pants on fire...NOT!

Brenden to the X-Man (age 7): "Hey buddy, I noticed you took the reading lamp from your lower bunk out of the bed and put it on the floor and plugged it in and turned it on there. It's OK to have the lamp on the floor, but a pair of your underpants was lying on top of the lit lamp, and that's not OK, because that could start a fire..."

To which the X-Man responded indignantly, "But Dad, I was CHARGING them!"

When we stopped laughing, Kath explained they're glow in the dark shorts...

HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!

I love to laugh, and so I especially love April Fool's Day, and all the creative and wonderful pranks that people come up with. I came across a list on the internet of the top 100 April Fool's Day pranks. Here are a few of my favorites from that list. Laugh and enjoy.


















The Swiss Spaghetti Harvest (1957)
The respected BBC news show Panorama announced that thanks to a very mild winter and the virtual elimination of the dreaded spaghetti weevil, Swiss farmers were enjoying a bumper spaghetti crop. It accompanied this announcement with footage of Swiss peasants pulling strands of spaghetti down from trees. Huge numbers of viewers were taken in. Many called the BBC wanting to know how they could grow their own spaghetti tree. To this the BBC diplomatically replied, "place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the best."

The Taco Liberty Bell (1996)
The Taco Bell Corporation announced it had bought the Liberty Bell and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell. Hundreds of outraged citizens called the National Historic Park in Philadelphia where the bell was housed to express their anger. Their nerves were only calmed when Taco Bell revealed, a few hours later, that it was all a practical joke. The best line of the day came when White House press secretary Mike McCurry was asked about the sale. Thinking on his feet, he responded that the Lincoln Memorial had also been sold. It would now be known, he said, as the Ford Lincoln Mercury Memorial.

The Left-Handed Whopper (1998)

Burger King published a full page advertisement in USA Today announcing the introduction of a new item to their menu: a "Left-Handed Whopper" specially designed for the 32 million left-handed Americans. According to the advertisement, the new whopper included the same ingredients as the original Whopper (lettuce, tomato, hamburger patty, etc.), but all the condiments were rotated 180 degrees for the benefit of their left-handed customers. The following day Burger King issued a follow-up release revealing that although the Left-Handed Whopper was a hoax, thousands of customers had gone into restaurants to request the new sandwich. Simultaneously, according to the press release, "many others requested their own 'right handed' version."

Hotheaded Naked Ice Borers (1995) (hmmm, this sounds like a variation on the Side-Hill-Gougers story that I enjoyed telling to each of my four kids)

Discover Magazine reported that the highly respected wildlife biologist Dr. Aprile Pazzo had found a new species in Antarctica: the hotheaded naked ice borer. These fascinating creatures had bony plates on their heads that, fed by numerous blood vessels, could become burning hot, allowing the animals to bore through ice at high speeds. They used this ability to hunt penguins, melting the ice beneath the penguins and causing them to sink downwards into the resulting slush where the hotheads consumed them. After much research, Dr. Pazzo theorized that the hotheads might have been responsible for the mysterious disappearance of noted Antarctic explorer Philippe Poisson in 1837. "To the ice borers, he would have looked like a penguin," the article quoted her as saying. Discover received more mail in response to this article than they had received for any other article in their history.

Drunk Driving on the Internet (This is my hands down favorite, from 1994)

An article by John Dvorak in PC Computing magazine described a bill going through Congress that would make it illegal to use the internet while drunk, or to discuss sexual matters over a public network. The bill was supposedly numbered 040194 (i.e. 04/01/94), and the contact person was listed as Lirpa Sloof (April Fools backwards). The article said that the FBI was going to use the bill to tap the phone line of anyone who "uses or abuses alcohol" while accessing the internet. Passage of the bill was felt to be certain because "Who wants to come out and support drunkenness and computer sex?" The article offered this explanation for the origin of the bill: "The moniker 'Information Highway' itself seems to be responsible for SB 040194... I know how silly this sounds, but Congress apparently thinks being drunk on a highway is bad no matter what kind of highway it is." The article generated so many outraged phone calls to Congress that Senator Edward Kennedy's office had to release an official denial of the rumor that he was a sponsor of the bill.

internet dating: a cautionary tale (not my own)...

photo from Google Images

So there’s this nurse at work, let’s call her Bev: mid-fifties, almost 6 feet tall, red hair cut in a pixie. She talks in this whispery, soft voice, very odd. I saw her this morning as I was coming in; she was exiting a colleague’s cube. I nodded my head and said hey. She nodded back and started to walk past me, then stopped, turned around and said, in her whispery, soft voice,“Annie has some good news for you!”

“Great!” I said brightly, “I’m always up for good news!”

I stopped outside Annie’s cube, which Bev had just exited.

“So tell me, what is it?” I asked, expecting to hear something about one of Annie's seven grown kids or her six young grandchildren. Annie’s eyes were dancing.

“Don’t YOU want to tell her?” she asked Bev.

Bev stood there, towering over me, and actually shut her eyes, thinking about it. Then a small smile flitted across her face.

“Waaiiilllllllll, OK,” she said in her breathy voice, and then, looking at me, she asked: “Do you know General David Petraeus?”

I smiled. I wasn't about to fall for this one. “I know who he is,” I said, “but no, I don’t know him”.

Annie and Bev exchanged a look, and Bev began to beam, like the cat who has swallowed the canary. I waited expectantly…

"Waaaaiillll,” she drawled dreamily, “Ah know him.”

“Really?” I said. “You know General Petraeus? Good for you!” all the while wondering where this weird conversation was going, because, first, I don’t give a flip whether or not she knows General Petraeus, and second, since she’s never been able to keep anything to herself for more than about 5 minutes, I was having trouble believing that she’d managed to withhold a nugget like this for the 9 months she’s been working with us.

“Ah’m EMAILING him!” she announced proudly.

I looked at her, waiting for the punch line, but there was none. She actually looked so happy I thought for an awful moment she might weep. I looked at Annie, hoping for a clue, but she was grinning ear to ear.

“Isn’t it exciting?” she asked.

I looked back at Bev, who was still beaming.

“You’re emailing General Petraeus?” I said, thinking I must have heard wrong.

“YASSSS!” she whispered solemnly.

“Huh?” I said, then quickly, “Um, how…how...how did this come about?”

Bev smiled dreamily, closing her eyes again and swaying a little, which I found really disconcerting.

“Matchdotcom”, she said solemnly.

“Huh?”

“We’re emailing on match dot com,” she said patiently, as if she were explaining something very simple to someone who’s very slow, intellectually, which is exactly how I was feeling at the moment.

“General Petraeus is on match dot com?” I said incredulously.

