll of toilet paper?. . . really doesn't really count as meaningful conversation.

So yesterday after we discussed religion, politics, and found the answer to world peace. . . the conversation eventually rolled around to my blog.  And that, my friends, was when he dropped the bombshell on me.

 Drip Dry doesn't like his bloggy name.

In fact, he thinks the "Drip" part has negative connotations.  (?!?!???)

Now I tried to explain my very logical reasoning to him . . . all about how his name was just an "opposites" thing . . . .and how it is not a commentary on his personality. . . and how my description of him reads. . . In contrast to my Spin Cycle, my husband doesn't sweat the small stuff.  In fact, you might say he prefers the Drip Dry method. . . (I know. . . funny, isn't it???)

But for some inexplicable reason, Old Drippy didn't buy it   What's more, he boldly declared that if I'm truly in search of a contrasting name for him, he wants to be called Hang Dry from now on.

That's right, Hang Dry.

And although I told him that any laundress worth her shirt knows that you only Hang something out to dry after you have put it through the Spin cycle, but Drip Drying avoids spinning completely, he still stood firm.

And when I told him that Hang Dry would be like. . . The most BORING name ever!. . . he still preferred the "Hang" to the "Drip".  (Why must this man put me through the wringer like this????)


I even offered up some playful monikers I had used in the past, like. . . Trigger Finger Guy. . . and Chief-Who-Dries-by-Dripping. . .  but he was not besmirched with either of them.

And then - in a moment of utter frustration - I pulled out the big guns and reminded him that he wouldn't want my gazillions of readers to constantly be thinking about how he was "Hung" . . . but he didn't respond to that.  (Truth be told, he couldn't respond to that 'cause I just thought of that little rejoinder now, but it's hilarious - is it not???)

And so it was that A Mom on Spin and The-Husband-Formerly-Known-as-Drip-Dry decided to forgo the conversing part of their vacation and stick to the more important things. .  . like blogging. . . and drinking. . .and eating. . .and napping. . . 

Dear Mr. President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.

Dear Mr. (or perhaps Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.,

Despite the fact that there was no acknowledgement to my previous correspondence last January,  I find that I am once-again at your mercy. . .  begging you to take some action on my behalf.  And, yes, the reason for my correspondence does have to do with the stickiness of your product. . . but not in the manner of which you and I spoke last year. (Well, I spoke.  You never saw fit to reply. )

This time I would like to simply ask the following question:


If your boobs are so sticky, why - then - do they not stick around?

Wait.  Let me state that more succinctly. Why do your sticky boobs not stick around where they belong?

For, Mr. (or perhaps, Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc., it appears that whenever your sticky boobs are needed by one of my three daughters, they are no where to be found.  Sadly, it seems,  those little rascals are often carelessly left at a friend's house after a big sleepover. . . buried deep in the recesses of the dog's crate (Don't blame her. She's a retriever!) . . . or - as is most-often the case - smushed in the closet or suitcase of another daughter.  And guess who it is who ends up having to shell out yet-more money on her daughters' boobs, Mr. President?

That's right.  Me.

Case in point. . .

Just the other day I was forced to leave my sick bed in order to drive Ponzi to the corset shop so she could spend a whopping $48 of my money on a set of your push-up-enhanced sticky boobs. (Yes, I know Ponzi has her license, but the Spin Family has been short a car ever since Veggie's accident - may Percy rest in peace - and all of my daughters refuse to drive my 1999 minivan, but I guess that's a story for another day . . .)  When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the countless other boobs I had purchased for Ponzi in the past, I was informed that Trigger took all of the good sticky boobs back to college with her, Mom!  And, although Trigger may have left some bad boobs behind in the wake of her departure, no decent mother worth her salt would entrust her teenage daughter's decency at a rock concert in the heart of New York City to a pair of bad (or shall I say sticky-challenged?) boobs!

So I ask you. . .  .  Should it be my fault if Trigger has sticky fingers in the sticky boob department?

I think not.

