Hey, little sister, shot gun!

Yes, in my version of a Polish wedding, I get to marry Gabriel Byrne while Claire Danes looks on in confusion.

But this wasn’t my wedding.  Hell, we didn’t even GO to the wedding, because the deal was: wedding at 11:30, reception at 6:30, at a venue far, far away in another galaxy. We would have had to find something to do in between the wedding and the reception because, as Dave so poignantly said, “If we go home after the wedding, I’m not going back.”

So we chose the reception, but only after we were promised rare Meats of the East(ern Europe) and a House of Food.

Listen bubs, if you’re planning on attending a Polish wedding reception, the best advice I can give you is to bring a notebook. I used the Notepad app on my iPod to type a few notes, and this is what happened:

• Polisg reception
• Splanx
• Tying on old clothes
• Backup underwear
• T and h already married …. Wars the cockles
• Applying biofreeaze in car changing underwear
• Photo of purse that doesn’t zipin car taking notes told Dave “has anything happened yet “

Translation: I tried on some old clothes, tugged on a pair of Spanx, being sure to tuck a pair of backup underwear in my purse that I realized too late doesn’t zip close. Cockles of heart warmed by the groom (T) and bride (h), who, yes, were already married in a small civil ceremony but who wanted to do it right, this time with 400 guests and head cheese.

The Spanx didn’t even make it into the reception hall. They lasted about as long as it took to pull out of our driveway. Thank god for backup underwear. Thank god, also, for Biofreeze, which I applied liberally in the car, managing to get the jelly-like substance all over my skirt (and backup underwear).

And as I typed frantically away, Dave noted  that “nothing has happened yet.” Oh, Dave. How little you understand the blog of JD.

ANYway, the bride was gorgeous, the groom was handsome, everyone was happy, blah, blah, blah and now onto the FOOD!

First, there were candy bars and mini champagne bottles on every other plate. I selected a candy bar plate!

There was also a platter of mysterious cheeses. Don’t be scared! JD tried each one so you don’t have to, and found them to be not only mysterious but delicious.

A bottle of vodka on every table.

The “House of Food”! Except it was more like a House of Scary Meats and Questionable Cheeses. Mmmm — is that a rib cage I see?

See that big round white thing? A cheese.

The meats of Poland!

Is head cheese a meat or a cheese? It really doesn’t matter, because who in their right mind would eat that?

As we started our delicious dinner (no photos), I anxiously eyed the dessert table. Surely after we ate, there would be a mad run on desserts. What if they ran out? I hate waiting in line! I want my desserts now!

My plate of desserts, which sat on the table, untouched, then traveled home with me on a paper plate covered in napkins, then sat in the fridge overnight, after which I promptly forgot about them.

As we watched the happy bride and groom on the dance floor, I sighed to Dave, “I wanna get married again.” “OK!” he said, more enthusiastically than I would’ve imagined. I continued excitedly, “We can renew our vows on the beach!”

“Oh, I thought you meant you wanted to marry someone else.”

“. . .”

I’m more than a little disturbed by that enthusiastic “OK!” I bet Gabriel Byrne wouldn’t let me marry anyone else.

_______________________

Polish wedding DVD came from here

Su-su-sushi don’t you cry
Take you to the sushi bar and buy you some
Fillet and claw
Clam and tuna
Gonna eat it raw

So then there was that time I was covered in tar.

The end.

Oh, you want details. Well, you would.

Listen, y’all can get covered in tar all by yourselves. You don’t need me to do it! Here’s how it works:

• Park your car 8 blocks from the sushi place because you’re always afraid you won’t find a closer parking space and you’ll end up circling endlessly while your sushi sits there getting stale.
• Walk 7 blocks in broiling heat.
• Encounter a large tar patch that has NO signs or blockades or whatever to keep you from walking on it.
• Look around nervously. There is literally no way to avoid that tar.
• Place one flip-flopped foot (yes, those adorable pink Paul Frank flip-flops that you wear 24/7 [YES, in bed!] even though you’re supposed to be wearing orthotics, but dang, it’s hot and your feet sweat) gingerly on the tarred surface.
• Pay close attention to that sinking feeling. It’s telling you that you should’ve found a detour because this tar is NOT DRY. Your flip-flops are sticking. It’s the freaking La Brea Tar Pit all up in here and YOU’RE WALKING IN IT DUMBASS!
• But what else can you do? There are no signs!
• Grimly, you pull each foot up and with it, about a pound of tar. You feel large chunks of it hit the back of your legs as you walk.
• The name “flip-flop” begins to take on a darker meaning.
• Reach down to flick off those bits of tar from your leg. Realize tar doesn’t flick so much as stick.
• Try flinging former leg tar off of hand. It won’t fling either.
• For god’s sakes, don’t . . . DON’T. Oh, man. You did. You’re going to have to cut off that piece of hair, you know.
• Your face will now begin to itch. Whatever you do . . . boy, you just don’t listen, do you?
• Enter sushi place and ignore the fact that everyone is staring in horror at this tar-encrusted monster who is flinging and flicking and shaking and scratching.
• Pay for sushi with tar-covered money from your tar-filled purse and take your sorry tarry ass home.

