Men Prefer Looks to Brains - Who Knew?

You're not going to believe this.

A recent scientific study has proven that (drum roll) men prefer hot women.

Apparently, those geeky folks in white coats at the National Academy of Sciences spent time and money to come to a conclusion that falls in the "Duh!" category.

This brilliant deduction was probably cited in the footnotes of the Rosetta Stone, and if you check out a few cave walls, there are likely several petroglyphs that deliver a similiar message.

So what's the next Big Scientific Revelation from this group? Discovery of fire changes everything?

I See London, I See France

Queen Victoria is probably having a party in her grave right about now.

Atlanta, Georgia is considering adding an amendment
to its indecency laws that would ban exposure of undergarmets in public. The point is to discourage kids dressing in hip hop style clothing, including baggy pants that sag low enough to show a hint of skivvies. Thong sightings would be a big no-no, too.

But then the proposed amendment takes it even further. No form of undies, including bra straps and sports bras, can be exposed at any time. Give me a break. Bra straps? Jogbras? There are swimsuits that reveal more than most jogbras.

And on a hot day, there's nothing more freeing (well, naked would actually be more freeing, but that's a whole other legal issue) than exercising in as little as possible, and for women that usually means a jogbra and a pair of shorts.

Plus, what's even worse, Atlanta lesbians would lose an entire summer wardrobe.

Me-ga-Dik: Truth Or Phallusy?

I don't mean to focus on the phallus, but I couldn't help but share this bit of spam I received today:

"Dames always giggled at me and even chaps did in the urban lavatory! Well, now I laugh at them, because I took Me-ga-Dik for 4 months and now my shaft is truly more than national."

So, how does one's shaft go national? He must have done really well in the regionals.

No Hos At This Hoedown

I watch a lot of baseball, and when you watch sports on television, you're subjected to ads for three things: trucks, beer, and erectile dysfunction remedies.

This commercial, showing five down home men a-pickin' and a-grinnin' as they sing about the joys of Viagra, made me wonder if it was produced by the people at Saturday Night Live.

Apparently - amid, er, stiff competition - the Little Blue Pill is trying its hand at a different approach to advertising - there are no women in the spot. Just a bunch of middle-aged guys in flannel shirts having a jam session.

And, weirdest of all, they're singing about how Viagra keeps them from straying. Now that I've got good wood on-demand, it's all just for you, baby.

Right. And the dog ate my homework.

The Frying Pan, the Sandwich and the Smoke Alarm

Relax all you Narnians; this isn't a sequel to "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." It's the Chronicles of Grilled Cheese Part 2. (For Part 1, see January 12, 2007 entry.)

After nearly burning down the neighborhood during my last attempt, this afternoon I successfully made myself a grilled cheese sandwich. And I didn't hear a peep from the smoke alarm.

Being a big geek, I looked up the recipe online (yeah, I know - only the lamest of the lame need a recipe for grilled cheese) and added one little touch. Canola oil spray, which made it taste kind of weird, but at least this time I was able to actually remove the sandwich from the pan.

Tomorrow paella!

The 3-Ounce Brain Rule

I didn't have time to buy decent snacks before going to the airport, so just prior to boarding my six-hour flight from Boston to San Diego, I stopped at a Wolfgang Puck sandwich kiosk located right outside the security checkpoint.

I knew that if I opted to fly without food, my in-flight choices would be a limp, tasteless and still-frozen sandwich for $5 and a snack box consisting of such healthy items as potato chips, a candy bar, cookies, and pork rinds for $3. So instead, I purchased a turkey sandwich on focaccia bread (which, despite its supposed lineage, wouldn't even pass as Wolfgang Puck's step-child) and a very overpriced bottle of water.

I'm well aware of the three-ounce liquids in a Ziplock bag rule. But I figured that because the sandwich stand is within spitting distance of the security checkpoint, and subject to airport and TSA scrutiny, my unopened bottle of water would be safe. And there were no signs indicating passengers must consume beverages purchased at this kiosk prior to going through security.

Silly, silly me. Once my carry-on bag reached the bowels of the X-ray machine, an alarm went off and one of the TSA agents screamed, "Bag check!" My potentially life-threatening water was whisked away to an undisclosed location, and I had to go find another kiosk inside the secure area in order to purchase a terror-free bottle.

You know what really terrifies me about air travel? I think the TSA shares one brain, and you never know which airport has it.

Wayward Word Nerds Unite!

Last week while I was vacationing on Cape Cod, I heard that one of my favorite shows on public radio had been canceled. "A Way With Words" produced at KPBS in San Diego, had aired in several cities across the U.S. for eight years, and was a font of knowledge for word nerds like me.

Taking a moment to put down my 18th lobster roll, I exchanged a few emails with my good friend "A Way With Words" co-host, Martha Barnette, to find out the scoop. The show might be experiencing a temporary hiccup right now, but it'll be airing again at some point from somewhere else. You can bet on that!

If you want to know more, visit Martha's blog.

If you're a word nerd and don't know about the show, you can visit their new website to find out about past episodes and podcasts, and to track the new show's progress. And tell all your word nerd pals, too.

P.S., Your Cat is News

I never watch television news. In fact, the only thing I watch on TV these days is either baseball or coverage of Le Tour de France.

And here's why. Tonight's teaser for the local evening news? A clairvoyant cat that can predict death.

Maybe he should get a job with Nielsen Media Research.

Comma, Comma, Comma, Comma, Comma Chameleon

I am a comma chameleon. My commas, as well as other punctuation, have to adapt to the particular style of each editor for whom I write. I'm usually pretty good with periods, question marks, quotation marks, and the like.

But commas, boy, they baffle the heck out of me.

And just when I think I have an editor's comma style down pat, it changes. All the commas I thought were needed end up swimming with the fishes. Or my sparsely punctuated pieces get a comma carpet bombing.

And serial commas? You know, the ones that should (or should not) go before the "and" in a series? Fuggedaboudit! Sometimes I just toss a coin.

If you're comma curious, visit this blog written by my good friend and language expert, Martha Barnette.

From what I understand, she has a pretty good handle on the comma sutra.

Do a Little Dance, Make a Little Love, Double Down Tonight

Mirapex is a drug that treats restless leg syndrome. People who suffer from RLS have an uncontrollable creepy, crawly or burning sensation in their legs.

According to the documentation, side effects of Mirapex could include - and I'm not making this up - increased sexual desire or the urge to gamble.

I can understand certain drugs affecting libido, but intensifying the compulsion to gamble? I mean, what are the odds?

Then again, maybe they meant gambol.

Bake Me a Lyeberry Pie

Okay, how is it possible that an adult in a customer service position for a fairly well-known website pronounces the word "library" as "lyeberry?"

And he's a tech support person, too.

I was having a problem with my online library on a site that sells podcasts, and I would think that if the guy heard the word pronounced as "library" enough times, he'd habituate.

Things like that make me berry, berry kwazy.

Take Me Out Out OUT

Last night the San Diego Padres lost to the Atlanta Braves 5-4. But the big gay contingent at the game won by a landslide.

My friends and I had no idea it was Gay Night at the ballgame when we bought our tickets, but we're really glad we could be there to further the Gay Agenda against the handful of hate-mongering right wingers who tried unsuccessfully to turn a warm summer night into a firestorm of hate and ignorance.

They stood outside the stadium in bright red shirts handing out poorly written (always an issue for me) fliers packed with incendiary lies about our unhealthy influence on children.

It was Kid Floppy Hat Night - kids under 12 were given free Padres floppy hats. I tried to snag one with my "I have a very small head" argument. Didn't work.

The haters were trying to point out to the crowd that we homos were a threat to "traditional family values" by being at the same game with a bunch of kids, most of whom couldn't tell the gay baseball fans from anyone else. (We're the ones drinking the micro-brews.)

When one of the zealous right-wingers tried to hand me a flier, I looked him right in the eye and said, "No thanks. I'm gay." One of my friends with her son in tow added, "And we have kids!"

And, by the way, the San Diego Gay Men's Chorus sang a beautifully harmonized rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner." Land of the free, and the homos are brave.

The Seven "I Wonders"

According to the L.A. Times, as of 7/7/07, the New Seven Wonders are: The Great Wall of China, the ancient city of Petra in Jordan, the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, Machu Picchu in Peru, the Maya ruins of Chichen Itza in Mexico, the Colosseum in Rome, and India's Taj Mahal.

But what about the Seven I Wonders? What are the seven things that people seem to wonder about the most?

Well, if I were asked:

*Why do birds confuse cars with toilets?

*Why does the person with the loudest voice, and the need to constantly hear it, seem to sit behind me on every cross-country flight?

*Why does the city's waste management crew pick up the recycling on my street only when they feel like it?

*Why can't the American League and the National League agree on the designated hitter?

*Why are iPod earbuds so big? (For some of us it's like trying to stuff a couple of Oreos in our ears.)

*Why does my WiFi network sometimes choose to ignore my computer, even when I'm two feet away from the router? And why doesn't yelling help?