In fact, I think it's your fault Mr. (or perhaps Ms - but a woman would definitely have know better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.!  Yes, it's your fault for not having some sort of elaborate locking mechanism. . . or security-encrypted packaging. . . or, better yet. . .  . voice-activated adhesive . . . attached to your boobs.  That way they could actually stick around and be available to the rightful boob-owner when she needed them.

Could you work on that for me?

Tell you what. . .  I won't even charge you for the intellectual properties associated with the voice-activated idea if you would just market the product.   Having the correct boobs at my daughters' disposal when they need them would be payment enough.

Signed, one of your best customers (albeit, reluctantly)

Oh. . .  and I still think you would make a killing in the sticky thong (ouch!) department. . . .

Official Minutes of the Spin Family Meeting

Those Present:  A Mom on Spin, Mr. Drip Dry, Ponzi, Veggie, and - as the spirit moved her - Trigger.

The meeting opened with a prayer.

Correction:  The meeting with with a swear.  The meeting opened with a swear word from the mouth of none-other than A Mom on Spin who - before moving on to further business - voiced displeasure at the fact that, upon returning home from a long day of work, she was once-again kept from parking in her proper parking place by a thoughtless teenager who left Roberta parked directly in front of her garage and did not answer the phone as she called frantically from the street.  She also voiced displeasure at the fact that, upon entering the house with armloads of groceries, she found the kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes and the dishwasher filled with sparkling clean ones - despite the very visible sign on the kitchen counter which screamed, Empty Dishwasher!

Veggie, Trigger, and Ponzi all looked at each other and agreed they thought the sign was for someone else.

 A Mom on Spin then moved on to the subject of Ponzi's 18th Birthday which was, in fact, the very next day.  She reported that she had managed to take the day off from work and had just purchased the all-important breakfast of Lucky Charms before finding the aforementioned kitchen a disaster area.


Ponzi then reported that she intended to take a spin class at the gym early in the morning and so she would not be partaking of the traditional birthday breakfast after all, but that her mother was invited to join her at the gym if she wished.


A Mom on Spin then taught Ponzi the meaning of the phrase, When Pigs Fly!

The conversation then quickly moved to upcoming family plans.

A Mom on Spin informed all those present that her offer to host the "Cousins' Christmas" party on New Year's Day had - to her surprise - been accepted by no fewer than 31 of her closest family members and that she intended to enter full panic mode shortly.  She then made a motion to foist responsibility for the party back onto another unsuspecting family member with a larger house.

Drip Dry, Veggie, Ponzi, and Trigger all dissented, swearing that they would chip in to help with anything A Mom on Spin needed.

A Mom on Spin then reminded them that this party was set for New Year's Day. . . you know. . . like the day immediately following New Year's Eve. . . and, since the party was called for noon and the Spin parents were also hosting a dinner party for New Year's Eve, their services would be required no later than 10:00 a.m. in the morning.

Veggie, Trigger, and Ponzi then very quickly recanted their previous offers of help stating things like. . . Oh, I'm spending the night in the city, I can't be home by then!. . . or . . . I'm going to be staying overnight at Kimmy's house, I can't possibly be up that early!. . . and even. . . Well I'm not sure what I'm doing for New Year's Eve, but I know I would never be home!!!! while Drip Dry alone stood firm and stubbornly continued to insist on hosting the party.

A Mom on Spin then accused Drip Dry of digging in his heels just to drive her crazy.

Drip Dry adamantly insisted that he would take care of all party preparations and clean up.

A Mom on Spin then reminded the family of the time she handed Drip Dry the toilet bowl brush and asked him to clean the toilets an hour before company was due to arrive - only to discover that he had dismantled the toilet seat and was soaking the nuts and bolts as the first guests walked through the door.

Drip Dry then asked for forgiveness for liking a clean house.

His motion was not seconded and the meeting was quickly adjourned.

Respectfully submitted

on this 29th day of December in the year 2009. . . .

