CARVIN' PUMPKINS LIKE THE JACK-O PROS

Ok, so maybe that's a bit of an over-statement. I know the real pumpkin carvers do a much better job, but I can tell you they don't have any more fun than we did tonight!

We met Katherine and Steve (Mark's sister and her husband) at Mark's mom's house tonight and had some fun with the second annual Newland pumpkin-carving extravaganza. Photographing them proved a bit tricky, but I think they turned out pretty good for people who do it once a year.

From left to right, these are:

• Katherine's "ghost in the window"
  
• Mark's "Elmo"
  
• Steve's "googly-eyed jack-o'lantern"
  
• My "Halloween cat on a broom" (shut up, Mikey G!)
  

Diane baked apple dumplings and Katherine made caramel apples, and after we enjoyed the Fall treats, we got down to the serious business of gutting pumpkins. We even roasted the pumpkin seeds! Does that sound like some good, wholesome Autumn fun or what?

I thought Katherine had quite an advantage over the rest of us, considering she uses a scalpel everyday-- but I think she would tell you it's easier in the ER than it is with a $4 plastic carving tool from Walmart! And Steve's super-creative, being a Marketing Veep for Wrigley... he made quick work of his piece, and so did Mark-- and those two were working with the largest pumpkins.

Beatrice (who is a year and a half old) loves-loves-loves Elmo... they practically keep the Elmo DVD looped all day, because as soon as it goes off she wants it on again. She chants "Elmo" all throughout her waking hours, and Katherine says she even rolls over in the middle of the night and says "Elmo" in her sleep! So Uncle Mark knew exactly what he wanted to make for his special girl. You should've seen her face when he lit the candle and she realized what it was... her eyes got wide, she looked around at everyone, pointed to it and exclaimed, "Elmo!" She then walked up to it, touched it with the tip of her finger, quickly drew her hand back and said again, "Elmo!!!" It was worth every goopy minute of scooping pumpkin guts, just to get that reaction!

We had initially planned a "carve-off" of sorts, to see whose Jack-O skills would prove them tonight's winner, but once we got a load of Uncle Mark's Elmo, all bets were off. There's no competing with that!

If you want to check out how the pros really do it, check out the Pumpkin Gutter's website. This guy is incredible! Sounds dorky, but he makes me want to buy a dozen pumpkins and a Dremel. Be sure to read his FAQ page, because he's got the most fantastically snarky comebacks to some totally ridiculous questions!

I'm leaving town for a few days, so in case I don't get back here between now and the 31st, Happy Halloween, everyone!

"YOU" IS REALLY AN "I"

It’s been seven years since you confirmed the affair, said "I saw my attorney today" and found yourself starting all over as a single girl... and it's been six years since you started dating the guy you thought you’d have some fun with for a little while, and you realize that somewhere in the mix he became your best friend so that it's hard to imagine you without him…

It’s been fifteen years since you took that fresh-out-of-college job because you just needed someplace to start, and now you've picked out a minor kitchen appliance from a catalog to commemorate the anniversary of the "starter job"…

It’s been nine months since you started your last diet, and in that time you’ve lost 27 lbs and gained back 24— and as you ponder how it is that you look heavier now than you did before, you try not to worry because you know you’ll start again on Monday… You start again every Monday...

You have one year, nine months and twenty-two days to go until you turn forty, but who’s counting?

You feel like you’re finally in control of your life, but it doesn’t feel quite as gratifying as you imagined it would, nor as exciting as it did when you flew by the seat of your pants…

You hope that things will take a turn, but instead of accelerating toward the turn, you pull the covers up under your chin, roll over and hope that when you awake in the morning, you’re just magically there-- wherever it is that you’re supposed to be; you don’t know the place, but you’ll probably recognize it when you get there…

You wonder what it would be like to have to get up early on a Saturday morning to get the kids to soccer practice, but deep down you’re glad you get to sleep in…

You feel a bit faulty, because you secretly think that, as a 38-year woman, you’re supposed to have {and want} a husband and children and grown-up responsibilities, and you wonder how the lack of those things in your life shapes others’ perceptions of you…

You think about your grandparents-- and even your parents-- and you know that they won’t always be around, so it makes you feel guilty for not spending more time or staying in closer contact with them now, today, while you have the chance, and you know you will look at this as a lost opportunity one of these days…

You wonder how you got to be middle-aged, when you still feel like you’re 26 in your head and then you whisper a little thank you for Botox, because few things in life suck as much as forehead wrinkles…

You wish you had the verve you once had, and that you used that energy for great adventure, spontaneity, a consistent workout regimen, self-improvement and self-actualization instead of squandering the meager amount you do have on ebaying, trash tv and endless hours of worrying about your weight and whether others are judging you for the size you are…

You plan to be spontaneous, so you’ll put it on your to-do list... for next week, maybe, or the week after that... but it will probably wind up like most other things on your to-do list...

You despise the procrastinating you’re so prone to, and you wonder why you don’t just get off your ever-expanding duff and make the changes you need to make, instead of blogging your fingers to the bone about it…

The holidays are coming up and you recall that the average person gains eight pounds between Thanksgiving and New Years… You wonder if you might possibly have the willpower to join a gym now and actually go while everyone else is eating dressing and gravy and pumpkin pie…

You wish you could remember the dreams you had for yourself {and who you would be} when you were young, that way the path might be a little clearer… because you can’t really remember who you’re supposed to be, you just know that it’s not exactly who you are— well, maybe it’s kinda who you are, but only a partially-realized version of it…

You tell yourself it’s ok not to have it all figured out, because maybe no one does even though some people appear to... but you know that you’ll only quasi-believe it’s ok for a little while and tomorrow you’ll have to remind yourself again…

You realize you’ve been in a weird funk all day and that most of these ramblings are little more than Tampax-induced anxieties about life and love and living, and they will {gratefully} be gone next week… but they'll creep back in the same time next month, unless you can get the cobwebs out of your head and find some clarity between now and then...

You read back over all the words you just typed and realize that every single “you” is really an “I”… but that’s ok. You’re the only you there is.