*Why do some people have an innate and frighteningly accurate sense of direction, while others (who shall remain nameless) instinctively go the wrong way every time?

I Think, Therefore (No) iPhone

I may be a card-carrying member of the Apple cult, but the iPhone just isn't one of the must-have gadgets on my list. Someone even offered to give me one for my next birthday but for the same money, I'd rather have the latest Airport Extreme and a set of noise canceling headphones.

And all the hype - oy vey - you'd think the Messiah had come. (The Jewish one; We're still waiting.)

David Pogue, technology writer for the New York Times, has written several articles on the iPhone's debut. But his music video proves that even hardcore techno geeks get the joke.

If You Build It, They Will Spit

I know there's no crying in baseball, but what's up with all the spitting? Every time I watch a game on TV, the camera will zoom in on one of the players just as he's spitting something gloppy and nasty out of his mouth. Sometimes there'll be a close-up of a guy who actually has strings of drool dangling from his lips. Nice.

And it's not just the guys who keep matzo ball sized wads of chewing tobacco inside their mouths. They all do it, and they do it all the time. Before batting, before pitching, standing in the outfield, or just lounging in the dugout. It doesn't matter. Baseball is like a big, gross spit-a-thon.

And then there's the whole gnarly sunflower seed thing. If you watch closely, you'll notice ball players have a habit of throwing fistfuls of unshelled sunflower seeds in their mouths, cracking them open with their teeth, eating the seeds, and then letting the shells cascade out of their mouths.

I sure hope none of these guys are involved in paternity suits because every ball field is one giant DNA paradise.

I See Dead People

There's an exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Man that I wish I could see. It's called Bodies - The Exhibition and it's an in depth look at the human body and all its parts.

Why can't I see it? Because I'm a blood-and-guts wimp, and the idea of seeing a real live (well maybe not live) cadaver all opened up makes me light-headed. And not in a good way.

I've had a couple of medical procedures done where the doctor offered to set up a monitor so I could watch every grisly moment. Being drugged, strapped down and cut open, and then watching it all happen is just way too Hannibal Lecter for me.

Being a wimp is really disappointing; I'd love to see that exhibit. I'm sure it's fascinating and I'd probably learn a lot. And I could participate by giving a live demonstration of the art of human regurgitation. But I'd probably lose my museum pass.

It's Massachusetts, Baby

Three years ago, former Massachusetts governor, Mitt Romney, expressed his concern that his once Pilgrim-ridden state would become the Las Vegas of gay marriage.

And I'm still waiting for the white clapboard drive-thru chapels with John Alden impersonators performing an assembly line of homo nuptials.

But leave it to Ellen Goodman to put it all in perspective.

Driving Miss Moses

The Pope recently issued the 10 Commandments of Driving. At first I thought this was a joke. I mean, is he kidding? Roman drivers aren't exactly all about road rules. Just try to merge into one of their traffic circles. It's like one never-ending chariot race.

And what about the Jews? Where are our 10 Commandments of Driving? Now, if it were up to me, these might work:

*When two (straight) couples drive together, the men sit in the front and the women sit in the back

*Consult at least three different maps because the directions from your car's fancy schmancy GPS are probably wrong

*Drive 5 miles under the speed limit just to be safe

*Leave an hour earlier than necessary because "you never know"

*Wear clean underwear incase you get into an accident

*Don't take the shortcut

*When you come to a four-way stop, argue with all your passengers about who has the right of way

*Even though your 13-year-old son is now a man, he still can't drive

*If Bubbe can't see over the steering wheel, it's time to take away the car

*Driving on Shabbat is okay if you don't live near the rabbi

*Bring a little sweater

Paging Dr. Heimlich

Can someone please explain to me why some sushi rolls are so darned big? I eat a lot of sushi and sometimes the rolls are comfortably bite-sized, but other times I feel like I'm wrestling with a seaweed wrapped hockey puck.

And even though you're supposed to eat the whole piece at once, I was always taught that it's not polite to jam your mouth with food, so the only way I can consume one of these monster makis is to take it apart. But then it becomes a big mess, and I end up flailing around in my soy sauce like I'm fighting a rip current.

There's probably some secret sushi eating technique that Japanese kids are taught as soon as they begin teething. If you have any suggestions, let me know.

Me Talk QWERTY One Day

I'm so envious of people who can type quickly while not looking at the keyboard. I hunt and peck with my two index fingers and, although I'm pretty fast, I'm not very accurate, even though I look right at the keys. I think my fingers are faster than my brain.

So if I get a 4.0 in traffic school, I may reward myself with a typing class. And if I do really well in typing class, maybe I'll take a cooking class. That is if I get the okay from the fire department.

Highway Robbery

Now I know how the city of San Diego is attempting to climb out of bankruptcy. The court fees for my recent red light ticket came to $409. And that's before traffic school.

Give me a break! I didn't steal the freakin' traffic light, I drove through it.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

I think I've sat shiva long enough for Tony Soprano. It's time to let go and move on. But there's a group of diehard fans out there who insist on picking apart the symbolism of the final scene in the diner that's followed by a disconcerting 10-second black screen.

Just like everybody else, I had a WTF moment when I thought the DVR had stopped recording before the episode ended. But David Chase added that final ellipses to let us come to our own conclusions.

Was Tony shot? Was he indicted? Were the onion rings any good? And who listens to Journey anymore?

One theory is that the shifty-looking guy in the tan Members Only jacket who goes to the men's room as the scene ends does a Michael Corleone and shoots Tony when the screen goes dark. After all, when Tony and Bobby were sitting in a boat on a lake a few episodes back, Bobby tosses us a bone when he says, "At the end, you probably don't hear anything, everything just goes black."

I think if you're really losing sleep over this then you should get out the Ouija board and ask the spirits. Oh, and while you're at it, find Jimmy Hoffa.

Don't Ask Don't Tell...Don't Stop

This is something I used to wish for when I was at (all girls) summer camp.

Apparently, several years ago, the U.S. Military looked into a "non-lethal" chemical weapon that would cause enemy troops to become homosexual, find each other irresistable, start a major shtup fest, and forget about fighting.

I think we should try it out on the red states first and see how it works on the gay marriage issue.

I'm Just A Squirrel Who Can't Say No

Apparently, the squirrel population in San Diego's Balboa Park has gotten so out of hand that park rangers are giving female squirrels birth control pills. Guess they couldn't find any teeny, tiny condoms for the boys. And if I hadn't heard this from a police officer, I would've thought it was just another nutty urban legend.

At first the park service was using poison to stop the squirrel explosion, but other forms of wildlife were dying, too. Duh!

Wild Bunny #1: This looks yummy!

Wild Bunny #2: Oh, don't eat that. It's squirrel poison.

So several dead rabbits later, someone came up with the bright idea that if they could offer the squirrels worry-free shtupping, there'd be fewer varmints to deal with.

I can just imagine what it's like chasing down a bunch of squirrels every day and then trying to give them pills. How can you tell if you've given each and every girl squirrel her pill? And what if one of the smarter ones squirrels away all her pills in a tree somewhere and then sells them on eBay?

But here's what really puzzles me: Why in heck is the city spending money on squirrel birth control when an abstinence program would be so much cheaper?

I Wuz Framed

Actually, I was in several frames courtesy of the San Diego Police Department. I got nabbed by one of those sneaky red light cameras. And as much as I'd like to deny it was me, there I am in full color gripping the steering wheel with a WTF look on my face. The other three photos show my car going through the intersection as the light turns red. Nice.

I was sure it was yellow. Or amber, at least. And this whole red light camera thing is so Big Brother. Luckily, it was a good hair day.

At first I thought the big flash from the camera was a bolt of lightning since I'd promised not to run another red light the last time this happened. And then I thought it was the lights of a police cruiser signaling me to pull over. During the last alleged red light incident, I had the opportunity to argue with an actual cop. I think he also cited me for driving in pajamas (it was very early), but that's another story.

So now it's back to traffic school where I'm sure there'll be a three-hour section on how to distinguish primary colors.

The Feeling Is Mutual

Here's the latest buzz from the joy toy department. Apparently, the Vibrating Ring makes everybody happy.

Think about it. This could really soup up your Jildo.

And why does this sort of thing always end up in my mailbox? (That was a rhetorical question, by the way. No need for any smartass answers.)

Bada Bing Bada Boom Bada Gone

They're whacking everybody. And I mean everybody. Christopher, Bobby, and Sylvio are all gone. The final episode of "The Sopranos" airs next Sunday, and I've already put the black wreath on my door. Symbolically. Jews don't do wreaths, but you know what I mean.

I'm not a big TV fan, but I love "The Sopranos." I love all that existential angst layered on top of "this thing of ours." The way Tony and his boys spit out their words in that melodic (to me, anyhow) north Jersey accent. The way pious Carmella rationalizes her opulent lifestyle and stands by her man.

And the way David Chase, the show's creator, made so many of us sympathize with a bunch of misogynistic killers who all seem to have hearts of gabagool.