“YAAAAASSSSS!” she whispered with great conviction.

“Wait a minute, he’s identified himself as General Petraeus?” I asked, feeling like I was back in psychiatry again, interviewing a patient.

“Waaailll, no, he hasn’t,” she said, “But he told me all these things he’s done, and then he sent me his picture and Ah recognized him, and Ah looked up General Petraeus and confirmed all the things he said he’s done, AND..." she paused for effect... "He signs all his emails DP.”

She beamed triumphantly.

“Hmmmmmmmm,” I said, non-committally.

“Tell her the best part!” Annie said.

“Oh yeah, he asked me for mah instant messaging address!” Bev announced happily, looking at me as if that should mean something to me.

It didn't. I raised my eyebrows expectantly...one one thousand, two one thousand…nada.

“I don’t understand,” I confessed.

“Well, because he’s gonna be gone and can’t email for awhile,” she said carefully, as if talking to T H E S L O W O N E.

She and Annie then exchanged another excited look, and Bev exclaimed trimphantly, “So we think he’s probably goin' back to Iraq!”

“Huh!” I said.

Annie began talking: “And when he comes here from New York...”

“Wait a minute!” I interrupted. “He lives in New York?”

“Wail yaaaassss, of course!” Bev again, talking to T H E S L O W O N E (yours truly).

“When he comes here from New York to meet Bev,” Annie continues, “I’m going along, but so is Pete” (her pet name for her pistol, and she happily patted her hip to indicate where Pete will be residing on that day).

“Huh!” I repeated dumbly.

They both looked at me, expectantly.

“Isn’t that great news?” Annie said again.

“Yeah, wow, amazing!” I said doubtfully.

They both looked at me with pity in their eyes, no doubt remembering my December crush on the guy whom it turns out is living in his car. I could see that they thought that my lack of enthusiasm was due to jealousy. Uh-huh.

“Uh, good luck with that!” I said lamely.

Bev cast me a final pitying glance before exiting triumphantly.

As soon as she was gone, I sat down in Annie’s cube.

“You do realize, that is NOT General Petraeus!” I said.

“What d’you mean?” Annie asked. “How would you know?”

“Think about it,” I said, “Why on earth would General Petraeus be on match dot com?”

“I don’t know!” Annie said, “Maybe he’s lonely and wants to meet a nice woman!”

“On Match dot com? C’mon, that is NOT General Petraeus!”

“But it could be!” Annie said, stubbornly. “What about the picture?”

“I could get his picture and send it!”

“But think if it IS General Petraeus! Isn’t it exciting?”

“It’s not General Petraeus, and she needs to be careful,” I said, feeling like a real killjoy.

I went into my cube, sat down at my laptop, and opened Google. It took all of ninety seconds for me to confirm that General Petraeus is married, apparently happily.

I sent the link to Annie, waited a couple of minutes, and then went into her cube.

“Did you read it?” I asked.

Long face.“Yeah. You’re going to have to send it to Bev.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wish I were wrong.”

I sent Bev the link, feeling like the mean 7 year old telling a 6 year old there's no Santa. I included a note saying I was sorry but I think she’s being scammed, and I wouldn’t be much of a person if I didn’t speak up.

In a little while I got an email back. She’d read the article, but didn't necessarily believe it. Meanwhile, Annie was re-reading it. She looked up as I walked past her cube.

“Boy, if it is General Petraeus emailing her, he’s not very nice,” she said.

Uh-huh.

Sometimes, even at 10:00 in the morning, a margarita sounds REALLY good.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly - Viewer Discretion Advised

So my boss came by my cube a couple of weeks ago, as is her wont, sat down and said, “I saw a truck with, uh, balls hanging off the back of it this afternoon. Do you know anything about that?”

Huh?!?!?!

Do I know anything about, uh, balls? A little…but didn’t really wanna have that conversation with my boss. About trucks? Nothing, zero, nada…although the word “Hemi”, which I can’t define, did leap, unwarranted, into my mind. About trucks with balls? Even less than I know about trucks…and why was she ASKING me this? Or should I say, why was she asking ME this?

Then I realized, shoot, it’s probably because I'd recently had Ike neutered, which I’d discussed with her as I'd needed to telecommute that day, and like it or not, I'd therefore, albeit inadvertently, opened the topic for discussion. But really, I didn’t think I had (opened the topic for discussion). I mean, when I sent her an email about it, this was the pic I'd included of Ike, HELLO.




















“Uh, whaddya mean, balls hanging from a truck?” I asked.

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I was driving down I-35, and this big pick-up truck came up next to me and then passed me, very loud, and there were, uh…balls hanging from it’s rear.”

“Balls?”

“Yeah.”

“As in…?”

“Yeah!”

"Whoa. I’ve never seen that...”

“Yeah, I hadn’t either, and if I never see it again it’ll be too soon, but here’s the thing that I don’t get…it was a BIG truck…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and the balls were…tiny. I mean miniscule.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah! What’s the message there?”

I’m willing to concede there are testosterone challenged males who feel the need to do this (hang balls from their trucks). Obviously this is so, because the evidence is all around us. But who are they doing this for, besides themselves, I mean? Certainly not for women, because all of the women I’ve discussed this with have, like my boss and me, been thoroughly grossed out. And if they’re hanging them there for other guys to see…well why not have them in proportion to the size of the truck, or even BIGGER? Shoot, if I were a guy inclined to do this, I’d be looking for basketballs to make my point.

Since this interesting little late afternoon conversation, I’ve googled the topic. The things are called (yuck): BumperNutz, Car Balls, Truck Balls, Truck Nutz, etc. They’re sold online (of course) and come in a variety of colors and sizes, from small (4”), flesh-colored little biker nuts ($8.75) to BumperBalls Designer Series, “Big Boy Style” tumbled brass balls. Designed for bigger trucks and Hummers, those weigh 3 pounds and cost $55.00, but Key ring nuts are also available (I am not making this up!) for those nuts who are so insecure they have to have access, of a sort, at all times, to their masculinity.

































I’ve concluded this must be a basic gender difference, because I can’t imagine a woman having a fake uterus hanging down from the back of her car.

Ever.

Not under any circumstances.

But if a woman were to do that...say, a woman selling Mary Kay cosmetics, with a big pink Cadillac… how far do you think that woman would be able to actually drive, with a big pink uterus hanging out from the rear of her car, before she got pulled over and issued a ticket? I mean, seriously…

That’s all I’m gonna say about it.

Welllllllll, almost.

OK, I have to admit, along the same lines...when we first moved to Texas, I admired that they’d done it, but wondered how it had come to be that the logo for the University of Texas was a line drawing of women’s fallopian tubes. It’s not, of course, the logo is Texas Longhorns, but just look at this, and you’ll see what I mean:



























I rest my case.