TRICK-OR-TREATING: THE POLITICALLY-CORRECT WAY

So I’ve been all kinds of fired-up over the political situation the past couple of weeks, pretty much ever since “Joe the Plumber” blew the lid off “Barry the Lib’s” plan for destroying the American Dream.

This “spreading the wealth around is good for everybody” talk really sticks in my craw. I have to say, I don’t think letting the government decide how to spread around my hard-earned dollars is good for me at all. It might be good for under-employed deadbeats, those who don’t work at all, or those who don’t feel the need to pay taxes like the rest of us— but I work hard for my living, and I’d like to keep it just that: “my living”, not mine plus someone else’s. And I don’t want a slice of anyone else’s pie, either. Frankly, I’m proud of my modest little house (which, by the way, was based on my actual monthly budget and not whatever maximum loan amount I could’ve been approved for). And I take pride in the fact that, as a single female, I’m able to do it on my own. I feel very fortunate to have had parents who were willing to make personal sacrifices and fund my education so I could accomplish these things without handouts from them or from the government. But most of all, I feel so blessed to live in a country where these opportunities and freedoms are possible for everyone.

And when I take a step back and try to reconcile all that's going on with the American economy versus my personal convictions, it pretty much boils down to this: I’m still really chapped over the $700 billion in bail-out bucks that We, the People just forked over to the Treasury Secretary to stem a hemorrhage that was caused by little more than sheer self-serving avarice. Does anyone else feel that way, like We, the People just took it up the Fannie Mae? Where’s the personal accountability, on the part of individuals as well as our great nation's leaders and the government officials who were put in office by We, the People? And aren't the media supposed to suppress their own personal bias long enough to hold the politicians accountable on behalf of We, the People? And why aren’t We, the People from the all the big, square states in the middle of this great country more pissed off? It's up to We, the People to first be accountable and prudent ourselves, and in turn to expect it from those who represent us.

So I’ve got all of these feelings about the economy swirling around in my head… and I’m trying to balance it out with happy thoughts— I mean, Halloween is coming up, and that’s always fun, right? And these two opposing forces keep butting up against each other in my head, and suddenly I had a brainstorm…

Let’s consider it a little pre-election day experiment. Why don't we take Barry O’s “spread the wealth around” concept and give it a kind of a test-drive? You know, in a real-life practical situation that we’re all familiar with, just a few days ahead of going to the polls. Let’s do our trick-or-treating in a politically-correct fashion this year!

See, the kiddos will get all dressed up in their costumes, wait for it to get dark outside, approach all the houses with porch lights on, exclaim “Trick or treat!”, hold out their buckets and collect their goodies. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Then, at the end of the night— instead of returning home and dumping their hard-earned till onto the kitchen table to examine it with delight and then dig in— let’s have the government collect all the trick-or-treaters’ goodies and determine how they should best be split up. Mind you, some of the recipients won’t have taken the time to don a costume nor ring a single doorbell… but it’s good to spread things around, remember? Barry O said so. So whether you participated or not, you’ll get what Barry O and his ghoulish peeps deem your fair share.

Oh, yeah… and did I mention that you’ll get hit in the wallet for it all next April? That's the trick that goes with the treat.

Now, I don’t know about you kids, but I want to keep my candy in my own bucket, thank you.

And by the way, you better keep your mits off the Sour Patch Kids candy and the Cry Baby gum— I’m calling dibs on those! I'm afraid I may have a taste for them after January 20.

OK, NOW, I'M REALLY SCARED!

So, there are some folks in my neighborhood who really went all out with their Halloween decorations this year... You can't really tell it from the photo I snapped out the window of the Hoopty-Wagon on my way home from work tonight, but these people are loaded for bear: grave markers all over the yard... a skeleton hanging from a branch of the Bradford Pear... a giant inflatable spider that glows... ghosts, ghouls and some creepy skull thing arched over the entry-way. And then they took it a step further this weekend, and added the big, blue sign in the forefront.

Some people obviously prefer tricks over treats this Halloween.

THE AMAZING LACTATING CAT-CUSHION

With three cats in the house, there's quite a shortage of cat beds... and frankly, these days they don't like each other well enough to bed down together, anyway. They're still feeling snarky about the arrival of Smidge. So the Princess Bed, which was formerly Spencer's domain, had become a pretty hot territory-- a sort of status symbol. Whichever one seized control of it, at any given time, had obtained the primo spot; the other two just had to "suck it up" and find someplace else to crash. And the big girls would find themselves sucking it up a lot, because Smidge has assumed the Alpha role around here. Cats sleep like 18 hours a day, anyway... and when they're 12 years old, weigh about 17 lbs, and are in a state of depressed denial because of an obnoxious little brother they never wanted, they really put out some serious zzz's. So when you walk through my house, you get the full Crazy Cat Lady effect: cat bodies splayed out everywhere, on every stick of furniture in the house, it seems.

Mark was at Wal-Mart the other night and saw this little cushion he thought the kitty-friends would like. It's not even made for cats, specifically... it's just fluffy and furry and feels really soft (like those chenille scarves that were popular a couple years back). In fact, it kinda feels... well, like a cat. And though they avoided it for the first two or three days, its "foreign object" status finally faded and they've really taken to it. Now, they jockey for position on both the Princess Bed and the new cushion. But The Smidge has developed a particularly "unusual attachment" to it.

I guess you'd say it's become a surrogate mother. And considering how he got rudely snatched from his mama at about six weeks of age, I can see where he might be missing something. The cushion fills a void.

Get a load of Exhibit A... and be sure to turn up your speakers.

Now, let me point out that this clip hasn't been enhanced at all. Not one bit. Those clicking sounds you hear... those are Smidge sucking the beloved pillow. And notice the kneading: A heckuva bread-maker is this little guy. He started doing this on Sunday, and has done it every day since. I couldn't believe my eyes-- or ears-- at first. But after a few minutes, once he's satisfied, he stretches right out and drifts off to Lunesta-land. He loves this thing!

Who knew Wal-Mart sold a pillow with invisible cat nipples?