But next week it's all over. And we know Tony's going, too. Either by his own hand or by a hailstorm of bullets from a few of Phil's goombahs. Tony's a very bad guy and we all know what goes around comes around. But do we really want him to go away forever?

Fuggedaboudit!

Losing My Religion

I'm so tired of having Jehovah's Witnesses ringing my doorbell and asking if I'd like a pamphlet about Jesus. And I appreciate the whole freedom of religion thing, but some religions seem to have more freedom than others. But I digress.

I know these people have the right to go door to door selling Jesus, but I hate hate hate it when they ring the doorbell of a house with a mezuzah. Hello? We're Jews. We're not looking to switch teams. If you're such a big religious scholar then you should be able to recognize Hebrew.

And that thing on my doorpost isn't a crack pipe with a note from my mom inside.

A Whole New Meaning for Woody Woodpecker

Need to rekindle your relationship? Maybe a Jildo is just what you're looking for.

To be honest, it looks like someone got the bright idea to saw off a bedpost in the heat of passion. And what are you supposed to use for lube? MinWax? But I understand the Jildo is giving its silicone counterparts, er, stiff competition.

I guess some people march to the beat of a different drumstick.

Yankees Suck!

Just wanted to point out that the Red Sox are in first place in the AL East and 8.5 games ahead of the Yankees.

And I'm thrilled we let Roger Clemens get away. The Bronx Bombers can have him (for $28 million, no less). That guy is high maintenance and his ego is wicked lahge.

Yell Until You're Blue In The Tooth

Can I just say that people who walk around with those Bluetooth headsets wrapped around one ear look really weird. I understand that if you're going to talk on the phone and drive, it's safer if you're wearing a hands-free device. But, I'm sorry, when I see you walking around chatting on one of those things, it looks like you've got a big cockroach attached to your head.

And if I'm on the opposite side from your Bluetooth/cockroach ear, you look like you're talking, no actually yelling, to yourself.

Which brings me to my next kvetch. Why are cell phones actually yell phones? Why do people always seem to be screaming when they're talking on the phone in a public place? I thought digital technology made it easier to have a clear conversation. But it always seems that when I'm standing in line to buy a movie ticket, check out of the grocery store or mail a package at the post office (in other words, when I'm trapped), some crazy yahoo is telling his buddy fortissimo voce about how drunk he got the night before.

I wish, just once, that every Bluetooth headset would jump off the ear of its owner and morph into Gregor Samsa who would then lecture these blowhards on basic etiquette.

Pass The Maalox

I don't like the word "gastropub." It means a bar or pub that offers high-end beers, a decent wine list and a menu that most foodies would appreciate. It's not a place for the Bud and beer nuts crowd.

But if a place like that is meant to stimulate my salivary glands, why does the name sound so darned medical?

The prefix "gastro" is derived from the Greek word gastros meaning "stomach." Hence, gastroenterology is the study of the digestive system and digestive diseases. And then there's gastric bypass surgery and gastroenteritis. Funny, my tummy's not growling now.

Call me a Philistine, but I just can't get from fluorescent lights and a barrium enema to cedar plank salmon and a '97 Bordeaux.

No Left Turn

A few days ago, ScientificAmerican.com published an article stating that left-handed women have a higher risk of dying. I almost proved that to be true at age six when I tried to fly by jumping off the top of the slide in my backyard. Instead of buying the farm, however, I hit a tree and broke my left arm.

And you know what they say, "If it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger." Well, it didn't kill me but it did make me feel a bit off-kilter because my sinister second grade teacher decided my bandaged left arm provided her with the perfect opportunity to squelch my gauche tendencies.

She forced me to write right-handed.

So I became just like the rest of my family - ambidextrous. My father, another born lefty, was switched as a kid, too, but still threw a ball left-handed. My mother is a true lefty but plays tennis right-handed, and my brother does everything lefty except writing.

And, despite my second grade teacher's intentions, I still do a whole bunch of things left-handed. But right after the big switcheroo, I got an F in penmanship for two straight years, and even now, a hand-written letter from me closely resembles the Rosetta Stone. Go figure.

But Officer, I Swear I Was Going Only 5

I got a ticket for walking too fast on the Mission Beach boardwalk.

Okay, not really, but I could. There's a speed limit on the boardwalk - 8 miles per hour - and I'm pretty fleet-footed when I've got my game face on. With all the traffic along the beach, it makes perfect sense to make the public aware that going too fast, even on the boardwalk, can cause an accident.

But why 8 miles per hour? Why not 6 or 11?

And how do you track your speed? I've never seen a skater, jogger or walker using a speedometer. Maybe some of the more tricked out bikes have something that measures speed, but most beach cruisers are pretty scaled down.

So how the heck are you supposed to know if you're doing 9 and need to start thinking up excuses? Gee officer, I just bought these sneakers and I had no idea they could go that fast.

I can just picture it, a cop sitting in a beach chair with a burrito in one hand and a radar gun in the other. Yeah, that's where I want my tax dollars going.

My Own Private Mile High Club

I'm an aerogeek - a person with an airliner fetish. No, I don't run around dressed up like a Braniff flight attendant circa 1967, asking "coffee, tea or me?" but I have been known to stop my car in order to watch a plane land. And if I'm at an airport waiting to board a flight, you can be sure to find me in a trance-like state by a window near the runway.

So when I found Airliners.net, it was like joining the Mile High Club all over again. Seriously, this site is a never-ending multiple airgasm. There are thousands of photos of airliners. All kinds, too. Vintage, military, commercial, private - you name it, they've got it.

During the Second World War, my dad was a gunner on a B-17 bomber and became a bit of an aerogeek himself. When I was about five years old, he started taking me to the airport to watch the planes take off and land. We'd sit in his Chevy convertible just beyond the fence where the runway ended, and stare in awe at the propeller-driven DC-6s and Lockheed Electras as they roared over our heads. Since then I've been hooked.

And here's something I'll bet you didn't know. At 239 feet, 3 inches long, 79 feet, 7 inches high, and the capacity to carry 525 passengers, the Airbus A380 is the largest passenger aircraft in flight today. (Thanks to fellow areogeek Cleocatra for pointing that out to me.)

Yeah, I know - Nerd Alert!

It's Not Easy Being Green

I need to understand why the geniuses at Toyota who developed the Prius engine felt they needed to add an annoying beeping sound to the reverse gear. Every time I put the gear shift in R, my little hybrid wonder sounds like a giant piece of construction equipment on the jobsite of yet another condo complex in progress.

But only inside the car.

Here's the thing. I can hear it and my lucky passenger can hear it, but if you're behind me and about to get hit, you're not going to hear it. You see, I know I'm in reverse. I'm the one who moved the damn gear shift. So who's being warned here?

And I've been putting up with this since July. Finally fed up, I found instructions on About.com that explain how to disable that relentless beep. I haven't tried it yet but if it works it'll feel almost as good as going 500 miles on a tank of gas.

Gayata, Mini Poofter or Lezbaru - Which One Are You?

Yesterday's New York Times presented an interesting perspective on the theory "you are what you drive." Apparently, certain types of cars can reflect one's sexual orientation.

According to the article, Miatas and Mini Coopers are perceived as gay boy cars, and if you drive a Subaru Outback you're probably on your way to the Michigan Women's Music Festival.

This sounds like fodder for a Learning Annex class on "How to Develop Your Gaydar."

Okay, I understand that stereotyping isn't going away any time soon, but I have a hard time believing one example in the article about a hetero woman who drives a Subaru Outback. She claims she lost her chance for a second date because the guy she was with perceived her as a lesbian. Give me a break. Maybe she needs a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You."

Or maybe Subaru should rename the car the Coming Outback.

It's Like Deja Food All Over Again

It's Pesach - that time of year when we Jews remember our ancestors' exodus from Egypt by telling the story and eating foods symbolizing both the struggle and the celebration. And we do it for two consecutive nights. The same food. The same story. The same shpilkes when we realize we've been sitting for three hours.

It makes sense. We're Jews; we make suffering into a celebration. You ate too much last night? Fine, you'll eat too much tonight, too. And no kvetching, already.

If G-d had given us just one night of Passover, Dayeinu! (It would have been enough.)

P.S. Next year in Jerusalem.

Big Trouble For Moose And Squirrel

My ancesters were from a little town near Kiev and fled the Cossacks like every other Jew from that region, but I don't speak or read a word of Russian. Still, for some reason I'm getting a boatload of Russian spam.

Maybe they know that my last name is really an "Ellis Island Special." Or maybe they know that both my mother and my grandmother always had a gallon of nasty-looking borscht fermenting in the refrigerator. And my grandmother was born in Russia, but we had to practically bribe the rabbi to keep that on the down low at the funeral. She didn't want anyone to know, and made us promise to let her take it to her grave.

So, I hate to tell you, Boris and Natasha, but you're two generations too late. Your cryptic Russian messages don't mean a thing to me, and I can't imagine that your erectile dysfunction drugs are any better than the ones I hear about in English eight million times a day. Now maybe if you offered them in Yiddish. . .