Happy Halloween!

I love Halloween. These two pics are of a neighbor's house, just a few doors down from me. Their daughter is in college, and their son is 14, but they still knock themselves out putting up a wonderful Halloween display each year, and this display, of 2 giant spiders, complete with web, is over the top! Xander took one look, last week, and decided he wanted to trick or treat on my street.

When my kids were young, we always had a Halloween party. I enjoyed it at least as much as the kids did, and we'd start planning it about a month ahead of time; what games we'd play, what our costumes would be, what the theme would be. Some years we spent crisp, sunny afternoons in pumpkin patches, looking for the perfect pumpkin to carve into the scariest/funniest/strangest Jack-O-Lanterns, and some years we made do with what we found at the grocery store, but always we washed and roasted and salted the pumpkin seeds and ate them afterward.

I have a costume closet in my house, and it contains many of the costumes that I made for my kids over the years. Hanging in that closet, even as I write, are the following costumes: ET...sewn by me for Alex when she was 6. I spent an entire week feverishly sewing that costume, using a Vogue pattern. It has not only a lining, but an interlining...what was I thinking? Then there's the genie costume that Katharine fancied when she was 7...the grey poodle skirt from when Kath was 10...Alex's blue crayon costume from when she was 11...Mike and Chris' pumpkin costumes from when they were 2...I'm sure you get the idea.

And then there was the year that Mike and Chris were 7. They were cubscouts, and I was in graduate school, but I was also their scout leader, and we'd invited all the boys in the den to our house for a Halloween party. The boys were serious fans of Captain Hook, so we'd decided to have a pirate theme for the party. In keeping with this plan, I'd sewn black velvet eyepatches for all the boys, and Mike, Chris and I had spent some happy time one evening placing those patches and many other little treasures inside the brown paper goody bags, in anticipation of that party.

A couple of nights before the party, I made a late night run to the grocery store. I'm not sure why, but I've noticed there are always a number of seemingly random items stocked at odd places in grocery stores. For example, there might be a cluster of cellophane bags filled with those little green plastic toy soldiers hanging right above the Tide laundry detergent...and I've never known if this is because some childless store manager thinks a kid having a meltdown in the laundry aisle might be placated by those things or if it's simply because some stock clerk got distracted...
Anyway, as I perused the aisles late that night, enjoying a little well earned time to myself, I spotted one of those stock juxtapositions...a vertical display of beautiful little red velour pouches filled with fake gold coins, in the feminine hygiene aisle (of all places!). I couldn't believe my luck! I remember thinking to myself as I pushed my cart, at high speed, toward the display, "Wow, the only time I've ever seen these foil covered chocolate coins in the grocery store is close to Christmas! How cool is this?" I quickly pulled a dozen bags, each holding 5 coins, off the rack and tossed them into my cart, thinking, "I can't believe my luck! These'll be perfect for the boys' goody bags..." Feeling proud of myself, I pushed my cart toward the front of the store, ready to check out. Ha! Was it my imagination, or did those two women I'd just passed, fellow late night shoppers, give me a look? The neighborhood elementary school was filled with competitive Moms, and just as it occurred to me that I probably wasn't the only Mom hosting a pirate-theme Halloween party that year, I began to feel a little smug, because it appeared that I may have been the only Mom who'd had the good fortune to stumble on this cache of foil covered chocolate coins which, coincidentally, I'd depleted...yes, that's right, the entire display was in my cart...which got me to thinking, I hadn't checked the price, and as money was a consideration...I turned my cart around, wheeling it back down the aisle, past the 2 women who were definitely scrutinizing me as I walked past, sheesh!

I felt incredulous and my heart sank when I saw the price: $5 for each bag of 5 coins! Shoot, the red velour bags were pretty, and the coins were big and GORGEOUS, but $5 a bag? What kind of exotic chocolate was this? I picked up one of the pretty bags and examined it carefully, straining to read the fine print on the small tag, because I wanted to see why these chocolates were so prohibitively expensive. I felt my face growing warm, and suddenly knew with awful certainty that my face had just turned the same bright red as the velour pouches as the following words, in small print on the tags, came into focus: "features silicone lubricant, reservoir tip, golden color and a ribbed texture for your pleasure..."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaarrrggghhhh! I dropped the pouch as if it were on fire, and immediately shot a quick look around me, fervently hoping that no one who knew me, even slightly, was in the store. No wonder those women had scrutinized me! I'd been about to purchase 5 dozen "Extra Large! Extra Strength!" gold condoms, and had I purchased them, I would have dispensed them as goody bag party favors to a bunch of 7-year-old cubscouts...

What a party that would have been! My guess is, just about the time the parents were showing up to pick up their sons, all the little boys would have been happily blowing up condoms on my front lawn...although I have a feeling, had that happened, I might have gotten out of being the den mother right then and there...

Plastic Fantastic Lover

OK, here's Part Two, as promised.

When I began chatting on the net, Anthony and I had been separated for awhile, but we weren't yet divorced. I wasn't ready to date, so chatting on the net, in the evenings, after the boys were asleep, seemed a safe and harmless way to have some contact with other adults. I always went to the same adult chat room. I'd made quite a few friends there, and there was always someone new trying to figure out what was going on, so I was usually completely engaged by just staying in the main room. Sometimes I had private conversations, but the group in the main room was lively and fun, and that's where the action seemed to be. I noticed that sometimes, although friends' names would show up in the room, those friends would be strangely silent, not participating in the dialogue. I just thought they were away from their computers and had forgotten to click, "I'm away from my computer". (Yes, I still am that gullible.)

It's hard to explain what a talented, funny group of people had found their way to that chat room for a couple of months that fall. Everyone had a role, and you'd come in and be greeted enthusiastically, and jump right in. It's what I imagine it must be like being part of a team writing a sit com. I've never encountered anything remotely similar again.

However, even after being a regular for several weeks, I remained blissfully unaware of the meaning of "Adult Chat Room", until one night, when I was chatting with G, and he typed, "You know, there are pictures on this site of some of the people in this room."

"Really?" I typed back. "Wow, I'd love to see pics of some of the people we chat with!"

He told me how to access the pics.

Oh, my.

I’d never in my life seen pics like that, and to think they were on the internet, for anyone to see...I couldn’t believe it. I also couldn’t tear myself away...

After about half an hour, G private messaged me. "What do you think?" he typed, and I knew he was laughing, because I knew he’d gotten a kick out of shocking me. "You are SO bad!" I typed. "Well, you already knew that, though," he typed, and I knew he was still laughing.