LATE NIGHT INFOMERCIALS: THE INSOMNIAC'S BFF

Since I'm wired for sound and fully awake well past 1 AM most nights, I see more than my fair share of infomercials. I know them all: Vince the ShamWow pitch man... 120-year old Jack LaLanne and his amazing juicer... Ron "Set It And Forget It" Popeil... Leza Gibbons with her Sheer Cover mineral make-up... Cindy Crawford and Meaningful Beauty with that special enzyme from those ridiculous french cantaloupes... the [fill in the blank] "they" don't want you to know about until whistle-blower Kevin Trudeau saves you from it with his latest book... myriad celebs hawking ProActive Solution... the greasy colon-cleanse guy that looks like John Waters and talks about how long our poop should be... and of course the uber-obnoxious Billy Mayes with ten thousand things he'll be glad to tell you about in his high-pitched carney voice. Yes, these are my late-night companions. We have a clandestine rendezvous most evenings after the rest of the world is fast asleep.

So, you see, it was only a matter of time until Kathy Mitchell used her grandmotherly wiles to charm me into buying the GT Xpress 101.

Now, before I tell you about this little gizmo, a disclaimer: Any medical doctor will tell you that the sleep-deprived suffer from severely impaired judgment. So technically, I'm probably not liable for my actions... But anyway, the GT Xpress arrived a couple days ago (along with the advertised spatula, shaker bottle and book of 101 recipes). And I have to admit I was a little disappointed at first. It smelled kinda funny, and it was really cheap-looking, lightweight and very tiny. For some reason, I thought it would be a big strapping unitasker, to use Alton Brown's word. But nevertheless, I was excited to try it out. And try it out I did.

In seven minutes, I had worked culinary magic: asparagus beef roll-ups. Now, they aren't much to look at... but they were actually pretty darn tasty. And anytime I can get a low-carb meal in under ten minutes, there's a shimmer of hope that I might actually use my kitchen for more than pouring myself a diet coke or a bowl of cereal. In fact, there might be hope for me to get back on track with the dieting. I started (and ended) the MediFast plan last week... it was over in a hot second, so I didn't have time to even blog about it. But suffice it to say, I have a kazillion boxes of MediFast "meals" that will probably end up on Ebay before the weekend is over. And I should probably list my leftover NutriSystem food, too-- which brings me full circle and essentially to the point I'm trying to make here: I buy the useless crap I see on TV.

I'm highly susceptible to gimmicks in the wee hours of the morning. But so far, the GT Xpress 101 is ok in my book. It may go the way of the barely used Jack LaLanne juicer that's sitting on my pantry shelf... or it may end up like Billy Mayes' Samurai Shark in my drawer or his Hercules Hooks in my utility room cabinet... or perhaps it will be as lonely as my collection of The Firm hand weights and DVDs. But so far, I think I have a new favorite, by way of introduction from my late night cronies.

Well, my computer says it's 1:39 AM and you know what that means. Vince, Cindy, Jack, Kevin, Leza and the gang are all waiting for me. And I'm sure I probably need some sublingual B-12 tablets or a Pet-icure device or a Tony Little Gazelle... I just don't know it yet. Better grab my debit card and get to bed now.

MORE SHOEPHORIA WITH STEVE...

Alrighty, so my good friend Mikey G is always uncannily perceptive in pointing out my blogging trends. And he's right. Not only did I get mired down in Smidgey tales all summer, but I also have a definite foot theme goin' on here. Heck, my first post was New Shoes: Sex In a Box. There's no denying it... I'm guilty. And to adapt a line from one of my favorite Paul McCartney songs, some people wanna fill the world with silly foot blogs. What's wrong with that? I need to know... 'cause here I go... again. ha! But seriously, I just have to share the latest in the Stevi Shoe Slut Saga. Apparently, when I posted about his recent e-mails, I conjured him up.

So Brittnee and I were sitting in a meeting room this afternoon, having just wrapped up a conference call, when my PDA ding'd... and what little gem was waiting in my e-mail? Another message from Steve. And nine (count them...1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9) attached photos! I had surmised in my last blog that, by not selling him the Via Spigas, I had cut myself out of some fantastic future photos... but nope! Today, I hit the mother lode!

The subject line read, "Miss Stevi in Miss Lisa's Patent Sandals‏" and this message followed: "How do you like my sexy strappy black patent high heel sandals I got from Miss Lisa, sweetheart? Oh yes, Stevi sure knows sexy heels for sure..... got a bad case of "blue balls", guys???? Miss Stevi is a shoe and foot tease!!! Kisses!!!!!!!!!"

And the photos? Well, they're priceless, of course. Here's a little sample:

Do you love it?? This last shot delivers like Domino's... it's like he's giving himself a thumbs-up (but I guess it would technically be a "toe-up"). I'll second that, Steve! Funny!! I mean, Dude is wearing jorts! JORTS! And stockings. With. His. Heels. Frankly, you gotta sympathize with someone who has to cope with unpainted toes (well, and hairy legs) with strappy sandals... those are two bigtime sexy-killers that have to smart just a little. But you know, I think he feels pretty, anyway! Downright shoephoric, in fact! :-)

ADVENTURES IN CYBER-SALES

Hello again, friends... it's been a while. I've missed all of you and I'm glad to be back a-bloggin'. I want everyone to know that I haven't been totally absent from the virtual world... nay, only from Blogger. I've been engaged in other online pursuits. Get your head out of the gutter... not those kinds of online pursuits. Sheesh.

Yes, Mannonj has been alive and well on Ebay lately. Or as I like to call it now, The Freak Store.

Still focused on the "get out of debt" resolution from New Years, I decided that putting some of my unused stuff up for auction would kill two birds with one stone: Clean out the closets and make a little cash. Make that three birds-- I'm also trying to rebound my feedback score, since that you-know-what, Diva, screwed me over a few months ago. But the part I didn't bargain for was that I would essentially be "moonlighting" on Ebay... I listed about 40 items and it darn-near turned into a part-time job! Now, that's mainly my own doing because I can't just write a simple description of an auction item... kinda like I can't write a short blog-entry. It's the advertiser-slash-literary-wannabe in me.