Reaching Nude-Vana

I practice Bikram yoga between four and five times a week. For the uninitiated, Bikram yoga is also known as "hot yoga" because the classes are held in really hot rooms - like 105 degrees. My studio likes to keep their thermostat hovering around the 115 degree mark, and the best part of the workout is peeling off my sweaty clothes when it's over.

But if I were to take naked yoga, I wouldn't have to worry about my sweaty clothes, or anybody else's for that matter. I'd heard rumors of naked yoga classes popping up here and there, but a friend recently sent me an article that was published in the San Francisco Chronicle two years ago about one such class in the Bay Area.

It's not what you think. You won't find an orgy of writhing bodies tangled up with yoga mats. It's about experiencing yoga in the buff, which apparently helps you to hold the postures better because you can see all your parts. And it's also about learning to feel good about your body.

To be honest, I don't want to see all the parts of the people in my yoga class, especially when we're all bending forward, legs spread apart with our hands grasping our ankles. There's only so much I can take at 6:30 in the morning.

I Feel the Earth Move

Today is one of my favorite days of the year because at 12:07 am GMT, or sometime tonight in San Diego (don’t make me count backwards from GMT. I’m confused enough with this year’s over-eager Daylight Savings Time) the Vernal Equinox will occur.

Vernal Equinox, a Latin term meaning “equal night of spring,” marks the date when Earth rotates on its axis giving those of us in the northern hemisphere more direct exposure to the sun and longer days, and the rest of the world in the southern hemisphere the start of fall. Pretty cool, huh?

And if you’re a big geek like me, this stuff is fascinating. I also get a daily report on the moon’s size and position so I can track it in relation to each season. Yeah, I know – nerd-o-rama.

During my days as a baby dyke, I hung out with a group of women who celebrated the Vernal Equinox by dancing naked under the stars (it’s a new moon so there’s only a sliver up there tonight). As much as that sounds like a really fun thing to do, I live in a fairly urban area, and there’s nothing worse than sitting in the back of a police car with nothing on but handcuffs and a smile.

So Shoe Me

These shoes look like the spawn of my grandmother's orthopedic clunkers and hookerwear. Trust me, I'd love to be a few inches taller but I'm afraid if I put these on I'd be walking around at a 45-degree angle, if I could walk at all. And they're not exactly flattering.

But these tres hautes souliers are being featured at Fashion Week in Paris. It seems that really, really high heels are de rigeur if you want to keep up with the latest trends.

So I guess this means if you want to wear shoes like this you'll need to have someone carry you to your destination, prop you up near a wall, bring you drinks all night, and then carry you home.

Hmmmm. I wonder if I can find a pair at DSW.

Coffee Kvetch

Will someone please explain to me why the number of cups etched on the side of the coffee maker carafe never, ever correspond to the number of cups you actually get?

When I make coffee, I fill the carafe up to the line indicating four cups. Now I know it's highly unlikely I'll ever drink four cups of coffee in the morning, even if it's decaf, but I know that in Coffee Maker Land, four cups really means one and a half cups. So this means making coffee requires doing a little math. Not something I do well when I'm awake, let alone half asleep.

Maybe it has something to do with the metric system, or maybe the designers at Cuisinart have really small bladders. I just want to understand why they think most people drink coffee from a thimble.

Toss The Baby Shower Out With The Bathwater - Part 2

Baby showers have always been a real mystery to me. For the most part, any kind of shower is a very heterosexual event filled with traditions and rituals that are nowhere to be found in the Lesbian Handbook. And the shower I attended last Sunday was no exception.

I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore when I got out of my car and walked up to the house. All the straight girls were wearing dresses, heels and make up. I was in typical Sunday attire: capri jeans and a t-shirt. What's up with getting all dolled up for a baby shower, anyhow?

But I knew I was truly in a foreign land when the games began. There was the clothespin game and the guess how big around the pregnant woman is game. And then there was a game where labels were removed from several jars of baby food and you had to guess what type of food was in each jar. Some were orange, others were a sort of yellow, and then there were a few jars in varying shades of green.

I picked up one of the green ones and said, "Oh yeah, I remember my little brother projectile vomiting this one. I think it's either spinach or green beans." No one paid attention to me after that.

Toss The Baby Shower Out With The Bathwater - Part 1

Have you ever been to a Babies 'R Us store? It's a cavernous place, sort of like a Costco with an inventory made up entirely of tiny pastel colored items. And then there's the totally robotic staff who accosted me the moment I stepped through the doors and immediately led me to a seat in front of an enormous desk in the shape of a half circle (a uterus, perhaps?). There I was greeted by a Stepford Shopping Assistant who insisted I needed a tour of the store.

I was looking for a shower gift and all I wanted was the list of gifts on my friend Laura's daughter's registry, but Miss Perky Promoter of Procreation wanted me to know everything about every teeny, tiny package of cuteness they sold. I just kept repeating my mantra of "no thanks, I just want the list."

Finally, once she'd figured out how to send the document from her computer to the printer, I was given a thick stack of pale yellow paper. Quickly scanning the first couple of pages, I pointed to something that didn't require a translation and said, "please show me where I can find this."

Meanwhile, the store was filling with mommies holding screaming infants and whining toddlers. I grabbed the gift from the shelf (a rather adorable snuggly), listened to the chirpy pre-programmed shpiel from the checkout robot, and ran for the parking lot.

Nine years ago when my GYN doc told me I needed a hysterectomy, I understood it would be very painful at the time, but once I was healed I'd be provided with unlimited rewards. Now I know exactly what she meant.

ESL For Spammers

As a sanderson
By tudor do marjoram
Go aurora on sanicle
Or by subsitent
Go cartwheel he atone
Go shattuck by uppercut

Nope, this is not remedial haiku or some sort of interplanetary greeting. These are actual examples of message headers I found in my inbox this morning from spammers. What are these people trying to tell me?

Should I record them, play them backwards and figure out if Paul is dead?

Okay spammers, it's time to learn English if you want to get anywhere in the land of sleazy email scams. Maybe I should offer an online course in ESL for these poor fools. I mean, if they want to get the coveted 2% repsonse, at least their message headers should make sense.

And to boost enrollment I could throw in a Rolex or a few Cialis tablets as an incentive.

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Homos

Finally, someone has found the link between music and homosexuality! Donnie Davis, leader of Love God's Way, an ex-gay ministry, has posted a list on his website of bands that make you gay. And it's a damn long list. Apparently all kinds of music can drag an innocent teen into the shame and debauchery of the homosexual lifestyle.

Okay, I get that bands like Queen and the Pet Shop Boys are on the list, but Cole Porter? Ravi Shankar? The Grateful Dead? And where are our favorites like Babs Streisand and Judy Garland? In fact, big lezzies like The Murmurs (featuring the very, very hot Leisha Hailey), Yer Girlfriend, and Cris Williamson are nowhere to be found, either.

Elton John has the warning "really gay" after his name. I didn't know there were varying degrees of gayness. And then there are Eminem, Jay-Z, and Ted Nugent. Apparently Nugent's on the list because he wore a loincloth at one (or more) of his appearances. And everyone knows that loincloths are de rigeur in the homo wardrobe.

So, thanks to Donnie's insight, I'm adding every Elton John album to my iPod. I want to know what it feels like to be "really gay."

But I Have a Question. . .

I don't mean to get all Politcally Incorrect on your asses, but I'm getting sick and tired of the ever-growing acronym that's used to describe our homo community these days. Back when I was walking five miles to school during a snowstorm, we were called lesbian or gay. Then the bi-sexuals joined our cozy little Brownie troop. And then, more recently, the trannies.

Okay, so at that point we were LGBT. Kind of sounds like something on the menu at Carnegie Deli to me.

And then we became LGBTQ. I thought, "queer," hmmm. Isn't that a little redundant? But the Q is for "questioning." Okay, if you're questioning your decision to pick L,G, B or T, then you're simply labeling yourself to ponder your future label, right? It seems a little over-categorized to me. And unnecessary.

Heck, I must be questioning too, because I ask myself questions all the time. Is it cold enough for a jacket? Should I make a right or a left? Where the hell are the car keys?

Look, I don't mean to belittle a group of people who are unsure about their sexual orientations, but I gotta say, I'm dog tired of trying to spit out an acronym that feels more like a mouthful of alphabet soup than a description of a community.

Birds of a Feather

Can I just say that as a very ticklish person, this would be my worst nightmare.

But if it tickles your fancy you can visit artist Sandro Porcu's creation, called "The Bed," at the Alexia Goethe Gallery in the Mayfair section of London. In fact, you can even give it a try.

Kind of gives "going down" a whole new meaning.

Burn Baby Burn

I'm one of those people who's required to give the local fire department a heads up every time I attempt to cook. Years ago, when my mother tried to get me interested in cooking, I blew her off to shoot baskets in the backyard. At that age, I considered cooking to be about as useful as algebra.