Because it was an adult chat room, there were many times when I'd been in the room that I'd been pm’d (private messaged) by guys asking me if I wanted to have cybersex. I'd always said no, but the truth was, I had no idea what I was turning down because I didn't have any idea what cybersex was. It seemed like one of those things that I should have already known, and accordingly, I was too embarrassed to ask anyone to explain it. I couldn't even bring myself to ask G about it; I knew he'd tease me.

Sooooooo...one Friday night when I was home alone, chatting and listening to Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow, and a very articulate guy who was a stranger to the room pm'd me and asked me if I wanted to have cybersex with him, I asked him outright: What is that, exactly?

He explained.

Oh, my.

Uh-huh.

What a concept. Gives a whole new meaning to the idea of safe sex, for sure, but it seemed like it would be more a guy thing than my thing. Call me old fashioned, but I was pretty sure I still preferred to know and like anyone before I’d even consider having sex with him, and what’s more, I was pretty sure I still preferred to be physically in the room together...able to literally reach out and touch each other...and yet...perhaps I was hopelessly behind the times...and even if I weren’t...frankly, it had been a while, and there was no one even on the horizon for me to...um...interact with, so to speak...soooooo...

Mr. Articulate went on to explain that he was in his 20's, and that he was a student working on an MFA in writing at one of New York’s finer institutions of higher learning. Of course, it being the internet, that could have been (and probably was) a lie. He could have been a woman; he could have been a plumber and/or serial killer, for all I knew, but he seemed bright and was definitely articulate...the perfect Plastic Fantastic Lover, I thought. The boys were out for the evening, so I was home alone, with no danger of being interrupted...suddenly feeling adventuresome, I said OK.

Sitting up straight in front of the keyboard, my imagination kicked into high gear as I tried to imagine his opening foray...total fantasy time! I couldn’t help but think of one way I might approach this little exercise: I’m standing backstage at a packed theatre. On stage, a performance has just begun. Although there are actors in front of the curtain and technicians behind it, no one notices me, because I’m standing in the shadows, off to the side of stage right, alone and, for all practical purposes, invisible. I’m so close to the heavy stage curtain that if I lean forward ever so slightly, the soft silk lining brushes against my face, a not unpleasant sensation. I brush my face against it, and as I do, I move my right hand slightly, grasping the edge of the curtain, and crushing the combination of silk and soft, thick velvet into the palm of my hand. Suddenly, I feel you standing behind me, so close that I can feel your breath, warm on the nape of my neck, and my heart begins to pound as you roughly slip your hand beneath my...

Ah, but that was my cybersex fantasy, not his. I sat up a little straighter, and stared at the monitor screen, eager to see what words Mr. Articulate would choose for his first move.

"What are you wearing?" he typed.

Oh! Hmmmmmmmm. After my own imaginative flight of fancy, I was expecting something a little more articulate and creative than that. But I was new to this, what did I know? I'd just come from the gym, so I answered honestly. I typed, "I'm wearing a grey leotard and grey leggings...", then I hit "send", and waited eagerly for his response.

He typed, "Mmmmmmmmm, you look great, OK, I'm kissing you, ohhhhhhh, you feel soooo good...mmmmmmmmmmm, I’m kissing your neck...mmmmm...I'm removing your leotard..."

He stopped typing abruptly, which was fine with me, because his words were having absolutely no effect on me, no doubt at least in part because my brain was saying, "He’s kidding, right? What does he mean, I look great? He has no idea what I look like..." etc., etc. Not exactly the proper frame of mind for cyber sex, but my frame of mind, nevertheless.

I waited. In a few moments, he began typing again, and I read the following: "Errrrrr...um....OK, I’m sorta stuck here. A grey leotard and leggings, I can visualize that, ‘cause I see women in those things at the gym all the time, and I have to admit, I think they’re very hot, but...I also have to admit, I've never actually removed one of those things...they fit so tight and they don’t appear to have any seams or zippers or anything...I don't have a clue how you women get into 'em, and I can't even begin to imagine how you get out of 'em...you're gonna have to help me out here a bit."

Suddenly I felt like Mrs. Robinson seducing Benjamin...and I couldn't help it...I began to laugh.
I typed, "Hey there, I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this..." Then I signed out of the room for the evening and turned off my computer.

I poured myself a glass of wine, and curled up, alone but content, with a book, as Gracie Slick continued to belt it out in the background: Don't you want somebody to love, don't you need somebody to love, wouldn't you love somebody to love, you'd better find somebody to love...

PUNKED at Christmas...

As a kid, my Christmases were lean: the orange in the toe of my Christmas stocking a coveted treasure each year. And for many reasons when I was a kid, Christmas was a time of tension and anxiety for my family. That’s my excuse, as an adult, for viewing Christmas as one of the best opportunities all year to exercise my revenge on the past; a time to lavish gifts, affection and fun on friends and family. At Christmas, less is not more, more is more, and bah, humbug to everyone who thinks this somehow makes Christmas commercial. Quantity has always been appealing, but the gifts can be modest, and so Christmas has always been a time when I gave my kids gift-wrapped packages of pajamas, socks and mittens in addition to toys, books, and games.

When my kids were still young, we began writing clues on the tags. Originally, the clues were helpful (e.g., “Merry Christmas, Christo - the cat’s ______s” was the clue for a pair of pajamas). But eventually, we realized that it was even more fun to have the clues either obscure (“What rhymes with devotion but is not a love potion and didn’t come from the ocean” - scented lotion...) or downright misleading (“Merry Christmas, Mike - you don’t think earmuffs are dorky, do you?” for a video game he’d been coveting).

Christmas Eve has always found us sitting in front of the fireplace, passing out gifts, one at a time, and reading clues and trying to guess what’s in the package before it’s opened. We always begin with the youngest and go on up through the oldest. It takes hours to open all the gifts in this way, but even after getting divorced I’ve kept up this tradition, because it’s a lot of fun.

Somewhere along the way, long before the show, "You've been punked", we began coming up with one “punked” gift each year. I think it began the year that Alex wanted a Swatch wristwatch, and didn’t expect to get it. That year, I got her a Swatch guard to put on her regular watch. She accepted this modest gift with remarkable grace. A couple of hours later, after every gift had been opened, I suddenly “remembered” a gift still stashed in my bedroom closet - the coveted Swatch.

We all enjoyed her reaction so much that it became a tradition for us to punk an immediate family member each Christmas. The punked gift always has an element of spontaneity, in that the punking is never consciously assigned or rotated among family members, it just evolves, depending on circumstances. One year, as the punked gift, I gave Christopher a magician’s straight jacket...but that’s another story.