How to Cook a Celebratory Dinner Like A Mom on Spin

So, after only one week in "The States", Veggie has landed a full-time-part-time-temporarily-permanent position with a pharmaceutical company . . . the news of which sent your favorite Mom on Spin rushing to the market after work to carefully choose organic-farm-raised-no-animals-were-killed-in-the-making-of-this (unless you count the free-range chicken) ingredients for a celebratory family dinner.

And if you - like so many others - have been aching to cook like A Mom on Spin, I suggest you follow these simple steps so that you, too, can serve her famous Family Stir-Fry.

1. Run to the grocery store like a chicken with her head cut off  (but all indications are we'll get to that part of the recipe later. . . )
2. Enter the house and head straight to the basement to pick up the official rice steamer in order to prepare specialty rice you have just paid a premium for.
3. Encounter Ponzi upon entering kitchen - who promptly declares she must leave the house in one-half hour and that she just couldn't wait for you to come home so she made herself a small salad, but if the rest of the dinner is ready on time, she'd love to eat that too!
4. "Bag" the idea of the specialty rice and reach into freezer for bagged brown rice.
5. Cut up organic peppers and onions and begin to saute in frying pan.
6. Look for can of water chestnuts you swore resided in your pantry.  Discover it's a can of tuna. Decide not to add to recipe (although - strictly speaking - it would qualify as vegetarian, now wouldn't it???)
7. Open fridge. Look for soy sauce.  Find only two drops left in bottle.   Scream like a banshee.   Hear Ponzi blame Trigger for using up the family's store of soy sauce.  Find remnants of other "sitr-fry" sauce in an unfamiliar-but-only-slightly-used bottle and decide that it will do.
8. Begin to heat up special Terriaki-flavored "Tofetti" bites in separate frying pan for vegetarian daughters.
9. Observe Veggie enter kitchen and hear her asking you to drive her to the train station so she can have a last overnight in New York before starting her big job. . . and, yes . . . she does have plans for dinner - but they're in "The City". . . you know. . . with her friend . . .  who's in from California. .  .
10. Put all frying pans on "low".  Yell up to Ponzi that she must finish her own cooking and depart immediately for train station.
11. Allow Veggie to take $40 from you to pay for train fare, because the only other valid U.S. currency in her wallet is a $100 bill and - as she discovered last weekend - the conductors on the train won't be able to change that!
12. Ignore her requests to stay in your warm, dry car until the train arrives because your house is most-likely burning down as you speak (for you're beginning to be haunted by the fact that you're not really sure you ever heard Ponzi acknowledge your request to come down to the kitchen. . . )
13. Swear to yourself that you will make an appointment with the Opthamologist tomorrow because you can't see a damned thing in the dark . . .and it's pouring rain on the way back home.
14. Return home to an empty house.  Assume that now no one but Drip Dry will be eating dinner with you.
15. Head to refrigerator and promptly pull out box of Pinot Grigio.
16. Pour wine into glass.  Consume first glass quickly.
17. Throw caution to the wind and feed tofu to dog. . . .for once not thinking how much THAT just cost you! 
18. Smile at the thought.
19. Cut up organic chicken (with head already cut off) and fry in already-used-but-no-longer-holding-tofu pan with stir-fry sauce.
20. Burn tip of tongue while trying to sample chicken prematurely.
21. Observe Ponzi return home, help herself to all of the brown rice and most of the veggies, and yell, Hey!  What happened to the tofu???? but then proceed to head downstairs to eat her vegetarian meal and watch t.v.  (She left you a message, you know.  Did you not get it????)
22. Hear the garage door open, announcing Drip Dry's return home.
23. Separate onions from peppers (for don't you know they upset his delicate digestive system?) and pretend they never existed.
24. Pour more wine out of box.
25. Resort to heating pre-cooked minute rice in microwave and douse with remaining stir-fry sauce.
26. Serve dinner to Drip Dry.
27. Disassemble box in order to milk last of wine out of box and then proceed to blog.
28. Somehow validate Drip Dry's "observations" that no one else in the family likes the theme-related dessert items you purchased by consuming the entire pint of green tea ice cream and the box of ginger cookies by yourself despite the fact that the ice cream would almost qualify as "medicinal" on your burnt tongue. . . would it not????