Although lately I'm hard pressed to find a time when I've had to figure out the solution to (x2 + 2xy) + y2, I probably could have used a cooking lesson or two. Take today, for instance. I had a craving for a grilled cheese sandwhich so I went online to find a good recipe. I know, grilled cheese isn't exactly the Pythagorean Theorum, but if I'm going to turn on the stove, I want explicit directions.

The Kraft website made it sound so easy: all I needed were two slices of white bread, two slices of American cheese, and some butter. I improvised with whole wheat bread and brie. Following their directions to the letter, I buttered the outside of the bread, put one slice butter side down in the skillet, added the cheese, and then added the other slice of bread.

How hard could this be?

And the moment the bread hit the pan (at medium heat per directions) it burned like a red-headed kid on a July day, and stuck to the skillet preventing me from gracefully flipping the sandwich like in the photo on the website. The skillet required surgery to remove all the burned bread, and I'm back to shooting baskets and using the microwave.

New Year, New Kvetch

I know, I know. I haven't blogged since last year. It's not that I've been lazy. Well, maybe a little lazy, but I've also been busy. I recently ended a long relationship, and I'm living in a small apartment with an air mattress, one comfortable chair, a folding table and two folding chairs.

Let's face it - I'm camping. And we all know that Jews don't camp.

I do have indoor plumbing, and it's not like I have to rub two sticks together to cook or anything because I don't cook, unless you count microwave popcorn and whatever can be thrown into a Toast R Oven. But for all intents and purposes, this is camping. My life is in boxes, my furniture is in another city, and sleeping on the floor makes me feel a little off kilter. But my ability to kvetch? Sharp as a tack.

No wonder it took us 40 years to cross the desert.

Latkes Roasting On An Open Fire

It's time again for the annual Christmas vs. Hanukkah Debate. I can't tell you how many of my Gentile friends think we Jews threw together a December holiday just to compete with Christmas.

First of all, there is no competing with Christmas.

It's not as if you're ever going to find yourself standing on line at Wal Mart listening to an endless loop of "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" playing from the PA system. There are no menorah flags hanging from lamp posts, no Stars of David attached to car grills, and you'll never squeeze into a crowd to watch a Hanukkah parade go by. Not even in Miami.

It's not like I have a problem with Christmas. Every year I have a Pavlovian reaction to Starbucks' red holiday cups because that means it's the season for eggnog lattes. And I love to visit my non-Jewish friends' homes in December just to inhale the piney smell of a Douglas fir.

But let's face it, Christmas takes over from September through December. While we Heebs are hunting around in every Judaica store for the right size Hanukkah candles that don't have to be hammered into Grandma's menorah, the rest of the country is swathed in red and green.

And, no matter how much we hope and dream, it's unlikely we'll ever see latkes popping up on the menu at Appleby's nor will we ever get the chance to win big playing dreidel at an Indian casino.

Hail Mary (and Heather)

Mary Cheney, lesbian daughter of sharpshooter Vice President Dick Cheney, is pregnant. She and Heather Poe, her partner of 15 years, are expecting this spring. And wouldn't you know it, the Christian Right is all fatootzed about it. There hasn't been this much excitement about somebody named Mary having a baby without playing hide the salami in, I dunno, 2,000 years or so.

Carrie Gordon Earll, spokesperson for those geniuses at Focus on the Family said, “Mary Cheney’s pregnancy raises the question of what’s best for children. Just because it’s possible to conceive a child outside of the relationship of a married mother and father doesn’t mean it’s the best for the child.”

Okay, Carrie, here's the thing about gays and kids. A drunken one night stand between two homos will not result in someone getting knocked up. When we queers get pregnant it's because we really want to have a kid, and that lucky child will most likely be swaddled in the love of two people who've probably spent a lot of time planning for parenthood.

But hey, I guess if you're part of the Christian Right, what's love got to do, got to do with it?

From The "WTF Were You Thinking?" Files

Yo, OJ. Years ago you were one of the most amazing running backs in the history of football. Then you tried your hand at a little acting. From there you went to wifebeating and finally became a crazy-ass murderer. So what makes you think you can write? And that title - "If I Did It" - come on, dawg, we know you did it. You can do better than that.

How about "Okay, I Did It. I'd Rather Go to Prison Than Face Another Rejection on Match.com."

From dumb to dumber. A guy in Arkansas tried to steal a guitar from a music store by sticking it into his pants. The store owner noticed a suspicious bulge in the would-be robber's clothing and managed to retrieve the instrument before anyone had to listen to any badly played Woody Guthrie tunes.

Come Together. Right Now. Over Me.

John and Yoko had the right idea. Stay in bed for a week to call attention to the need for world peace. But Donna Sheehan and Paul Reffel have gone a step further; They've asked everyone in the world to have an orgasm (or more) on Winter Solstice (December 22nd).

Apparently after orgasm your mind is totally relaxed, and Sheehan and Reffel believe that if enough people think about world peace in a meditative state, positive change is possible.

Like we need an altruistic excuse.

Thanksgiving - The Secular Passover

My two favorite holidays are Passover and Thanksgiving. When you think about it, they're very similar. At Passover we Heebs celebrate our escape from years of slavery in Egypt. We give thanks for our freedom and our control over the entertainment industry.

Similarly, Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on all the good things in life and realize that, no matter what's going on, things could always be a lot worse. Kinehora.

What I love about each holiday is that they're both about sharing a meal with members of my chosen family. Now if I could only figure out a way to make pumpkin pie kosher for Passover.

Ring! Ring! Pick Up The Fertility Phone

When one of my eggs steps on to its ovarian launching pad in preparation for a journey into the unknown, I feel a little twinge in my abdomen that lets me know that even though my uterus and I parted ways years ago, those frisky ovaries are still taking target practice.

But if your body doesn't send you subtle messages that it's time to procreate, now your cellphone can.

DoCoMo, Japan's largest cellphone manufacturer, recently debuted the FOMA D702iF mobile phone designed to keep us girls appraised of what's going on with our female plumbing. Shaped like a packet of birth control pills, and available in several attractive pastel colors, the new phone offers members of the fairer sex these fabulous feminine features:

* A "biorhythm memo" that will alert you three days before ovulation
* A database for storing recipes
* A fake ringtone to thwart off advances from unwanted suitors

I'm guessing they're working on the pregnancy test for next year's model.

Stay The Course

A man in Rudolstadt, Germany so diligently followed the directions of his car's on board navigation system that he drove on to a building site, up a flight of stairs and smack into a toilet hut, which must be the German equivalent of an outhaus.

The system commanded "Turn right now!" and this guy did exactly as he was told, even though there was no road to turn on to.

This story strikes me as a metaphor for the decisions The Almighty Decider has made about Iraq. When the automated on board navigation system that seems to be running this country said, "Stay the course" that's what W's lemmings did. In fact, for the past six years they've been following the commands of some mysterious automated voice, and running into more than a few toilet huts, creating a nasty stench in the process.

Today we hear that our fearless leader will no longer use the phrase "Stay the course" when talking about the situation in Iraq. Apparently things aren't looking so good over there, and staying the course might not be the best idea.

"Turn left now!"

P.S. Your Cat Is Gay

The Christian Right can't seem to leave us poor homos alone. Now it seems there's a big brouhaha about an exhibit at the Oslo Museum of Natural History called "Against Nature" that depicts (gasp!) homosexual behavior in the animal kingdom. One photo shows two giant erect whale penises rubbing together, while another exposes two male giraffes doing the horizontal, or I guess vertical in this case, hula.

In another part of the exhibit, two stuffed female swans are shown sitting on a nest of eggs. One is reading a copy of "Off Our Backs."

And, of course, this is all part of a plan spelled out in section 130-A of the voluminous Gay Agenda that explains how to recruit children on school field trips into the Gay Lifestyle. Those kooky conservatives are accusing exhibit organizer, Geir Soeli, of displaying pornography, and one of the angry pastors said that the museum directors should burn in hell.

Soeli retorted with, "Sexual urge is strong in all animals. It's a part of life; it's fun to have sex." In fact, he added, homosexual behavior has been observed in over 1,500 animal species.

And, just like your dog makes a conscious choice to chase your neighbor's cat, every queer animal in each one of those 1,500 species has made a conscious choice to indulge in a life of homosexual iniquity.

Mrs. Kravitz is My Homegirl

Why is it so damn hard for people to pick up after their dogs? It's getting to the point where I almost wish each dog's excrement had its own unique identifyer so I could match the poop to the pup and then chew out the owner.

I do have one prime suspect, however. There's a woman on my block who marches up and down the street every morning with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and her low rider Corgie follows behind her leaving his bidness wherever and whenever he feels the urge, which often ends up being my front lawn. Does she carry poop bags? Nope. That would mean giving up either the smoke or the caffeine. She knows I know, but she doesn't give a crap, so to speak.