This year, with everyone grown, for the first time ever we drew names. To be accurate, we drew names for everyone except Xander, who at age 3 still has many years ahead of him of hauling in a full load of loot each Christmas in this family. Still, everyone was more than a little concerned about how it would all work; going from hours of opening gifts on Christmas Eve to opening just one or two gifts per person. This year, there were 10 of us at my house on Christmas Eve: Anthony, me, Alex, her fiancé Chris, Katharine, Brenden, Xander, Melanie (Brenden’s mom), Mike, and Christopher. Katharine had issued an evite for the drawing, so none of us knew whose names anyone other than ourselves had drawn.

Nevertheless, shortly after I returned from Chicago, where I’d spent Thanksgiving with Alex and Chris, Katharine and Mike contacted me and told me they’d drawn Chris and Alex’s names and needed gift suggestions for them. I suggested Lyric Opera tickets, as I knew that was a luxury Alex and Chris would enjoy that simply isn’t in their graduate student budget.

Kath and Mike both agreed it was a good idea, and here is where the fun began. Katharine is younger than Alex by almost 3 years, and there’s always been a certain amount of sibling rivalry between the two, with Katharine feeling that Alex discounts many of her ideas in an older/younger sibling sort of way. Given that history, Katharine said that she wanted to think up bogus tickets to something awful, with the idea that Alex and Chris would think it was Katharine’s flawed idea of a good time. Mike and I loved the idea, and proceeded to let it stew in the back of our minds.

A couple of nights before Alex and Chris flew into town, I met Kath and Mike for a quick bite to eat. “I’ve got an idea for an AWFUL show,” I said. In response to Katharine’s, “What is it?” I said, “Hamlet on Ice.” :) Understand, there is no such show, and probably for very good reason. Kath came up with the idea of saying she’d heard about the show by listening to the end of a review on NPR (“Dunno whether they thought it was good or bad, because I tuned in too late, but they reviewed it!”). We also came up with the idea that the show was conceived when a group of actors who’d been performing Hamlet in Denmark went ice skating one night, after the show, and decided it would be a natural idea to perform Hamlet on ice. It sounded believable and incredibly awful. Katharine was immediately having fun punning: “Something’s rotten in the SKATE of Denmark”.

Mike spent all day Christmas Eve designing and producing the bogus tickets. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a visual arts major at UA. He issued the tickets for Allstate Arena, a real arena north of O’Hare airport in Chicago. He dated the tickets for an incredibly inconvenient 7 PM Wednesday night performance. Among other things, Alex tutors on Wednesdays, and this meant she’d not only have to miss tutoring (which is frowned upon) but she’d have to come up with a substitute tutor (no easy task). He priced the bogus tickets at $58.00 each (slightly over our limit of $50 per person) and issued them not only for separate seats, but for separate ROWS (thank you, Sara, for reminding Mike to do that). Katharine bought card stock on which to print the tickets, and she also bought a perforating machine at Staples, who questioned the legality of what we were doing (but sold Kath the perforating machine, nevertheless).

The tickets look and feel like real tickets. Kath, Brenden, Mike and I were the only people who knew these tickets were bogus. Alex and Chris were nothing short of amazed when they opened the envelope containing them. They thanked Kath and Mike profusely, and insisted they were thrilled with receiving tickets to Hamlet on Ice on a Wednesday night at an arena so far from their apartment that they’d have to leave by 4:00 to get there by 7:00, only to be sitting three rows and several seats apart from each other. Kath pouted, “I don’t think you really like them!” and they protested, “No, we DO, it’s just that we’ve never heard of Hamlet on Ice...” They did have to take a cigarette break by themselves on the patio to process this “gift”.

As usual, gift opening continued in an orderly fashion for another 45 minutes or so, at which time Kath, Mike and I descended upon Alex and Chris and exclaimed loudly: “Merry Christmas! You’ve been PUNKED!” and proceeded to give them the real tickets:

Two seats, together, to a Friday night Lyric Opera performance
of Verdi's Rigoletto.

They were incredulous. Everyone was incredulous. The bar’s been raised very high this year, and in spite of the big change in the number of gifts, once again, a good time was had by all. Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope you all had as happy a Christmas as I did.

UA Parents Weekend...

This morning my ex and I are flying to Tucson to visit Mike and attend Parents' Weekend at UA. I'm looking forward to seeing Mike and hearing how his classes are going. Mike has always been rather quiet and shy, and before he started college, he talked a lot about how he wanted to make the Dean's List, etc. He seemed to be approaching college as The Serious Student.

However, it appears his goals may have changed. In his infrequent phone calls home ("Mom, please send my..." (fill in the blank), or "Mom, please send me the recipe for..." - which always leaves me thinking, this sounds like the munchies, is he smoking pot?...anyway, in his infrequent phone calls home, he assures me that he's having a terrific time and is thoroughly enjoying himself in his freshman year at college. In his first couple of weeks in Tucson, he acquired a steady girlfriend (S, a math major, who sounds great and whom I'm looking forward to meeting), a lot of new friends, and a Longboard (a super long skateboard), on which he apparently zooms around campus (all 6'2" of him) between classes.

In a recent phone call ("Mom, when EXACTLY are you and Dad getting in, and when are you leaving?") in response to my asking how classes are going, he answered vaguely, "They're going OK!"

"What does OK mean? How's English? Tell me what kind of grades you're making. Be concrete!"

"Mom, it's not the end of the semester yet!"

"But surely you've had some exams, or done some papers. What about midterms?"

"Ummmmm, they don't really give midterms here..."

"Michael, I want to know right now how you're doing in your classes!"

"Mom, I'm doing OK...B's and C's..."

"What happened to the goal of making Dean's List?"

"Mom, I've come to realize that my friendships are as important to me as my classwork, and I'm trying to find balance between the two."

Ha! I give him an A+ in BS-101.

In addition to seeing how Mike is doing, I'm also looking forward to attending the college football game on Saturday (UA Wildcats vs. Stanford). I LOVE football...all those big guys moving across the field...that is TRUE poetry in motion insofar as I'm concerned. I was a huge Cowboys fan for several years, and one year when I was a cubscout leader, I rescheduled all the den meetings so I wouldn't miss any of the Cowboys' games. I know, I know, they had some rotten guys, but to watch The Triplets passing the ball down the field...and I had a terminal crush on quarterback Troy Aikman.

A couple of light years ago, I briefly dated a former professional football player. Jimmy had been a special teams guy for several years for various teams, including Da Bears, but when I dated him he'd retired from all that and sold cellphones, and coached kids' football camps for fun.