The other part I didn't bargain for was the freak clientele I would attract. Now, I've sold online before, but on a very limited basis and only to quasi-normal folks. Remember, I'm the redneck who sold a Z-28 on there last year (I still think that selling a Camaro on Ebay is the ultimate punchline to a Foxworthy joke!) But this time, I got a real taste of "the online community". And admittedly, I'm a magnet for all the weirdness in the universe, as you know-- but this is proof that it doesn't have to be in the literal, physical world. No. Apparently, I have the power to attract crazies in the virtual world as well. Good thing I never hit e-Harmony or Match.com... I probably wouldn't be alive to type these words.

Ok, so let me start by telling you about the items I had listed. Most were throwbacks from my going-out days... you know, 5" BCBG heels and metallic Bebe bags. The kind of semi-trashy stuff I no longer wear, now that I'm officially "middle-aged" and behaving accordingly. I didn't realize this kind of item would draw... how do I put this?... a certain kind of "inquisitive buyer". You know, the kind of buyer who doesn't mind sending messages and making some very specific requests.

Now, I could start by telling you about the gal who wondered if I'd model a very standard stiletto-heel/pointed-toe boot with skirts, because she's challenged in the area of putting outfits together. Or I could tell tales of my new uber-polite "bon ami" in France who bought two pair of rhinestone Steve Maddens for his wife and always signed his messages "see you soon". (Am I going to France? Oui? If so, please tell me now, Stephane, so I can be looking forward to it!) Or perhaps I could mention the endless array of inquiries like "I love this purse... does it really look that good in person or is it just photogenic?" But I'm far too anxious to tell you all about Steve.

The first message I got from Steve was to ask if I'd be willing to accept a "well-concealed cash payment or money order" for a pair of red patent Via Spiga heels. Seemed a little odd, but I didn't think much of it. I mean, my listings all say "Paypal required" but you can't blame a guy for trying. Steve went on to explain that he's a cross-dresser, and though he normally wears a men's size 10, he's been known to fit into a women's 9, and he especially "luvs" patent heels. In fact, he called my Via Spigas "yummy" and requested more photos. And even though I wasn't willing to accept alternate forms of payment, I was glad to send more photos. I mean, just because he has a patent shoe fettish doesn't mean he's not a serious buyer. Right? And I can kinda respect, in some sense, that there's no artiface here. Steve is who he is, and he's found a place online to just be up-front about it. So despite Steve's e-mail signature of "Stevi Patent Pump Sissy", I thought "Who am I to judge?" and sent him additional pics. (Note to self: this attitude might be contributing to my little "magnetism" issue...)

But upon receiving my photos, Stevi wrote back to chastise me: "Julie, why did you bother to take the time to send me these pics if you will not allow me to pay you with a money order or cash payment on these yummy shoes, hun? I'd luv to smell these and wear em but you said you only will take that dumb Paypal, right?? -Stevi Shoe Slut"

Wait. Did Stevi just change his name from Sissy to Slut? Moreover, did he just tell me he wants to smell my shoes??? I was speechless. But it gets better.

The very next e-mail in my inbox was another one from Steve. This time, the subject line read, "Like my pumps, Julie?" and it had three photos attached. Now, I gotta tell you... I was afraid to crack those babies open. I had visions of a tucked-in Buffalo Bill type (like from The Silence of the Lambs) but wearing nothing but patent pumps, of course. So I forwarded it on and asked Mark to open it and let me know if it was anything freaky or inappropriate. He took the brave step of opening the photos and promptly messaged back, "It's harmless... but his choice of props is a little odd." I had no idea what that meant, but I was intrigued. So I opened the attachments, and here's what I saw:

Pumpkins and pumps! Funny!! I know, right? And don't you love the extra flair in photo #3?

The e-mail with the pictures simply said, "Hi , Julie. How do I look in my favorite black patent ankle strap pumps? I sure love wearing pantyhose and patent pumps. -Stevi Shoe Slut"

I was feeling pretty timid about getting all-too-chummy with an alleged "shoe slut", so I thought better of e-mailing him back with a complimentary reply. "Nice pumpkins!" did come to mind, but I left it alone.

But Stevi was not one to leave it alone. Nope. He couldn't walk away, no matter how much he "luved" the patent pumps he was walkin' in. Six days later, I opened up my Hotmail and found another e-mail from that familiar address. This time, the subject read "My New Favorites" and again, more photos followed:

This time, the message was sent to several other people (other Ebay acquaintances? I'll never know...) and it said: "Wowy I sure am excited about finding these shoes on Ebay and buying them outright with the buy-it-now option. These are so sexy and feminine, luv the very dainty thin straps. I've always been turned on by T-strap pumps and finally I'am gonna own a sexy pair that I can wear. These are 10 1/2's so they will fit my sexy size 10 feet purr-fectly. I just may decide to go out into public in this yummmmy pair, surely the guys will love the looks of these heels on my sexy hosed feet! And the pretty girlies will all envy Miss Stevi and her sexy new heels! Won't be mailing my payment till Friday the 26th, so won't have the shoes for a couple weeks yet, but sure am anxious to get em......... -Mistress Stevi Patent"

Another new moniker. This guy changes his name as often as he changes his shoes! Maybe whether he's feeling "sissy" or "slutty" depends on the shoes... I mean, who could argue with that?

Either way, Dude is cracking my stuff up! Once again, I didn't have the gumption to e-mail him back, but I have to admit that I wouldn't be sad if he sent more pics. I wonder if he's still dreaming about my red patent Via Spigas... unfortunately for him, another compliant bidder picked them up. And I wonder, if Steve had won them, who all he would've sent photos to. Did I miss out on the photo of the year here? Probably. I'm thinking these shoes would've brought "sexy back", to the point Stevi would be rockin' them on his Christmas card this year...

And ya'll, that's one holiday greeting I'd give all my Ebay earnings to see!

Fa-La-La-La-La... La-La-Ti-Da!!

NEITHER RAIN, NOR SLEET, NOR GLOOM OF NIGHT...