And I don't buy that theory that animal defecation is better than Miracle Grow. Hell, if that were the case, I'd invite a few pandas over just to try to have a shot at the local garden club award. Pandas can poop as often as 40 times a day - go ahead, look it up.

Rack-and-Pinion Steering Could Save Your Life

If you're considering breast implants, think big. You could save your life, not to mention a few bucks on car insurance. A Bulgarian woman with size 40DD breast implants managed to avoid serious injury (and possibly death) when her car was involved in a head-on collision.

Apparently, when the steering wheel crushed her on impact, her enormous silicone bazooms protected her vital organs and ribcage - just like an airbag. Unfortunately, both breasts exploded (ouch), which means her career as an exotic race car driver will have to be put on hold for a few weeks.

I'm Becoming a Corporate Speak Geek

So I'm writing a case study for a high-tech company and I just finished interviewing the VP of Field Delivery.

For all I know the guy I just spoke to moves farmland around because after the first 10 minutes of the interview, I felt like I was waist deep in cow pies. I heard all about best practices and business elements that define world-class performance levels. I learned that this company is striving to be the best in their market-space, and looking to impove their metrics in customer satisfaction.

And their website is even better. These guys provide ECM and BCM solutions to help manage mission critical content. They also deliver processes to better manage highly scalable enterprise content and process management platforms using the full spectrum of connectivity by automating and streamlining critical tasks.

Right.

It's not that I don't know what they're saying, I just wish that I could write for them using easily understood language that doesn't make everything sound like a conversation between Captain Kirk and Bill Gates.

L'Shana Tova

I just wanted to wish all my Heeb brothers and sisters a very sweet and happy New Year.

I always go into a very thinky state during The Ten Days of Awe (the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur). It's the time of year when I reflect on my strengths and weaknesses, look at my accomplishments and mistakes, and try to figure out how to make the new year a better year for me and all the people I love.

So, if you're being a thinky Heeb like I am, L'Shana Tova Tika Tevu. If not, at least it's football season.

Snacks On A Plane

Can I just say how annoying it is that airlines don't feel the need to offer us even the tiniest bag of pretzels anymore? And half of what I might want to bring on board as a nosh is now considered bomb making material. No water (that's just plain fucked up), no matzo ball soup, no tapioca pudding, no peanut butter, and no borscht.

Okay, I probably wouldn't want to bring borscht.

So now I'm packing a bunch of snacks that will be horribly dehydrating, and I'll have to chase the flight attendants all over the plane just to get enough water to fill an eye dropper. And, even though it'll feel like I'm flying on Air Sahara, I won't even consider drinking that sludge that comes through the lavatory sink. I think they recycle that from you-know-where.

This is one of the few times I wish I were retaining water.

Talk The Talk Or Walk The Plank

Avast, me salty dogs! In less than a fortnight you, too, can participate in International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Every year on September 19th crazy people from all over the world spend the day talking, and even dressing, like pirates. And I do mean all over the world. The official website offers pirate expressions in Swedish, German and Chinese. Since I'm about to go on vacation, I didn't want the three of you who read this blog to miss such an important event.

Visit the website and you'll learn how to Captain Hook-up using pirate pick-up lines. My personal favorite is "Yo, Ho! (Ho.)" I guess the second "ho" is implied.

So now I'm wondering what a Jewish pirate, you know, someone like Long John Silverstein, would sound like.

"Arrrrgh! Welcome aboard the Jolly Kvetcher, me heebies. We're expecting a rough crossing, so if your timbers tend to shiver, bring a little sweatah."

The Hissing of Summer Yawns

I know I ranted about that moronic movie "Snakes on a Plane" last month, but the more I read about it, the less I understand the appeal. What's up with all these gross-out movies? I've never had the need to watch a bunch of idiotic teens violate the classic "Don't Go Into the Basement" rule, only to find themselves made into sashimi by a maniac in a hockey mask wielding a set of Ginsu knives.

In "Snakes on a Plane" several characters are offed in grisly detail. Let's see, some are impaled, others lose their heads (literally), and way too many become snack food for the slithery stow-aways. And audiences are, um, eating it up.

Pass the Dramamine.

Personally, I'd rather be forced to watch hours of film strips from my 6th grade science class while stuck on a flight that's endlessly circling O'Hare during a thunderstorm.

Fly the Surly Skies

Okay, this whole new airport security mishegoss is making me very shpilkesy. First of all, I never, ever check luggage. Even when traveling to Europe for two weeks, I pack everything I need in a small roll aboard suitcase and a backpack. Granted, I don't usually take floor-length gownless evening straps or patent leather hip boots when I go abroad (those items are saved for road trips). I figure if I'm running around busy airports or schlepping through Venice on foot with bags in tow searching for my hotel, I don't think a 16-piece set of matching Louis Vuitton luggage, including a steamer trunk, is all that practical.

But now we have to pack gels and liquids in our checked luggage, so my no checking, no hassle travel plans have gone the way of free in-flight meals and extra leg room. And I know it's not all about me, and making my life easier. Trust me, I'd much rather lose my checked luggage on a flight to China and be stranded with just a toothbrush, a clean pair of underwear, and a lame Chinese phrasebook than be blown to bits in midair.

So now I'm thinking, what's next? My fear is that eventually we'll all have to fly barefoot, dressed in nothing but those drafty paper outfits saved for humiliating experiences like a trip to the OB-GYN. And that's gonna suck when I visit family in Buffalo during December.

Shop Till You, Um...Er...

I absolutely abhor shopping. It always reminds me of my mother dragging me to some farkarte department store to shop for school clothes as well as the requisite itchy, uncomfortable outfit to wear to shul during the High Holy Days. I guess I didn't get that recessive gene that allows most women to hear cute shoes calling from afar. About once a year I'll drag myself to the mall if I need something that requires trying on, but if I must shop at all, I prefer doing it online.

Apparently, Danish clothing company, Shaiware understands that it takes a lot more than cute shoes and Euro Trash chic to lure reluctant shoppers like me to their website. They're utilizing the ultimate marketing tool - porn. If you visit the Shaiwear website, you'll find much more than a few bored looking models standing around in trendy outfits. Instead, you can watch them take off each other's clothing, and then perform a well choreographed horizontal hula. (WARNING: Not for the faint of heart or the easily offended.)

Oh yeah, and don't forget to check out the clothes.

Let My People Show

So today we find out from the NBC affiliate in the San Francisco Bay area that there's a guy in El Dorado Hills, CA who saw the image of Jesus on a cooked shrimp tail. Jesus seems to be popping up all over the place.

In the mountains of southern Mexico, locals claim to have seen an image of Jesus on a rock. He's also appeared on a piece of sheet metal at a hardware store, on a fish bone in Oklahoma, on a some guy's plaster wall inside a shower, and two sisters saw his image on wall in the kitchen of their childhood home while they were in the midst of renovations.

So how come we Heebs never see images of Moses on a matzo ball or Abraham on a bagel? And what about Sarah, Leah and Rachael? Shouldn't we see at least one of them on a piece of halvah or in a bowl of stewed prunes?

And I thought we were the Chosen People.

Silent But Deadly

I just bought a Prius. It's the coolest car and has all kinds of George Jetson gadgets that I still don't know how to use. One of the things that fascinates me is the electric motor. Every time I stop the car, and sometimes when I'm moving, it switches from gas to electric mode and goes eerily silent. I can't hear myself driving, and that's really, really weird. It's sort of like I'm running errands under water.

In fact, I'm so stealthy that pedestrians don't hear me either.

So I was thinking that maybe the Prius should come with some sort of warning accessory that's not as rude as a car horn. I don't want to scare the crap out of someone when I'm in stealth mode, but I don't want to flatten them either. I'm considering a few options for my early warning system. There's always the pleasant, bucolic clang of a cow bell, or I could play "Bohemian Rhapsody" on the kazoo, or maybe turn the bass waaaay up on the sound system and blast a little Tupac. Or Carl Kasell.

A Little Schmaltz

The moon must be singing Barry Manilow tunes to my ovaries again because I've been feeling kinda schmaltzy lately. But I went into full-blown PMS mush when I read a quotation from an interview in Oprah magazine where Oprah and her best pal Gayle defend their close friendship and insist that they're not gay.

To be honest, I don't give even the tiniest bissel dreck whether Oprah is straight, gay or having a hot polyamorous relationship with a herd of goats. But when she describes the way she feels about her closest friend, I gotta admit I got more than a little verklempt.

"I understand why people think we're gay. There isn't a definition in our culture for this kind of bond between women. So I get why people have to label it - how can you be this close without it being sexual? How else can you explain a level of intimacy where someone always loves you, always respects you, admires you? Wants the best for you in every single situation of your life. Lifts you up. Supports you. Always! That's an incredibly rare thing even between the closest of friends."

Oy, that Oprah's like buttah. Talk amongst yourselves.

Which Came First, the Chicken or the Ad?

There's a new trend in marketing that just, er, cracks me up. Eggvertising. Apparently CBS is having messages printed on more than 35 million eggs to attract viewers to their televsion shows. And who knew there were companies like EggFusion that specialize in egg coding?