The Story of She-Who-Works-Hard-For-The-Wampum

Only. . . and I mean O-N-L-Y. . .  in A Mom on Spin's tee-pee could the following happen over the Thanksgiving weekend:

_____________________

After preparing (okay, serving . . .I may not have actually prepared all of it. . . ) the grand Thanksgiving feast, the overworked, overtired, and over-all over-spun mother of three daughters finds it necessary to report to work on the day after Thanksgiving in order to attend to a ill-timed funeral (for aren't the old folks supposed to die after the holidays, not before????) and to complete a project the likes of which will no-doubt be seen one day on To Catch a Predator.  And - since all three of her daughters are flat-broke at the present time - this mother offers to pay a salary to her college-aged daughter (a.k.a. She-Who-Is-Most-Broke) to come in and help her.

But - alas - when push comes to shove the next morning, She-Who-Is-Most-Broke cannot rouse herself out of bed on time (tell me.. . . are we still wondering why she's having a wee-bit of attendance trouble with her 8:00 a.m class????) and the wild war-cries of her mother. . . . offering the salary to anyone within earshot . . .are then broadcast loudly throughout the tee-pee.

And so it was that a younger, more-industrious-and-you-might-say-sometimes-scheming-daughter (who also happens to be without income. . . ) heard her mother's plea and, although she was dressed to go to a spin class at the local gym (I know, ironic. . . isn't it???) agrees to report to work with her mother.

It is now abundantly clear that She-Who-Is-Industrious has found favor in her mother's eye, and after a most-productive day, mother and daughter return home.

The mother and Chief-Who-Dries-By-Dripping then proceed to travel to a nearby tribal family's wigwam to drink the peace-wine and eat the newly-killed-pizza.

While She-Who-Is-Industrious quickly discovers that she - too - wants to go to a pow wow, but is in need of a quick infusion of wampum to fund her "activities".


But then - while in the midst of stealing the right regalia to wear for the night - She-Who-Is-Industrious-But-Sometimes-Duplicitous then spies a debit card on She-Who-Is-Most-Broke's bedroom floor.

And because it looks exactly like She-Who-Is-An-Unsuspecting-Mom-on-Spin's debit card, She-Who-Is-Now-Totally-Duplicitous takes it . . .rationalizing that if her sister had possession of Mom's card, then no one could possibly blame her for a  little withdrawal while in the sister's supposed possession. . . .and after-all. . . her mother is going to pay her for her day's work. . . and she'll just view this as a little advance. . .

And She-Who-Is-No-Longer-Industrious-but-Solely-Duplicitous withdraws a grand total of $10 from what she thinks is her mother's account.

But, alas, it turns out the card Ponzi (I mean . . .She-Who-Was-At-One-Time-Viewed-As-Industrious-and-In-Favor )  lifted belonged to She-Who-Was-Most-Broke who, coincidentally, chose the same PIN number her mother had always employed (because we'd be well-within our rights to also refer to her as She-Who-Is-Most-Lazy. . . stay with me here. . . this stuff is important!!!!!!) and who, earlier that day, had used that very same card in a local diner and knowingly depleted the last of the savings from her summer job  -  leaving a grand total of three (that's right. . .  T-H-R-E-E!!!)  dollars in her account to get her through to next summer.

And, before you know it, the unsympathetic, unfeeling, and uncompromising bank had the nerve to levy a whopping $34 in overdraft fees on the unknowing, unwitting, and unsuspecting She-Who-Is-Now-More-Broke-Than-Ever's account - leaving her $41 in the negative.

And . . . when all of the above was discovered earlier today by She-Who-Works-Hard-For-the-Wampum (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin. . .)  let's just say that She-Who-Was-At-One-Time-Viewed-As-Industrious will - from this day forward - be known as She-Who-Is-Now-Forever-In-The-Doghouse. . .