I usually go for brains and a sense of humor. Jimmy had neither, but he spent a lot of time at the gym, staying in shape, and he could bench press massive amounts of weight. He spoke very little, and when he did speak, it was in a monotone. His standard response to almost any question was: "Cuz," (pause), "I'm an ATH-leet."

"Jimmy, why do you drive this car?"

"Cuz..............I'm an ATH-leet."

"Jimmy, what do you mean you don't eat fish, why not?"

"Cuz.............I'm an ATH-leet."

"Jimmy, why are you 45 minutes late?!?!?!"

"Cuz.............I'm an ATH-leet."

Come to think of it, I don't even know if he could read, but that was irrelevant, because we didn't exactly spend our time together discussing literature.

Of course, the relationship couldn't last. I ended it when I realized that as much as I liked having my own private arm candy, (or, in this case, The Big Rock Candy Mountain) the real turn on for me, even over a guy who can throw the ball, will always be the guy who can tell me that the actual term for the shape of a football is prolate spheroid...even if that guy is a little dweeby. Now, if I encountered such a guy, AND he looked great, AND he was athletic...

*sigh*

A girl can dream.

A Night at The Symphony

I didn't make it to the nail salon today. I was on my way there when I got a phone call from my daughter, Katharine (coincidentally my symphony date this evening). Originally, I'd planned to pick her up at her house in Richardson so we could drive to the concert together, in one car, but she called just before 6:00 to tell me she was still at work, ergo still downtown, and wondered if we could we just meet at the symphony. She sounded tired and said she'd been so busy she hadn't eaten all day, so I suggested we both drive immediately to the Meyerson for an early dinner before the symphony. I didn't have to twist her arm.

By 7:00 we were seated at one of the many small tables covered with crisp white tablecloths in the vast lobby of the Meyerson. Katharine ordered a glass of chardonnay and I ordered one of merlot, and then we walked through the buffet line, where we helped ourselves to a couple of kinds of pasta, salad, and bread, with dessert and coffee to follow. I couldn't help but think that this was a very civilized way to begin an evening at the symphony.

The program tonight was Shostakovich's 9th Symphony and Copeland's Clarinet Concerto (performed by Gregory Raden), followed by Schuman's 2nd Symphony. Katharine attended high school just down the street from the Meyerson , at Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing Arts in Dallas. Booker T is as close to the old tv show, Fame, as any high school is ever going to get. A lot of very talented kids have gone there; Nora Jones was one of Katharine's classmates. Admission to Booker T is by audition, but many who try don't make it; Katharine was successful, and her instrument was clarinet, so she had a special interest in tonight's concert.

I don't subscribe to the DSO. I bought these tickets on a whim, at the last minute, and I wasn't sure where our seats were located, but I really lucked out: our seats were front center orchestra. Wellllllllll...not RIGHT in front, but who wants to be right in front? I'm not going to be specific about where we sat, because if I did, names might have to be changed to protect the innocent, or we might be killed, etc. Suffice it to say we were close enough to see the stage well...REALLY well.

And so the concert began. The Shostakovich was wonderful,and the Copeland was incredible, a terrific performance by a virtuoso clarinetist. At intermission we went to the lobby; we discussed the music and people watched and talked home repairs, a favorite topic for both of us these days.

After intermission, as we got settled in our seats to enjoy the Schuman, I realized that in these seats, my eyes appeared to be at the crotch height of all of the musicians. I don't know why I didn't notice this rather interesting phenomenon during the first half of the concert, but I didn't (maybe that glass of merlot was a little more effective than I thought it was...whatever)...but suddenly, after intermission...it was as if my old eyes had just figured out how to focus, and, without thinking about it, I scanned what I could see on the stage...nothing very interesting, (nothing I hadn't seen before) until...***GLEEP***WTF?

The musicians were still tuning their instruments. I nudged Kath. "Check it out...the lap of the guy to the (I'm not even going to say Right or Left here) of Andrew Litton..." (for all you non-Texans, Andrew Litton is the conductor of the DSO). Kath gave me a rather wilting look, that said, without her actually saying it, "MUH-THUR!", but she looked...I watched her eyes scanning...and then, just as the lights went low and the music started, she saw what I'd seen...and I saw her eyes go wide...and then we both began to try to not laugh (especially because we both have a tendency to snort when we really get laughing)...

WHAT WE SAW: How shall I put this delicately? Ummmmmmmmm...there was a veritable...tent...in the lap of one of the musicians. I mean, it was...HUGE. And this guy just looked like...well...just an ordinary guy. Not even ordinary...a little on the dweeby side. And he was of an age...well, let's just say, if he and I were having a conversation, he'd get my context. By which I mean, if I said, "So where were you when Kennedy was shot?" he wouldn't blurt out, "Good God! Ted Kennedy's been SHOT?" Nevertheless, in spite of his dweebiness, in spite of his age, there it was...this...tent...with apparently an active three-ring circus beneath it...in marked contrast to all the other male musicians around him. I tried not to stare but I couldn't help myself.

At one point I thought it must be a fanny pack, and that he must have something in it; like a big kerchief in case he perspired or something.

But then it appeared to move.

On it's own.

I've never seen a kerchief in a fanny pack do that.

I didn't stare throughout all 4 movements of the Schuman; I SWEAR I didn't (and if Kath says otherwise, she's lying). But I admit I stared intermittently during all 4 movements, expecting to see the tent...deflate. But it didn't happen. Anxiously, I awaited the end of the concert. I applauded impatiently, waiting for that magic moment, when all the musicians stand...and it happened, as it must; eventually they all stood, and when they did, I admit my eyes were glued to the tent which just...disappeared.

Standing, he looked like every other male musician on the stage. Welllllll...perhaps his trousers were a little more...pleated?...in front...but maybe not. Kath thinks it was just cheap fabric, tenting in his lap as cheap fabric will sometimes do.

Maybe she's right.

I don't know.

I just wish I knew the size of his feet.

maintenance and manicures

I've spent the day finishing up the work on the upstairs baseboards. The rooms are looking good, but my hands are a mess. I hate wearing gloves, and as a result, I have paint in places I don't want to think about, including between my fingers and under my nails, and this after scrubbing so well and so long I could probably have done surgery.

I'm going to the symphony tomorrow night and Sunday afternoon, and to look presentable I’m going to need a manicure and pedicure. Every time I go for a manicure, I feel as if I’m back in high school and I’ve been called out of class to the principal’s office. I know I haven’t actually done anything wrong, but I also know that I’m going to end up feeling as if I have. Whether the manicurist is male or female, young or old, it’s always the same: they take one look at my hands and nails, tsk tsk loudly, and ask, "What is it you do for a living again?"