We all know the United States Postal Service credo: "Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds". It's a good credo, a noble mission. And I think the good folks in uniform live up to it. They deliver in the heat, the ice and driving storms of every kind, and many do it on foot. It's impressive and very respectable. But wanna know what will potentially keep your mail from landing in the box in timely fashion?

Tight pants, big thighs and chafing around the... uh... well, the... inseam.

So a Washington state postal professional by the name of Dean Peterson has been petitioning that he and fellow carriers be allowed to complete their routes sans-pants. Not totally, however. He wants to wear a kilt. And it isn't so he can proudly represent his Scottish heritage, mind you. He's a 6' tall, 250-lb man of Norwegian/Finnish ancestry-- presumably with huge thighs and a sweating crotch. He just happens to have developed a love for kilts, ever since his wife brought him one back as a souvenir from a trip to Scotland. He explains that it's all about comfort in the nether regions. Thank God the wife didn't choose Hawaii as a vacation spot-- otherwise, he might be crusading to make rounds in a grass skirt.

As part of his campaign, Mr. Peterson waged a huge effort by mail (nice touch!), sending out over 1,000 letters to persuade the National Letter Carriers Association that "male unbifurcated garments" are better-suited for the male anatomy. (I feel a little tawdry using the word unbifurcated, by the way... it just sounds dirty, doesn't it? Like Chris Hanson might step out from behind a curtain or the local authorities might confiscate my computer as evidence in my L&L trial!)

Anyway, Mr. Peterson (far right) implored his peers to "open your hearts-- and inseams". The poor guy got shot down... but undaunted, he says he will take it to the next postal convention in Anaheim in 2010. I hope he does! Another supporter of the uniform addition (far left) asserts that kilts look professional and would promote esprit de corps, adding that "whenever you see someone in a kilt, they're always standing tall." I can only assume he means that in the literal sense... there's a big difference in standing tall and standing at attention! Especially in a pleated skirt!

I don't know why this story struck me so funny... But the fellow said he's now wearing his kilts to his son's football games and even while doing yard work. Oh, yeah, that's why it struck me so funny. If I ever saw a dude mowing a yard in a skirt, I'd have to pull my car over for fear of hitting another mailbox. Hmmm... Now, wouldn't that be ironic?

TRENDS IN BLOGGING

To the two or three people who actually read my blog: I apologize.

My good pal, Mikey G, pointed out that my posts of late have been a little inclined in one direction... the feline direction. He was actually grateful for the ShamWow bit and relieved that I'd finally broke up the monotony; he was in the process of staging an intervention, and I can't really say that I blame him.

Mike was also the first to point out the foot-themed trend that had ensnared me on both this blog and another one a few months ago. It's a good friend who cares enough to point out when you're veering from the right. So I thank the faithful who tune in and hold me accountable for decent subject-matter. I'm going to do better from now on... Well, until my kitten does something totally adorable... like nibbling at my freshly pedicured toes...

MY LAST CAT-THEMED POST

I'm swearing them off for a while, I promise. But I thought everyone should know, before I do, that kitty finally has a name.

Smidgey. As in a little smidgen of a cat. She's a small, midget-y spec of feline charm. It seems appropriate; it's the first name that really fits her to a tee. And it passes the "makin' copies" test... You remember the early-90's SNL character where Rob Schneider drove all of his co-workers crazy with his absurd litany of nicknames for anybody unfortunate enough to be using the copy machine? Smidgemeister... Smidgerini... The Smidgester... Smidge-o-rama... You get it. See, I need to be able to spin my pet's names into ridiculous variations, ad nauseum. But more importantly, Smidgey is a unisex name. Because I seem to be noticing that "she" has a couple of puffy little smidgies on her backside, just beneath her tail.

Yep. I think she has balls.

I'm not sure. I gave it a good grope and I still can't tell. And I asked Mark to check it out too, and well, he's just in denial. We both thought she was (and so wanted her to be) a girl. Frankly, I'm just not in to keeping a male cat in the house, because I'm scared to death of "spraying". Yuck. So the good news for Smidgey, if she has little-boy-naughty-bits, is that she will get to keep her claws. She will need them when she becomes an outdoor tom. She probably won't be keeping her naughty-bits... but at least she can let out her sexual frustrations by clawing things to bits.

I read that you can tell boy kittens from girl kittens, because little boys look like a colon ( : ) whereas little girls look like a semi-colon ( ; ). Punctuation for genitalia? Ya'll, that's just straight up confusing... ( ! ) I think the vet will just have to settle this, once and for all. And in the meantime, Smidgey's just free to be Smidgey... furry little backside-smidgies and all.

"THE GERMANS ALWAYS MAKE GOOD STUFF"

That's according to Vince, the quirky ShamWow pitch man. And this is just a wild guess, but I can assume the Germans had nothing to do with making the ShamWow commercial... it's torturous. Not completely unlike the death camps of Nazi Germany.

And yet, somehow, Vince is oddly captivating. Amusing. Almost likable. Vince is the Anti-Billy Mays. Billy may have Zorbeez, but he doesn't have Vince's charm.

I can practically quote the whole ad, and I bet you can, too. They run this spot in the ground, but I always look up and watch, transfixed, to see if any of the words have been re-edited. Plus, Vince is just so creepy and weird, I can't help but gawk. There's just so much going on in this rinky-dink little ad... it's kind of a "perfect storm" of advertising gone awry. I have many questions, and not one centers around whether the ShamWow really works...

• Why does Vince need the headset? Is it just for show, to subliminally communicate that this is a cutting-edge product, in spite of the cheap-o set and shoddy production-job? Or because mopping up liquids is just too action-packed for a regular clip-on mic? Or is it that the phone lines are blowing up and he's pulling double-duty, taking all those ShamWow orders?

• Is that fast-talking, snake oil-pitching, annoying Jersey accent legit? Or is Vince just playing the role of the streetwise huckster? Honestly, I can't tell if this is a character or the real Vince.

• "You followin' me, camera guy?" Ok, now, you're just harassing the help, Vince... What? You really think you're wiping up that spilled cola so fast that the camera couldn't possibly keep up?? Maybe you need a Sham-Cam mounted on your head, along with that headset.