And as to She-Who-Is-Most-Veggie. . .  . if you think she survived this weekend unscathed, let me just tell you that her new name is She-Who-Travels-Long-Distances-To-March-In-Silly-Peace-Rally-Instead-Of-Hunting-For-Job.

How?  You say.

Now that's a tribal legend to be told another day. . .

Oh My God! The "Special" Made Me Do It. . .

So I was with my sister and a friend on Friday night and they were all excited about this new nail salon which offered a manicure and pedicure for only $20.

And, although I'm not really a mani/pedi kind of gal, there was a wedding (bite your tongue. . .  may my daughters never want one. .  .) to go to on Saturday and I got to thinking that I might just employ a little outside help to pretty myself up.  Now keep in mind, it was only the mani part of the mani/pedi I was interested in, but I've never been one to turn down a bargain . . . and why pay $12 for a mani when you can get the whole mani/pedi for just eight bucks more. . . and so, on the way back from buying my suck-it-all-in-unitard-body-shaper and black support hose at the mall, I did the unthinkable and drove unscripted into the parking lot of a new nail salon, riveted by the sign which read . . . 

Special!  

$20  

Mani/Pedi

And, although I may be accused at times of being an impulse shopper, I have never before been an impulse mani/pedi/ier.

And for good reason.

I forgot that I don't like people touching me.

But somehow the thought of the wedding (bite your tongue for even mentioning the word. . . may my daughters never want one. . . ) and the special price led me to dive into that pedi chair without prethinking the consequences.

And, hoping to get past the whole I hope she won't notice that my feet smell thing by quickly immersing them in the water, the nail attendant promptly pulled them out again and said, Oh My God!

What's wrong?  I queried.

And, although I may be accused at times of being an impulse shopper, I have never before been an impulse mani/pedi/ier.

And for good reason.

I forgot that I don't like people touching me.

But somehow the thought of the wedding (bite your tongue for even mentioning the word. . . may my daughters never want one. . . ) and the special price led me to dive into that pedi chair without prethinking the consequences.

And, hoping to get past the whole I hope she won't notice that my feet smell thing by quickly immersing them in the water, the nail attendant promptly pulled them out again and said, Oh My God!

What's wrong?  I queried.

Oh My God!  she re-uttered.  You need  Oh My God!

Oh My God?

There!  she said, pointing to the salon services menu and the item that read Oh My God! Callus Remover.

$35 for mani/pedi with Oh My God!

Are you sure?  I asked.

Positive! she answered.

And so for the next hour the poor nail attendant invoked the name of God as she and her saran wrap attempted to remove the calluses from the bottom of my feet.  And after both she and I had lost a good five pounds in doing so, she turned her attention to my legs.

And it hit me.

She was going to massage my legs.  I hadn't shaved those mother-f***ers in at least two weeks!

Not to mention my toes!  My biggest piggies hadn't seen the edge of a shaving blade since the last time they went to market. . .

Oh. My. God!

And so it was that the unsuspecting pedicurist and her hot stone spent the next ten minutes of her life caressing my prickly and stubbly calf muscles, and the following ten trying to apply nail polish while resisting the urge to braid my three errant toe hairs.

And by that time I was praying to a merciful God to grant me another curist for the mani part, but it seems that praying to God to remove your calluses does not give the supplicant much clout in choosing her next victim, for that same girl took one look at my misshapen and bitten-down fingernails and nearly cried.

But thankfully there wasn't a spa service entitled Go to Hell! and so the poor girl could only ask, Same color? 

Yes, same color.  I replied sheepishly.

And when the time came to pay for all this fun, I found that the $20 mani/pedi sign was, indeed, truthful advertising . . .  for although I paid $35 to the salon for its special services, I coughed up an additional $20 in the form of a tip to that mani/pedi/curist to keep her from laughing at me if God ever grants me the grace to walk back through those doors again.