They never seem to understand that I prefer my own nails, and I prefer them short and unpolished most of the time. Nevertheless, short nails or not, I’m not above having them painted a glorious Kickass Red when I’m in the mood, and when I’m going to the symphony, I’m in the mood. I always go to the same place for my manicures and pedicures, and the regulars know not to try to talk me into Power Nails (acrylics) or their idea of a good color. I have very definite ideas of my own on what constitutes a good color, and as I’m paying, I get to choose, and as for Power Nails...forget it. I tried those once, years ago, when I was going to some very dressy event. I managed to dislodge one within the first couple of hours (I think I was opening a jar and slipped), which meant a trip back to the shop to have it redone, and then...those frigging long nails got in the way of everything I do. I couldn’t get them off fast enough, and getting them off was no picnic...I vowed never again, and I’ve kept that promise.

I’m a low maintenance woman. Most of the time, I do my own manicures and pedicures and even cut my own hair, although a couple of times a year I do have my hair cut professionally. I’ve been going to the same guy for haircuts for several years, and his reaction on seeing me is similar to that of the manicurists.

Tuan always welcomes me warmly, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve been in. I suspect the warmth with which he greets me has more to do with the fact that I tip well than with any actual desire on his part to see me. Nevertheless, he always gives me a big hug, and exclaims enthusiastically: "Zhoodie! Long time, no see! Welcome back!" He then takes my hand and leads me to a chair in front of a huge mirror, with lighting that makes me look about 15 years older than I am (at least, I HOPE that’s what’s happening in that mirror). I sit down in the chair and he moves behind me and begins to run his hands through my hair. Slowly picking up long strands of my hair from each side of my head, he looks at the strands noncommitally, and then, making eye contact in the mirror, says, in a sad voice, "Zhoodie, you do not geev me much to work weeth!"

What can I say? Tuan is right.

Tomorrow the manicurists have their work cut out for them.

The Topless Bar

Yesterday evening I was out running errands in preparation for my imminent drive to Arizona to get Mike settled at college. Because I was running errands, I sent Mike to the airport to pick up his dad (my ex), who'd been in Chicago for the past 5 days to attend a memorial service for an elderly cousin. While he was there, my ex also visited friends and family, including our eldest daughter, Alex, and her fiancee, Chris (not to be confused with our son, Chris, or my ex-boyfriend, Chris).

Mike and I both arrived home around 10 PM and, as is often the case, we ended up sitting around in the living room, talking about our respective days.

"So how'd it go, driving to the airport to pick up Dad?" I asked. (There'd been severe thunderstorms in addition to rush-hour traffic to contend with as Mike drove to the airport.)

"Oh, it was fine," he said. "Dad took me out for dinner afterward, at Chipotle's, and I had a really good time with him. We talked about humor, and movies, and stuff like that. I'm really glad I can talk to him about stuff like that. I don't think most kids can have a conversation like that with their Dads, and I'm glad I can."

He paused, a pregnant pause. I waited.

He sighed. "Sometimes, though, I just don't get Dad at all!" he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He sighed again. He said, "OK, well, Dad was telling me about his trip to Chicago, and it sounded really neat. He saw Alex and Chris, and Ked and Betsy and Buff, and a bunch of his cousins, and it sounded like he had a really good time..."

"So?"

"Yeah, that sounds great, right?"

"It does, it sounds great," I said.

"Yeah, I thought so too, but then...GET THIS...Dad starts telling me about this really great TOPLESS BAR they all went to..."

"Whaddya mean? Who went?"

"Dad, Ked, Betsy, Buff, and...GET THIS...ALEX and CHRIS!"

"They all went to a topless bar?!?!?!"

"Yeah...and like...I don't care if Dad goes to topless bars...I mean, that's his business, right? I mean, I don't really wanna know about it, but I figure it's his business...but geez...he takes his own daughter to a topless bar??? What's that like for Alex? What's Dad thinking?"

"Wow, I don't have a clue, honey...I can't believe he did that...and I can't believe Alex and Chris went. Wow."

"Yeah, me either, and Dad just kept saying, 'It was actually Ked's idea, he and Betsy go there all the time...' Who's Betsy?"

"Ugh, she's Ked's little sister...I KNOW her...I can't believe they all go to topless bars together...TOO WEIRD!"

"Yeah, I thought so too, and Dad was just so casual about it...like it was No Big Deal...I just kept thinking what that must have been like for Alex..."

We talked about college after that until it was time to go to sleep.

This morning, I called my ex and asked him to meet me for coffee at Starbuck's. He agreed, and as we sat there having our cappuccino's, I said, "So how was your trip?"

"Well," he said, "I already told you about the airline losing my luggage, etc., but other than that, it was great. I really had a good time seeing everyone; Alex and I caught the Toulouse Lautrec exhibit at the Art Institute; I took her and Chris to lunch at Berghoff's, where we had the corned beef...incredible, as always...oh, and Ked knows this great Spanish restaurant where we all met for dinner...Ked, Betsy, Buff and me...and I invited Alex and Chris, and they met us there...we had a great time...it's a tapas bar..."

ROFLMAO

...of course...tapas...a tapas bar...makes sense now.

greasin' on American Express card

I've been re-reading an excellent book, North Toward Home, by Willie Morris. The book, a memoir first published in 1967, is divided into three sections: about his growing up in the '40's in Mississippi; about his coming to Texas in the 1950's to attend college at UT Austin and, after a stint as a Rhodes Scholar, returning to Texas in the early '60's to cover state politics as a writer for the Texas Observer; and finally, about his experiences in New York, where he was the youngest editor ever hired at Harper's Magazine.

This afternoon I came across this passage, from the section where he'd returned to Texas in the early 60's to cover state politics for the Texas Observer: Riding all over Texas...I gave in, as everyone else I knew, to the euphoria of the Texas road, to that curious, liberating exhiliration that comes with taking a car along a flat and empty highway to some place hundreds of miles into the distance. I would keep the speedometer right at 70, wheel-straddle the dead dogs, cats, buzzards, snakes, armadillos, and tarantulas, and aim for the scalding heat mirage rising up from the concrete a mile to the front...

I smiled reading it. Maybe you have to have done it to appreciate it, but there's something about getting in a car and driving across Texas...it's so VAST...and there's a stark sort of beauty to the desert.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm planning an imminent road trip to Arizona with my son, Michael, who'll begin his freshman year at the University of Arizona at Tucson in August. So, directionally impaired as I am ("What do you mean it's 1000 miles? It's only 5 inches on the map! Hey! Point the map back in the direction I'm driving!"), I've been spending a fair amount of time the past couple of days at the Rand-McNally site planning our trip in infinitesimal detail.