• Olympic divers use ShamWow... Hmmm, do Olympic divers get wetter than other divers? We'd better get a boatload of ShamWows over to Beijing, stat.

• Did Vince forget to comb his hair before the shoot? Did he mess it up, putting on the headset? Is he frazzled in excitement over this product? Could that be a deliberately-coiffed faux-hawk? Nah... Vince probably just ran a quick ShamWow over his head when he got out of the shower, and it dried that way.

• Does the ShamWow work on cat-puke? My white carpet's starting to look a little rough now, with three pets in the house... and at $19.95, eight ShamWows (if I order within 20 minutes, or four if I wait 21 minutes) are a lot cheaper than calling 1-800-Steemer.

• Made in Germany. Really? Is that a selling point?? It's a cleaning rag-- not a Mercedes-Benz or a cuckoo clock.

• Vince has a googly-eye and therefore comes across like a shifty, shady street-grifter who, despite all attempts to go straight, still can't meet your gaze as he pulls back his trench coat to expose his specially-priced ShamWow stash... Shhh. So is the eye-squint because he feels guilty for shamelessly hawking the ScamWow? Or could it be that the ShamWow corporate benefits plan just doesn't cover vision care?

• Vince, do you really think people spend twenty bucks a month on paper towels? Uh, maybe if your last name is Duggar or Gosselin! We normal folk spend $3.88 for a two-pack of select-a-size Bounty.

• "Beware of ShamWow imitators"... what are they going to do to me? Drive me into a blogging frenzy?

Ya'll, Vince also has a MySpace profile, so he can evangelize about the wondrous powers of his little chamois and meet others who "buy, use and love" their ShamWows. I don't even want to contemplate the messes that result from loving your ShamWow. And not to leave any social-networking stone unturned, you can also find Vince on Facebook, YouTube and Flickr. I kid you not. He actually has 40 MySpace friends, and since I'm so intrigued, let's just make it 41... I sent him a Friend Request. I sure hope he accepts quickly... I mean, to use his line, "we can't do this all day".

I hope that one day Vince and the fringey-looking Progressive Insurance girl, Flo ("Wow... I say it louder!") hook up and have a litter of alien babies that carry on the family tradition and produce bizarre commercials for the next hundred years! Yesss!

Alrighty... climbing down from the soapbox now and taking care not to hurt myself on the way down. But if I do, just mop up the greasy spot with a ShamWow. Vince says it holds "twenty times its weight in liquid", so grab a handful and remember-- you won't even have to press. Just roll me up and wring me out into a Pyrex dish. I guarantee you'll be saying "Wow".

As a side note, in our next installment, we'll talk about Lee and Anne-Marie, the e-Harmony couple who are able to "balance each other out". Mark's nifty decoder ring interprets that to mean that the back of Lee's hand is matched to Anne-Marie's nose "along 29 dimensions of compatibility". Yes, Lee has a little anger-management problem... Why else would he need to be meeting his girlfriends online? Please ponder and be ready to discuss...

REDNECK CAT TAXI

"I know it looks like a Foxworthy joke... but this thing gets great mileage. I'm thinking of getting one of those 'My Other Car's a Bud' bumper stickers. What do you think? Yeah, you're probably right... too showy."

STUPID PET TRICKS

"This is my favorite new trick. I've spent hours perfecting it, and now I'm really good. Notice how I always "stick" the dismount and land firmly on my feet. It's quite a display of form, combined with artistic expression and technical prowess. The knocks to the head? Nah, they don't phase me... I don't mind suffering for my art. And, I don't mean to brag, but I actually have a pretty impressive repertoire of tricks for a cat my age.

See that tassel? It was once considered decor; now it's part of my extensive "personal cat toy" collection. Some might call me a spoiled brat-cat, but I deserve my shiny new life. If all those strays back at One Corporate Square could see me now. Poor schmucks.

I've started plotting my next conquest. Today, the tassel... tomorrow, the sofa. I believe in aiming high... and, uh, I kinda have this 'thing' for quality leather... " - Anonymous Feline

PS: Would someone help me out with a name? Please?? I'm having a bit of an identity crisis and am no longer content to refer to myself as "Anonymous Feline", already. I need a name befitting a star of my stature.

HURRICANE NO-NAME

The latest addition (still nameless) is thriving in her new surroundings... I wish I could say the same for the surroundings. Sheesh.

She's cut a swath of destruction through my entire house... there's not a leather chair or sofa without scratch marks from those little needle-like claws. The houseplants are showing signs of obvious distress. Nevermind the small fortune that's been spent on cat toys... her favorite pastime is climbing the corn plant and romping through the leaves when she gets to the top. A close second is jumping up to dig her claws into a tassel I have hanging from the doorknob on the pantry door. She hangs there for several minutes, swinging and kicking her back claws, then goes limp and gives the "look at me" glance which she tries to pass off as boredom. It's completely, albeit destructively, adorable. I've got to give this cat a name so she can stop showing out and start acting like a real cat: sleeping, purring, bathing... quietly and calmly. But for the name? I still don't know...

Today, I'm thinking "Category 5".

These photos were snapped just minutes after I displayed my awesome cat-snatching moves... and let me say, I was totally duped. We haven't had a moment like this since that first night. Hmmm, come to think of it, I always did fall pretty hard for the naughty ones...

IT'S THE FREAKIN' WEEKEND, BABY, I'M ABOUT TO HAVE ME SOME FUN

"Now, usually i don't do this, but uh... go ahead and break em' off wit' a lil preview of the remix..."

Only kidding. In fact, I can't believe I actually quoted that sleazeball R. Kelly, but I'm particularly excited about the weekend for some reason. I have absolutely nothing planned this weekend... so when I say "I'm about to have me some fun", it loosely translates to "I'm about to be a semi-comatose vegetable for the next 48 hours". Yessss.

I stayed at the office tonight until about 9, then made a quick jog to deliver some kitty comestibles to the funky bunch. I got to see the three siblings of my little Snicklefritz, and the big cats hoovered two cans of food. There was a full moon tonight, so everyone was pretty active. And now that my ministry to the fur-clad is complete, I'm in for the night. And the day. And another night. And another day. I'm all set for a hermit weekend! The 'fridge is stocked and I plan to hole up with a dozen back-to-back bad Lifetime movies and a box of Cheez-Its. I might even get a little crazy and run with scissors or place Ebay bids for things I don't even need.