Oh. . . and just another little tidbit of information. . .

All night long at the wedding (may I never have to pay for one. . . ) my feet were slipping right out of my shoes. And the unitard didn't reach down to my heels, my friends.   Nope. . . .without my trusty calluses, my shoes were suddenly too big.

What was I thinking?

Forbidden Love. . .

Oh how I long for you each lonely night!
Desire - seems so wrong, but feels so right.
Your first brief brush against my waiting lips,
will leave my heart and stomach doing flips.

And though I crave your presence endlessly,
my secret love, I can't let others see.
For others judge - and they don't understand,
just how your cold heart melts on my command.

You are no good for me, my daughters cry.
But love in pure form cannot be denied!
They warn me you will crawl under my skin,
and one day I sport a double chin.

But nights when Drip Dry travels far from home,
I find myself weak, stranded, and alone.
And soon I find I simply can't ignore
the heaven waiting on my freezer door.

Wisconsin's finest! Caught up in your lair -
your tangy goodness wafts upon the air.
Enveloped elbows, dripping with cheese sauce.
I consummate our love - the battle lost.

And afterward? I deftly hide the truth -
for Drip Dry would have made a wonder-sleuth.
The proof of our affair cannot be found -
with bowl and spoon licked by the family hound.

And hours after my illicit binge,
I start to feel an old familiar twinge.
My burdened stomach, like a lover spurned,
begins to twist, burn, tumble, toss, and churn.

Oh gluttony! Oh excess food imbibed!
I take antacids just as they're prescribed!
A tummy ache? Just one small price to pay. . .
For I have sampled Heaven for a day!

Don't worry . . . Drip Dry's back tomorrow.

Seatbelts on Wheelchairs and Words that I've Written

Dear Dad,

Welcome home.

I can honestly say that the neighborhood has not been the same without you for these past three weeks.

For there has been no 85-year-old sun worshiper perched on his front lawn. . . no noisy early riser rifling through the recycling bin next-door. . . . and no well-read copies of Business Week carefully maneuvered into our overstuffed mailbox.

Oh yeah - and even though Mom told everyone she was doing fine without you, I think she was scared to admit that she missed you too.

We've all known that you've had early stage Alzheimer's now for quite a few years, but I guess we've been crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. I - for one - could not imagine that anything could get the better of your giant-sized intellect. The disease may bring down others - I thought - but clearly it had never encountered an individual with your brain power.

And yet somehow these past few years have ushered in more than a few unwelcome and unforeseen changes. And you - my father - have faced each one of these challenges with untold grace and dignity.

For suddenly the man who taught his seven children how to drive, could no longer sit behind the steering wheel himself.

The permanent deacon who - at each Sunday dinner - asked us to discuss the homily, could no longer preach . . . or baptize. . . or assist in liturgies.

The father who used to pay his children a quarter to search for his missing glasses had grown poor in spirit - losing his wallet. . . keys. . . Yankees cap. . . and beloved Magnificat on a daily basis.

The Wall Street banker who misplaced his ATM card one-too-many times, could no longer carry it with him.

And - perhaps the most unsettling of all - a few short weeks ago, the first mortal born with an inboard GPS system, misdirected me while riding shotgun.

And now we have this.

The aftermath of The Fall.

And we silently watched as the forward thinking consumer who demanded seat belts be installed in our 1966 Chrysler station wagon, was alarmed and belted into his wheelchair at the rehab center. . . and the fitness enthusiast who used to rise at 5:00 a.m. to do his calisthenics and run laps (quite literally) around our dining room table each morning, came home with a walker.

Tough. . . all of it.

So excuse us if we hover.

Pardon us if we don't give you the independence which you so rightly deserve.

And be patient with us if we choose cheery conversational topics instead of asking you how you really feel about this new normal in your life.

For we know that one thing remains unchanged - your capacity to see the best in all of us.

Love always,

Oh. . . and one more thing. . . if you know what's good for you. . . . never - and I mean NEVER- call Mom Nursie again. . . for she doesn't always share your sense of humor about such things. . .