Starting this fall, we won't be able to throw together a simple frittata without finding such pithy phrases as "CSI, crack the case on CBS" when we open a carton of extra large grade A eggs. And that's just what I want to see when I'm making breakfast - a reference to a really gross televison show about scraping blood samples off dead people.

Now I'm waiting for Godiva Chocolates and Motrin to place ads on tampon applicators.

Cuckoo for Sudoku

Let me just start out by saying I am not cuckoo for Sudoku. But a lot of people I know are just plain addicted to this puzzling pastime. It sort of reminds me of the Rubik's Cube craze 20 years ago. I'm told Sudoku has nothing to do with math, but it's all about numbers and logic, and to me, that's like being math's first cousin.

And I'm someone who thinks cooking (the combination of calculating complex oven temperatures while measuring using the metric system) is equivalent to cracking the launch codes for those *secret* missile silos in Nevada, so anything even remotely involving numbers is, well, not my idea of relaxation.

Plus, I barely have enough RAM in my little keppe (that's "head" for you non-Yids) to store all my PINs, passwords and account numbers now. There are too many numbers in our lives as it is. Come to think of it, every Hebrew letter has a numeric equivalent. It's amazing Moses didn't invent the compass and get our people out of the desert years earlier.

So will someone please explain to me the allure of putting a bunch of random numbers in little boxes and having them all add up to the date of your grandmother's birthday? I just don't get it.

The Sharper Image

A few months ago one of my good friends finally made the switch from the Evil Empire (Windows OS) to Mac. She bought a MacBook, Apple's latest and greatest new laptop. Finally, I thought, she'll see why the rest of us love our Macs to the point of obsession. The new MacBook has all the bells and whistles that make geeks like me go all drooly and glassy-eyed. And, like all Apple products, this laptop is one sharp-looking machine.

In fact, if you saw "The Devil Wears Prada" you may have noticed that on every desk in the too-chic-for-real-life offices of "Runway" magazine sat a sleek white iMac. The only desktop computer slender enough to wear a size zero.

But the new MacBook not only looks sharp, it feels sharp, too.

Its edges are so sharp in fact, they rival deli meat slicers, and avid Mac users are complaining to Apple about bruised wrists. Some online forums offer suggestions like sanding down the sharp edges or wearing wrist bands. Other people are trying to get refunds or (gasp) switching back to their klunky old PCs. It surprises me that a company with the design savvy to come up with the iPod Nano could overlook such a simple element of user comfort.

All-A-Merkin Girl

Thanks to my good friend and word maven Martha Barnette I now know the meaning of the word “merkin.” It’s a pubic wig.

But it gets better.

How about a hands-free merkin flashlight? Just think how convenient this would be on a camping trip when you’re looking for a place to pee.

Air Medusa

It’s time for all those so-called summer blockbuster movies to come out. And next month a much-anticipated film with obvious Oscar potential will hit the multiplex. It’s called “Snakes on a Plane.” And, as much as I wish that title were some clever metaphor, what you see is what you get.

In a nutshell, two FBI agents are escorting a protected witness from Hawaii to L.A. In order to prevent the witness from testifying, a couple of bad guys smuggle a crate full of poisonous snakes of varying sizes on to the plane and let them loose during the flight.

But what really kills me is an article in today’s LA Times that credits fans with influencing the writer and director to ratchet up the sex, violence and bad language to garner an R rating rather than a wimpy PG-13. Apparently, dailies were posted on the web and fans weighed in on the film’s progress.

The result? An additional week of shooting to add more nudity and extra blood and gore. And the script got a makeover too - a boatload of profanity to fill in the gaps in the story.

Can’t wait for the sequel - “Rats on a Train.”

Woo Hoo! Rock and (2-ply) Roll!

For those of you who can’t part with your iPod, even for a moment on the throne, here’s the perfect gadget for you. It’s called an iCarta, costs about $99 and is designed to “enhance your experience even in the smallest room.”

Personally, I like my small room experiences to be quick and productive. No musical accompaniment necessary.

Holy L-Bat!

Next month DC Comics will re-introduce its Batwoman character as a 5-foot-10 lipstick lesbian with long red hair and a form-fitting outfit that leaves no room for water weight gain.

The original Batwoman was introduced in 1956 and then killed off in 1979. The new super heroine, also known as Kathy Kane, will be a blue-blooded Gotham socialite with a past – a former romantic connection to detective Renee Montoya. Everybody knows you can’t have a lesbian character without an ex lurking around somewhere. Who else would take care of her cat when she goes on vacation?

So this is what progress looks like. We can come back from the dead and save the world, but we still can’t legally marry.

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

I don’t want a mobile phone with a camera. I want a phone that’s used primarily to make and receive calls. Is that too much to ask? Apparently Verizon thinks so.

I went to replace my phone yesterday and found that 99% of the new models come with cameras. Look, I’m happy with my digital camera, and I don’t need a pimped out phone with a bunch of extra appliances. Even if I had the option, I wouldn’t want a phone with a blender or a coffee maker or a hair dryer. Okay, maybe a hair dryer.

And I don’t intend to check email, do a Google search or watch The Godfather on a screen that’s smaller than a packet of sugar. I just want to call other people and have other people call me. What I really need is a couple of tin cans with a virtual string.

Hey Verizon, can you hear me now?

How Very Tongue in Um, Cheek

Apparently the stodgy alter kockers of snooty Scottsdale, AZ have their Depends all in a knot about the upcoming opening there of a new restaurant, the Pink Taco. The Las Vegas-based chain’s tagline reads, “Eating out never tasted so good.” Oh my.

I guess Scottsdalians consider the premise of the new eatery in bad taste.

Eau No!

I think the whole damn fragrance industry is smoking crack. A British company has introduced a perfume that smells like Stilton cheese, and toymaker Hasbro is debuting Eau de Playdoh. Yep, you too can reek of modeling clay. Just like a four-year-old.

Okay, unless you’re looking to have a three-way with Gumby and Pokey, why the heck would you wanna smell like the arts and crafts corner of a pre-school on a rainy day?

And Eau de Stilton? What are those Brits thinking? This is a Very Stinky cheese. And what about the other four food groups? Nothing like the scent of a sizzling burger behind your ears, or maybe a hint of Bermuda onion on your wrists and the essence of mixed nuts on the back of your neck. And don’t forget about day-old fish. That’s always a crowd pleaser, especially in warm weather.

I’m just waiting for the next trend. Animal excrement.

Could Jesus Be My Relative?

The movie “The Da Vinci Code” is about to hit theaters across the country. Now there's all this additional brouhaha about the premise of the story. What if Jesus married Mary Magdalene and they started a family that still exists today?

The way I see it, stranger things have happened. Two years ago the Boston Red Sox won the World Series. And recently, my mother finally began to refer to my girlfriend of eight years as my partner rather than my friend. So you see, anything’s possible.

And this got me thinking, what if I’m related to Jesus? I, too, come from a Jewish family with an identity crisis. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah, Easter (the part with the candy) and Passover. We even ate pork and shellfish. But we always attended Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services.

My father was born a Jew but didn’t really stick with the program. Jesus was born a Jew but didn’t really stick with the program either. It kinda makes you wonder.

Polly Wanna Gerund?

Birds can learn grammar. Okay, maybe you won’t find a bunch of crows sitting on a wire conjugating verbs, but according to a recent study,
certain starlings can distinguish between a regular birdsong “sentence” and one containing a clause or another sentence of warbling.

And it took UCSD researcher Tim Gentner just one month to train the birds to make the distinctions. So why does it take most Americans years to figure out the difference between “lie” and “lay” or “who” and “whom”?

I’m the Intolerator

Dear President Bush,

Now that you’ve declared to the world that you’re The Decider, why don’t you stop being such a stubborn schmendrick and decide to learn to speak proper English?

We all know that you’re as dumb as a box of hair, but since you’re the guy leading the free world, and we have almost three more years of living under your Deciderism regime, it would be great if just once you could decide to pronounce the word “nuclear” correctly.

NOO-klee-er. See, that wasn’t so hard was it?

Sincerely,

The Mispronunciation Intolerator

P.S.
That Rumsfeld decision? Not such a good one.

The Geezer Pleasers

Okay, will someone please explain to me what’s so hot about shtupping an 80-year-old guy who’s hard of hearing and hangs out in his jammies all day? Apparently Hugh Hefner’s personal bevy of blonde bunnies has been reduced from six to three because there was just too much jealousy and competition.

You’re kidding me, right?

I get that being one of Hef’s hand-picked shtuppettes gives a girl a little more, um, exposure but it’s hard for me to believe that these women are actually fighting with each other for the privilege of a few wheezy moments of Viagra induced boning with a guy who's old enough to be their grandfather.

I guess they’re just a bunch of Electra-lites. Great taste. Less Filling.

Happy Tax Day

For all of you in the eleventh hour of finishing your taxes, I wish you unlimited mental clarity followed by a really good bottle of pinot noir.