I'm not sure whether anyone else gets off on these kinds of weekends... maybe it's just me, but I couldn't be happier. After a fast-forward work week, I guess you could say my "remix" is more of a "rewind".

Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce-Bounce.

AN UPDATE ON OL' WHATS-HER-NAME

So the new kitty has been with me for about a week and a half and let me say she has thrown a kink in the domestic harmony at my place. How a tiny speck of a creature can completely take over an entire house is beyond me... she's ruling the roost. The Snark Sisters, who are very much like Si and Am (you know, the two cats from Lady and the Tramp-- "We are Siamese, if you please...") have not fully accepted her into the fold, but we are making gradual strides. Well, let's be honest, Spencer is mad at the world and fervently hoping the past 10 days have just been a terrible dream-- kind of like on Dallas when Pam "woke up" and realized Bobby had never died... except it would technically be the opposite of that. Sydney, on the other hand, has given the kitten a little bit of leeway. I've actually caught them snuggling on two occasions and sharing a food bowl once. It's becoming a little less like Jon & Kate Plus 8 at my house... gratefully... no poop, less howling.

The only snag is the little thing still doesn't have a name.

I was hoping that as her sweet little personality revealed more of itself, a suitable moniker would become obvious. It hasn't. I would like to stick with another S name, but that just makes it more difficult. I've Google'd famous cats, literary cats, cats from movies, cartoon cats, celebrity cat names... none of them seem quite right. And Mark and I have had this long-standing joke about pretentious people and their pets' names, ever since we were hiking over at Pelsor and met a yuppie couple who were running the trail with their labs, Ben and Jerry. Don't get me wrong, I think it's cute; but that's what brought up the topic of wannabe's who give their pets ridiculous vanity tags like Dolce and Gabbana... Beemer... you get the idea. It kinda makes you want to gag. I don't want to be one of those people. (Aw, heck, how could I be, really? I drive a banged up old Accord and have been blogging my fingers off all year about trying to pay off my credit cards... I guess there's not much pretense in that! ha!)

Anyway, I've started a list of names, but am finding something I don't like about each one. And now I'm beginning to feel weird that this cat has no identity. She will definitely need one before her first vet appointment, otherwise Dr. Amy will have to put her in the computer as "Jane Doe" Mannon. I'm certainly open for suggestions... pretty please. Otherwise, this poor animal is going to be hung with the name Toonces. Geez, I hope she has a high tolerance for old school SNL schtick... and doesn't mind driving a crappy old Honda...

THE VAST VORTEX OF LOST VALUES

I don't mean to sound overly dramatic, but do you ever feel like the world around you is a whirling, spinning vortex that's trying to suck you into its violent, common sense-deprived maelstrom?

I don't normally feel the need to play "King of the Hill" when it comes to the moral high ground. There's room for everyone on the mound, and I'm generally pretty tolerant of each person occupying their own place (wherever that might be) without input or judgment from my end. But events at work and in the world seem to be conspiring to pull me down to base level.

It was just starting to dawn on me, this need to dig-in my toes and try to maintain a firm foothold where I'm comfortable... in fact, it wasn't yet a fully realized posture, but more of a vague "the world's gone crazy" thought in the back of my brain. Then a couple of nights ago, I'm leaving the office and the radio station in the car is announcing the #1 song of the nightly "top seven at 7" and it's that ridiculous "I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It" ditty. I learned later that the singer is Katy Perry, the middle daughter of two pastors (they must be so proud). So as I drive, I'm marveling to myself, "Did the good people of northwest Arkansas really take the time to call in and make sure this song about "the taste of her cherry Chapstick" claimed the #1 spot? And then it dawns on me that the people who call in and vote for songs are teenage girls...

Brittnee and I had just been talking about the glorification of Jamie-Lynn Spears' in the media and how this 17-year old girl has basically pimped her story, photos and privacy to OK Magazine for a cool million. She's quoted as saying she had a "perfect pregnancy and a perfect delivery" and that being a mother "is so much fun... I just want to hug her and kiss her, and I'm happy all the time." That's good to hear, Jamie-Lynn, and I sincerely wish all parents felt like you do, but the simple fact is you are barely old enough to drive and take care of yourself. And the Zoey 101 crowd who looked up to you will probably think that getting pregnant at 16 is a pretty cool thing, because they can get rewarded with millions and magazine covers-- that is, if they aren't too busy calling in for songs about how "it felt so wrong, it felt so right" to kiss a girl and like it.

Laura Ingraham often refers to "the pornification of America" and that phrase kept coming to mind. I think that's a very apt way of describing what's going on in the world and in the media. As a society, we've become very de-sensitized to sexual innuendo and people who use their celebrity to promote all kinds of sleaziness. The media has shaped the cultural fabric of our country, and in fact are ripping it to shreds. You can't turn on the tv without seeing a couple of trashy reality-tv bimbos coming to blows over some unworthy thug or "news" programs that revel in celebrity mishaps, rehab, deaths, incarcerations, divorces and feuds. And the more outrageous the celebrity behavior, the higher the ratings. And this decay is at our fingertips 24/7, rebroadcast in perpetuity on the web. It makes me shudder to think how many kids are being raised without any real parental involvement, their moral codes being shaped by the things they see and hear on television and the internet. And while we're on the subject, commercials have gotten out of hand, too... Several years ago, cigarette ads were banned and Joe Camel came under a lot of scrutiny for the character's magnetism to kids. I think that's for the best. But I'm foggy on why it is now ok for half-naked babes to sell everything from hamburgers to domain-registration sites, while a garage band sings "Viva Viagara" and Smilin' Bob impresses the neighbors with his giant pharmaceutically-enhanced schlong. When did we turn into a nation of 13-year old boys?

