A friend once told me, "it's impossible to be shy while wearing a spandex bodysuit."

And he was right. There is something strangely liberating about concealing your 9-to-5 self beneath a layer of shiny silver spandex, dramatic stage make-up and a sting-ray cape with neon glowing eyes...

-- Post From My iPhone



When the buzzing sound from my alarm clock infiltrated my deep sleep at 5:15 this morning, I awoke immediately, eyes wide. I rarely remember my dreams, but this morning memories of my dream cut vividly through the pre-dawn haze. I could not remember where I was in the dream, and I can't recall any real sequence of events. All I remember is sitting on a wooden floor, staring down at a baby, my baby. I don't know if the baby was a boy or a girl nor who his/her daddy was. I don't remember--or maybe I never knew--whether the bouncy chair he/she sat in was a shiny new gift or an abused hand-me down. What I do remember is looking down with love in my eyes at a tiny, smiling baby and feeling pure, unadulturated happiness.

I don't and have never wanted kids (though I always reserve the right to change my mind). Maybe my "biological clock," which I've always regarded as little more than myth and legend, is ticking away, messing with my subconscious. Maybe the dream was a simple response to the news that one of my friends recently gave birth to a healthy little boy. Maybe the fact that Jack now seems serious about never wanting children (teaching in inner-city Baltimore will do that to a person) is making me worry that if I ever do change my mind and decide I want to have children, he won't be on board. Maybe I should get a puppy.


Every little bit counts

Every evening for the past three years, Jack and I have unloaded the change from our pockets into a ten-gallon water jug...quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies and the occasional Shekel or Euro. At first, the coins fell with a thud into the empty jug, but over time that thud became a cha-ching as coins, piled on top of coins. When we first implemented our piggy-bank saving method, we promised the money saved would go toward a vacation or something material and frivolous.

Over the weekend, we cashed in our change at our neighborhood grocery store Coinstar machine. We had to carry the coins over in three batches--the water jug (though nowhere near full to the top) weighed too much to carry. Total, we cashed in more than $450 dollars worth of coins!!!

What will we do with the money, you ask?

We're going to blow it--every last bit of it. Most likely on booze, duck confit and crawfish etoufee during our upcoming trip to New Orleans.

It's true what they say--Every little bit counts.


Bad Cat

The crime scene...

The culprit...

-- Post From My iPhone


Pretty girls don't get speeding tickets

Life isn't fair.
The nice guy finishes last. 
Women often earn less than men for doing the same jobs.
People who don't speak educatedly (see what I did there?) have a tougher time in life.
Politicians, movie stars, professional sports players and other people with gobs and gobs of money often live above the law.
Good looking, strong men get all the hot chicks. 
And, pretty girls don't get speeding tickets.

Or so, I thought. 

I'm not saying I'm all that or anything, but I have to admit that I've enjoyed some special treatment based on my good looks and big tits charm.

The regular conductor on my train brings me my favorite candy at least once a week. The men who work at Home Depot practically clamor to help me find "the-stuff-you-use-on-PVC-pipes-you-know what I mean?" Men in bars offer to buy me drinks. And, most importantly men in law enforcement always cut me some slack.

Thanks (I think) to Facebook, I've reunited with various girls I went to middle and high school with, and more than one of them has informed me that they "hated me in school because I always had the biggest boobs and the cutest boyfriend." Weird thing to say to someone you haven't seen in almost a decade, but anyway...The point is, there are women like them all throughout the world who hate women like me. And some of those women become traffic court judges. See where I'm going with this?

That's right, I was found guilty of a traffic violation today. Moi?!? After eleven years as a licensed driver, three tickets thrown out in court and about one million verbal and written warnings from cops more interested in gawking at me through my driver's side window with a big goofy smiles and "bedroom" in their eyes. Once I made a left turn on red in South Philly, and the cop that pulled me over simply lectured me a little and asked me to "please not to make him look bad." Another time I was pulled over on I95 just north of Baltimore and the officer told me I should slow down and gave me a tire safety brochure. Anyway, back to today in court....

I entered the courtroom confidently in my oh-so-innocent-looking, chocolate-colored suit, but as soon as I saw the hard-ass woman judge with wrinkly cheeks and narrow eye sitting behind the desk, I began to worry. And, I knew I was doomed when she confiscated someone's cell phone because they had forgotten to turn it off when they entered the court room.

A glimmer of hope washed over me when the officer who had pulled me over sat down next to me on the bench and smiled. He asked, "I pulled you over, right? What for?" I told him and he smiled broadly and asked how I was doing.

Once we were called to the stand, he smiled at me again and proceeded to tell the judge how cooperative and pleasant I was when he pulled me over. I asked for probation before judgment based on my clean driving record and respectful tone, and all I got was a measly 45$ reduction in the fine, points stand. Hater.