Because it's on the way (sort of) and because Mike's never been there, I've decided to take a couple of extra days for us to dip down into one of my favorite places in Texas, Big Bend National Park. Big Bend is in a remote part of the state: it's a good 5 hours out of cellphone range. So today I called (no internet, either, at least, not reliable enough for hotels to have online reservations) The Gage, and got LUCKY (it's usually booked) and got a room for 2 nights (the camping gear won't fit in the car with all the stuff Mike is taking for college). The first day, we'll leave Dallas at the crack of dawn and drive like demons the 553 miles to Marathon and The Gage. We'll still be a good hour outside the park, but that's OK...Marfa, and it's Mystery Lights, is just 30 miles down the road from The Gage, and my ex is going to lend us his Russian night vision goggles, to enhance our viewing experience.

This will be my 4th trip to Big Bend. The first time I went was a couple of years ago. I'd signed up for a 3-day camel trek in Big Bend with The Texas Camel Corps. When he found out that I was going alone, a friend, very familiar with the area, had cautioned me that I'd not only be 5 hours out of cellphone range, but on the Texas/Mexico border. He advised me not to drive alone in the area at night, and went so far as to make me promise not to drive my own car, saying, (rather ominously, I thought), "Aside from the fact that you're more likely to have car trouble in your own car, with all the miles you have on it, and you know that if you do have car trouble, without a cellphone, you're screwed, you've said yourself you'll have to leave your car in a public park for the 3 days you're on the trek, and it'd be just too easy, Jude, to break into your car" (I drive a ragtop).

So I rented a bigger and more substantial car, with a hardtop, and happily, if somewhat nervously, took off for my adventure (I'd never ridden a camel before, either, but that's another story). As I sped west out of Odessa, Texas, looking for the turnoff to Hwy. 385 South, to Marathon, I suddenly remembered that I hadn't packed anything to sleep in (other than my sleeping bag). I'd been warned about the dearth of places to buy anything in that part of the country, so when I saw a big sign advertising a Walmart just before the turnoff, I followed the sign and drove to Walmart to buy some pajamas and other last minutes items that I imagined I might want on the trek. I was happy I'd stopped, because in addition to some cheap but perfectly adequate pajamas, I picked up extra batteries for the night vision goggles and I found a terrific Al Green/Teddy Pendergrass CD (Tired of Being Alone).

At the register, I gave the clerk my American Express card to pay for my purchases. To my surprise, the card was declined. I knew there was no reason for it to be declined, but I wanted to pay for my things and get to Big Bend before dark, so I just gave the clerk another card, which was accepted without any problems.

I went on my way and had a terrific time on the camel trek, learning a lot of things I didn't know about camels (mine didn't spit) and javalenas (we saw quite a few) and tarantulas (which were migrating at that time, and were everywhere on the ground and climbing up the fences at the stables).

A few days after returning to Dallas I received a letter from American Express, saying that as part of AE's comprehensive fraud protection service, all AE cards are routinely monitored for suspicious activity. The letter went on to say, "Suspicious activity has recently been detected on your American Express card. Specifically, a request was recently submitted for authorization of the purchase of a number of items at a Walmart store just outside Odessa, Texas." The letter went on to say that, based on my history of my use of my AE card, AE found it unlikely that I'd be shopping at a Walmart outside Odessa, Texas, and accordingly, AE had refused to authorize the transaction...

Bwwaaahhhaaahhaaahaahahahahahaha....AE doesn't know me as well as they'd like to think they do...and it warms the cockles of my independent heart, to know that.

Plastic Fantastic Lovers

My ex and I had been separated for awhile, but weren't yet divorced, and I wasn't ready to date, so chatting was perfect for me at that time. Chatting on the net, in the evenings, after my kids were asleep, seemed a safe and harmless way to have some contact with other adults. I always went to the same adult chat room. I'd made quite a few friends, and there was always someone new trying to figure out what was going on, so I was usually completely engaged by just staying in the main room. Sometimes I had private conversations, but the group in the main room was lively and fun, and that's where the action seemed to be. I noticed that sometimes although friends' names would show up in the room, they would be strangely silent, not participating in the dialogue, but I just thought they were away from their computers and had forgotten to click, "I'm away from my computer". (Yes, I still am that gullible.)

It's hard to explain what a talented, funny group of people had found their way to that room for a couple of months that fall. Everyone had a role, and you'd come in and be greeted enthusiastically, and jump right in. It's what I imagine it must be like being part of a team writing a sit com. I've never encountered anything remotely similar again.

However, even after being a regular for several weeks, I remained blissfully unaware of the meaning of "Adult Chat Room" until one night when I was chatting with G, and he said, casually, "You know, there are pictures on this site of some of the people in this room." "Really?" I said. "Wow, I'd love to see pics of some of the people we chat with!" He told me how to access the pics.

Oh my.

After about half an hour, he private messaged me. "What do you think?" he asked, laughing. "You are SO bad!" I said. "Well, you already knew that, though," he said, still laughing.

Of course, because it was an adult chat room, many times when I'd been in the room I'd been private messaged by guys asking if I wanted to have cybersex. I'd always said no, but the truth was, I didn't have any idea what cybersex was, and it seemed like one of those things that I should have already known, with the result that I was too embarrassed to ask anyone to explain it. I couldn't even bring myself to ask G about it; I knew he'd tease me.

Sooooooo...one Friday night when I was home alone, listening to Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow as I chatted, and a very articulate guy who was a stranger to the room pm'd me and asked me if I wanted to have cybersex with him, I asked him outright: What is that, exactly? He explained. He also said that he was in his 20's; a student working on an MFA in writing, and he seemed bright and was definitely articulate...the perfect Plastic Fantastic Lover, I thought. Feeling adventuresome, I said OK.

"What are you wearing?" he said. I'd just come from the gym, and I answered honestly. I said, "I'm wearing a grey leotard and grey leggings..." He said, "Mmmmmmmmm, I'm kissing you, ohhhhhhh, you feel soooo good...I'm removing your leotard..." He paused abruptly. He cleared his throat. He said, "Errrrrr...um....I've never actually removed one of those...I don't have a clue how you women get into 'em, and I can't even imagine how you get out of 'em...you're gonna have to help me out here." Suddenly I felt like Mrs. Robinson seducing Benjamin...and I know this is bad, but I couldn't help it...I began to laugh.

I apologized for laughing, and told him I was sorry, but I just couldn't do it after all.

I signed out of the room for the evening, and turned off the computer. In the background, Gracie Slick continued to belt it out: Don't you want somebody to love, don't you need somebody to love, wouldn't you love somebody to love, you'd better find somebody to love...