So anyway, I get home (with the tune to "I kissed a girl" still stuck in my head) and flip on a little news. The buzz of the day is all about Reverend Jesse Jackson's off-mic statements about Barack Obama and how he wants to "cut his nuts off". What? I can't believe the Reverend JJ said that. This story got a lot of coverage, and not once did I hear anyone even question that a religious leader, one who has committed the past 40 years to equality and political pursuits, would suggest that kind of physical harm, even metaphorically. I kept trying to imagine other political/religious figures (Mike Huckabee or Martin Luther King, Jr., for example) making such statements. I just couldn't. I tried to envision my own father, an evangelist for the past 33 years, making such a statement... it flies in the face of everything that a spiritual leader embodies. How can you lead other people when that's what's in your heart? I'm not saying that this makes Jackson a terrible person, but it's certainly not befitting a man of his supposed stature.

The next morning, I came into work and the entire office was talking about Matt Jones' arrest. I don't follow football or athletes, but the name is vaguely familiar and apparently Jones, the former U of A quarterback turned NFL pro, was quite respected as a christian and role model for youth in this area. So it shocked and disappointed a great many people to hear of his felony drug arrest. Which leads me to think about rehab... it's become so very fashionable, despite Amy Winehouse's "no-no-no" protests, and I have to think that, for celebrities and people who live their lives in the proverbial fast lane, the prospect of chilling out for a few weeks (without all the pressure, the paparazzi and the constant scrutiny of living under a magnifying glass) has to be pretty appealing. But amid all the speculation about rehab and what will happen with Matt Jones, one thing stands out: there's always something really sad about a fallen hero. Especially one who is caught white-handed with six grams of cocaine.

No one's perfect. But guess what? No one's expected to be. I spent a lot of hours pondering "what I'm supposed to be" last month, before my class reunion. And I realize now that it was such a waste of time. So I guess the whole point of this insanely long rant is that, yes, it sometimes feels like people have lost their grip on good ol' fashioned right and wrong... on integrity and values... and mostly on accountability. The world is an imperfect place. But what we have control of, and in fact all we have control of, is ourselves. And right now, I think my focus needs to be on keeping a tighter grip on the values that the cherry Chapstick-flavored, drug-addled vortex is trying to wrangle from me.

ALERT: CAT BURGLAR IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

And guess what? The cat burglar is me. I did it... I snatched myself a wild cat!

I was in Fayetteville Saturday night and had about 20 minutes to kill, so I decided to drop in on the feral kitty colony to see how my little friends were faring. And when I pulled up, I saw a new face... a sweet little siamese face that I'd swear was smiling at me as it playfully chased leaves blowing across the sidewalk.

I knew there were kittens on the premises... Mark and I had heard them once or twice, many weeks earlier, but we had never seen them so had decided that either they didn't make it or that the momma cat had moved them elsewhere. So I immediately fired off a couple of quick text messages to let Mark, who was nearby, know of my exciting find. He messaged right back, "BRT!"

So I crept out of the Hoopty and sat down on the sidewalk, near the kitten. It was playing alongside its mother and had laid down beside her, still playing and distracted by the rustling of the leaves. I sat there for several minutes, just cooing at them in my most wheedling of babytalk voices as I gradually inched closer. I couldn't believe they didn't run off immediately! In fact, they let me get really close until a gust of wind noisily blew a bunch of leaves into the air, sending the kitten scurrying under the step of the wooden deck. In an instant, I knew it was just the right time to make my move. I alit to the top of the deck, crawled on all fours to the edge and waited for lil' sweet-face to scamper back out. It did come out a couple of times, but darted back in before I could grab for it. So here I am, on my hands and knees... holding my breath... waiting... stalking... when Mark pulls up, just in time for the big "Gotcha!" moment. He got to witness, firsthand, the comedic pose of my swooping up the sweet little sprite. I don't know who was more stunned-- me, the kitten or Mark!

I'm sorry, ya'll... but I just have to brag a little here. This was a feat of athleticism unparalleled in my absurdly uncoordinated life. I was stealthy, silent and lightning-fast! Like Ted Nugent with french-manicured tips instead of a crossbow! No dogcatcher with a net ever did it any better... and no champion cat-wrapping vet could have exercised more precise technique. I'm pretty much the bomb-diggity of cat-nabbers.

Anyway, swiping a cat will pretty much wipe out your plans for the evening, so I headed right home with my confused little charge. I still had a can or two of Kitten Replacement Milk left over from the baby raccoon last July (it's pure coincidence, I don't know what prompts me to latch onto wayward baby animals this time of the year), so we settled in and got to know each other over a bottle or two for the next several hours.

Come to find out, sweetie-pie is a little girl with an extremely sweet disposition and boundless energy for running, playing and chasing strings. She is quite talkative, mewing constantly in her high-pitched squeak of a meow... has taken to the litter box quickly (thank goodness)... and will most likely tear up my leather furniture with her Gillette-like claws. She leaps, mid-air onto everything in sight, her claws splayed out so they can attach to whatever. My shins look like I've been in a fight with a liger. I'm totally freakin' smitten.

But the cutest thing of all is Mark... he's, like, couch-jumping, tomkat crazy over this beautiful, blue-eyed, 10-ounce furball. Seriously, he will probably be on Oprah next week, pumping his arms in Neil Diamond/Jazz Singer fashion and yelling, "I'm in love!" while jumping on my shredded leather couch and intermittently pounding his fists on the floor. Unlike the Tom Cruise shenanigans, though, this is really sweet and totally un-creepy. Mark's wanted me to get a kitten for a long time, but I've been reluctant-- just not wanting to live up to the Crazy Cat Lady standard (two is cool, three is unbalanced). But Mark keeps encouraging me, thinking it might reinvigorate the Snark Sisters,who are in dire need of reinvigorating.

So much for that theory.

Les Snarks are no longer speaking to me. The only thing it has reinvigorated so far is their ugly side. They are all hissy-catty-spitty-spatty. My pad is like Jon & Kate Plus 8: The Feline Version right now... lots of howling and chaos and poop. But it's ok...we'll get there in time. And until then, the baby needs a name. I'm thinking... Suri?

IT'S HARD TO BE HUMBLE

Yes, she knows she's pretty darn adorable.