In the meantime, I recently got my tax refund check from the State of California. A whopping $2.00. When I was nine, my parents gave me a $2.00 weekly allowance for cleaning the kitchen after meals and making the perfect vodka tonic. In 1965, $2.00 was a big deal to a nine year old (as were good bartending skills).

But today I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. My bartending skills are still pretty good, and my kitchen is spotless. You’d think that Conan the GirlyMan, famous for his Neanderthal forehead, wandering hands, and lack of fiscal fitness would have found it in his heart to send me a bigger refund check. After all, I think I grossly overpaid this guy.

Time for the Terminator Tea Party.

Let My People Kvetch

Oy. Uncle Saul and Aunt Rose have been reincarnated as Easter candy.

Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Buy Gefilte Fish

“Have you accepted Moses as your personal savior?” Okay, maybe that’s not how we Heebs approach the unaffiliated (Jews who don’t belong to a synagogue), but after reading an article in today’s New York Times about “temple recruiters” hanging out by Passover food displays in supermarkets, I’m trying to imagine what the Jewish version of Jehovah’s Witnesses would look like.

A group of Hadassah bubbes is camped out by the matzo display at Ralph’s. With laser-like accuracy, they spot you, the twice-a-year-plus-Passover-Jew, at a hundred paces. You’re the one reaching for the egg matzos.

Bubbe #1 hands you a temple pamphlet touting Shabbat Yoga, comedy shows, and Torah cocktail parties while Bubbe #2 replaces the ’97 Bordeaux in your shopping cart with a bottle of Mogen David Concord Grape.

Next year in Riverdale.

No Bogus Apostrophes, Dude

Apostrophe. It sounds like the title of a Greek tragedy. Apostrophe was Antigone’s sister; you know, the possessive one.

But what’s really tragic is that so many people treat apostrophes like maraschino cherries, adding them to words whether they’re needed or not.

I see examples like this all the time:

• Back in the 60’s
• Apple’s - 3 for a dollar
• Womens’ restroom

Here’s how they should be spelled:

• Back in the ‘60s
• Apples – 3 for a dollar
• Women’s restroom

I know, I sound like an anal retentive, nitpicky cuckoo clock, but bad punctuation makes me all fatootzed. Sure, I have my own love-hate relationship with commas, but that’s another story.

And when I master the comma sutra, I’ll be sure to let you know.

When Do We Eat?

“When Do We Eat?” is new film about a Jewish family coming together for Passover. What’s the premise? Angst, dysfunctional family dynamics, and food. Like you had to ask.

Why is this film different from all other films? Because in this film, just prior to the beginning of the Seder, the family patriarch is slipped a tab of Ecstasy. Dude, this horseradish is so intense.

It opens on April 7th in LA, Orange and Riverside counties. Looks like we San Diegans got passed over.

And Your Little Dog, Too

My plumber recently told me that the guts of my office toilet are held together with Elmer’s glue and dental floss. He suggested replacing it with a Toto. Huh? The only Toto I’d heard of was a small, yippy dog that helped turn Judy Garland into the patron saint of gay men.

After a little research, I learned that Toto is the largest manufacturer of toilets in the world, producing more than seven million toilets annually.

But it gets better. I took a look at their products and nearly plotzed. They don’t just make toilets; they also make washlets. Who knew relieving oneself had become so evolved?

A washlet is sort of like a combination toilet, bidet, and sprinkler system. The Toto Washlet S300 features a heated seat, an automated lid, an aerated rinsing system with temperature control, a warm air dryer, and a self-cleaning system. And it comes with its own wall-mounted control panel and remote, so you can alert your commode to your arrival, and have the seat and spritzer set to your preferred temperatures.

Save me a prune Danish.

Just a Little Off the Top, Please

Here in SoCa, getting a nip here and a tuck there seems almost as common as getting an oil change. I see evidence of boob jobs and facelifts almost every time I leave the house. But a recent article in the LA Times described a disturbing trend in the quest for The Perfect Body – labiaplasty.

That’s right; women are going under the knife to create the perfect Porn Star Vagina.

Look, I’m all for making the land down under more attractive. And I’m totally down with the whole pubic hair as topiary idea. You wanna turn your unruly Bermuda Triangle into the gardens at Versailles? Grab a beard trimmer and have at it. But slicing up your labia, that’s another story.

It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “tight-lipped.”

Passover Candy Update

So I searched for Passover candy and found one resource. The Source for Everything Jewish offers a dark chocolate Seder plate and a box of chocolate plagues.

The Gentiles get jellybeans, chocolate eggs, chocolate bunnies, and those ubiquitous pink and yellow marshmallow Peeps. We get plagues.

We escaped slavery in Egypt, parted the Red Sea, spent 40 years in the desert, and we get rewarded with what? A box of chocolates depicting locusts, boils, lice, flies, bovine disease, frogs, hail, darkness, dead babies, and a river of blood.

Better get an extra box for Elijah.

Which Came First, the Schnecken or the Egg?

I grew up in the Land of the Mixed Message, so when I was very young I got an Easter basket every spring. I had no idea Easter wasn’t a Jewish holiday. I thought it was an addendum to Passover. After sitting through two very long dinners and eating matzo for a week, it made sense to be rewarded with jellybeans and chocolate eggs.

And then I went to Hebrew school and the Easter baskets stopped. But every March I still have a Pavlovian reaction to pastel colored foil. Don’t get me wrong; I love Jewish sweets. I mean, who can resist gooey schnecken or chewy rugelach or Zabar’s chocolate Dalancey Swirl Cake?

But there’s no actual Passover candy. (And those squishy kosher gum droppish things don’t count. My grandparents ate them year round.) I want something that says “Passover.” Something I can find at any supermarket or drugstore.

Let my Peeps go.

Your Windsong Stays on My Mind

German fragrance manufacturer Vivaeros has decided that the scent of a woman’s vagina belongs in a bottle. Their latest offering, Vulva, is supposed to remind you of “an authentically natural vaginal flavour.”

Since when has all womankind been reduced to one scent? And if my vagina has a “flavour," it’s most likely Cherry Garcia.

So, girls, if those personal ads aren’t working out, simply spritz yourself a few times with Vulva, and jump on a crowded subway.

Sigalert Stigmata

If you’ve ever spent any time in SoCA and listened to a traffic report, you’ve probably heard the term “Sigalert” once or twice. The official California Highway Patrol definition of a Sigalert is "any unplanned event that causes the closing of one lane of traffic for 30 minutes or more."

It turns out that Sigalert was named for Loyd C. Sigmon, a broadcast engineer and co-owner of KMPC-AM radio in Los Angeles. Sigmon developed a shortwave receiver and tape-recording device that would activate when it received a special tone sent out by the police dispatcher. When major accidents occurred, radio stations could record the information and then relay the news to their listeners. The first "Sigmon traffic alert" was broadcast over Labor Day weekend, on September 5, 1955.

But what really fascinated me about Sigmon is that he's a native of Stigler, Oklahoma, and in World War II was assigned to the Army Signal Corps. Coincidence? I don’t think so. In fact, I think Sigmon, originator of the Sigalert, was phonetically stigmatized.

Why We Neuter Our Pets

This is what happens when we don’t snip our male dogs. Especially if they can hold their breath, swim underwater for long periods of time, and are attracted to shellfish.

Actually, this cuddly little creature is a recently discovered species of crustacean called the Kiwa hirsuta. The name comes from Kiwa, the goddess of crustaceans in Polynesian mythology.

Who knew treyf had its own deity?

Follow the Bouncing, er...

Leave it to the Brits to create a sports bra advertisement that doubles as soft-core porn.

And after being mesmerized by the demo, my “girls” were thinking the same sorts of thoughts that regular dogs think when they watch the Iditarod.

By the Baitzim

While driving to yoga this morning, I was subjected to another sort of enlightenment. Red, plastic pendulous baitzim hanging from the back of a truck in the next lane. Before you run off to FreeTranslation.com, baitzim is Yiddish for balls, nuts, scrotum. You get the idea.

This I didn’t need at 6:00 a.m.

Buddy - FYI - even without the added baitzim, your huge, black, jacked up Ford F-250 with those three foot tall tires and tacky silhouettes of busty women on your back windows already screams, “Big schmendrick. Keep back 300 feet.”

There's really no need to advertise your shortcomings.

Much Ado About Drizzle

Note to all SoCa meteorologists: Lighten up! Just because a drop or two of rain is in the forecast, don’t go all Chicken Little on us by screaming “Storm Watch!” every minute.

We had a lousy 12 hours of light rain. Not a downpour, not an El Nino, not a monsoon.

Granted, there hasn’t been much precipitation around here since last August, but that doesn’t mean you need to get us all fatootzed with your meshuggeneh predictions. And what the heck am I gonna do with a bunch of sandbags, duct tape and plastic sheeting? Build a sukkah?

Stick to what you know: partly cloudy with a high of 72, surf 2 to 4 feet.