Wine in a box (or "cask" if you prefer)

Dear "Fisheye" Pinot Grigio in a Box,


As you have probably guessed, I've been spending way too much money on wine these days. So when I saw your little cute self in the A & P earlier this week, I just had to grab you and bring you home with me.

Only problem?


When I went to open your box (okay, "cask" if you will) I couldn't find the opening directions anywhere. And when I went to read the instructions on the side of your box, I was dismayed to see, Watch out! This wine jumps out of your glass!

But, seeing that I was more interested in how the wine was going to get into my glass than out of it, I soldiered on to read. . . Toss the corkscrew and relax (Relax??? when this damn box is open I'll relax!) Our patented wine cask system allows you to enjoy fresh wine anytime by preventing oxidation that occurs in half-empty wine bottles. Once opened, FishEye tastes fresh up to six weeks. . .

Half-empty wine bottles?

Six weeks????

Let's be serious here, Fisheye . . . do your owners know who their consumers are? If someone could leave an open container of wine hanging around for six long weeks, I'd wager to think they might be able to afford to spring for a whole bottle! Aren't wine boxes like you meant for people like me? The "uber" wine consumer? The ones who have to build their alcohol consumption into their weekly budget????

And so, because no one ever said, I couldn't put a straw in you and drain you like a juice box. . . I did!





And once your "cask" was empty, where do you think I found the "Easy Opening Instructions"????

You guessed it! On the bottom of the box!

Well, I guess that gives a brand new meaning to the old saying, Bottom's Up!

And you wonder why I call myself. . .

p.s. I forgot to tell you that you tasted good!

Those aren't those little tanning goggles, they're sticky boobs!

As long as we're concentrating on lingerie this week, here's another post to get you all riled up . . .



Dear Mr. (or perhaps Mrs.) Owner of Nu Bra, Inc;

Just last week I spent another $64 on two pairs of your company's sticky boobs. That's right, you heard me correctly! $64 for just four boobs!!!

Now I am not a sticky boob virgin. I have been a reluctant purchaser of countless "sets" of your boobs before, and it kills me that your stickiness has some sort of "shelf" life . . . a finite number of applications. . . a limited relationship with my daughters' mammary glands (so-to-speak.)

Do you realize that your stinginess with your stickiness can severely affect the budget of a mother of three teenage girls and disrupt the idyllic peacefulness of her family's home?

You see, I don't think it's fair that I am responsible for buying new boobs over and over again for each one of my daughters - and so they are left with no choice but to swipe each other's boobs when their own "set" has become obsolete.

Now I ask you. . . Could you not sell some sort of supplemental adhesive to go with your boobs???? And if you don't have a factory-approved adhesive, do you think I can try some Elmer's or Rubber Cement??? (Come to think of it. . . Superglue may be just the trick here, because then my daughters would no longer be able steal each others' boobs - seeing that they'd be all-but-surgically attached to the rightful owner!)

I realize that - because I am writing this correspondence to you in the dead of winter - you're probably thinking. . . Why would you care about a thing like sticky boobs (okay, you call them adhesive breast forms) in January???? Aren't her daughters all covered up in the winter months????

No, Mr. (or perhaps, Mrs.) President of Nu Bra, Inc. . . . I'm ashamed to admit to you that there isn't a temperature cold enough to keep my daughters decent on a weekend night!!!

And so I am applying to your sense of fairness here. . . .

Do you want to continue to be the source of many-a-family's discontent? Do you want your precious adhesive breast forms to become mis-shapen and torn from countless family squabbles and cat fights? Or do you want Peace on Earth, and good will toward Women???

I thought so!!!

With all good wishes on your new endeavor

in the sticky thong department (Ouch!) I remain . . .

Oh! And another thing. . . when you do develop that extra adhesive, can you make sure it's saliva-proof??? For some inexplicable reason our dog loves to carry your boobs around in her mouth!