Once you’re in the safety of your locked bedroom, consult the experts on tar removal:

These experts will not help you so much as make fun of you, but there’s healing to be found in being mocked and humiliated.

Eat your sushi and quit complaining.

*        *        *

Hey, speaking of tar, remember that guest post on skin tag removal? Guess who wrote that?

GUESS, I said.

It was our friend Junk Drawer Kathy!

Yup. She didn’t want to say “hooha” at her place, so she dragged her triumphant but gag-inducing story of skin tags and lady parts over here, where all manner of grossness is welcome and treated with the respect it deserves.

Thank you, Kathy! (AKA: “Some Lady.”)

Better watch out for the skin tag

0

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WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO

FIRST-EVER GUEST POST AT I DO THINGS!

My policy on guest posts has always been a big selfish NO! because it’s my blog and get your own blog. But then this poor soul reached out to me and said, “Wise JD, your readers — and by extension, the world — need to know how to remove a skin tag.”

Well, guess what? I am never going to remove a skin tag in my life, so why not let “Some Lady” tell us how?

Enjoy!

Tag — You’re It!

OK, so you know how you’re on approach to the Big 5-0 and you keep getting zits?

You are stunned no one told you that you’d get them far past your teens, but you accept it. Zits are relatively easy to get rid of. A little time, a little stringent. You cope.

Besides, if you could pick anything from the family of gross skin disorders, zits win because there are far worse alternatives.

So you’re motorin’ along, dealing with your 40-something zits, but then along comes zit’s idiot brother who crashes parties and everyone hates because he’s an ugly drunk.

That brother is a skin tag. A gnarly, flip-flappy piece of skin that shows up uninvited and never leaves, even when you ask nicely and try to send it off with a six-pack.

I had a skin tag for a few weeks in a very unfortunate place. Right on the county line that runs between East Thigh-Butt and North Hooha.

That’s right. There.

I allow it to camp out undisturbed until one day the tag caught on my underwear and hurt like a mother. The time had come to kick it to the curb. I didn’t want to see a dermatologist because I wasn’t too keen on showing anyone where it was. Isn’t it enough you have to go to the gynecologist and show him all your junk under a flood light? One crotch visit a year is plenty, thank you.

So thus began my venture into Googleland for “how to remove a skin tag at home.”

Ready? Here are the choices:

1. Each night, coat the skin tag with clear nail polish and let it dry. Apply a bandaid. In the morning, use nail polish remover to wipe off the polish and apply a new coat.
2. Disinfect a pair of scissors or nail clippers and CUT IT OFF. You will bleed. A lot and forever.
3. Tie a string, fishing line, or dental floss around the base of the tag and pull tight enough that it cuts off blood flow to the tag. It will balloon, dry up, turn black and fall off.
4. Cover it with duct tape. Yes, duct tape, the staple of handyman toolkits and medical science alike.

The bleeding option was out and so were the bandaid and duct tape methods because I don’t want anything adhesive next to my goodies.

That left only the choke-to-death method.

And so I tie sewing thread in a little noose, hike my leg up on the bathroom sink, and bend over in a position suitable only for advanced yoga enthusiasts.

I pull up on my thigh, hold the string around the tag and pull tight. I miss, try again – pull tight – I miss, try again – pull tight – success!

I choke my skin tag for a few hours then take a shower, where my expertly tied noose is flung off. It is now stuck to the shower curtain, still tied and laughing at me. Amateur.

I make a new noose.

This time, I try sturdier dental floss, mint flavor. Waxed dental floss is sticky and doesn’t tie smoothly. But I try over and over until I sufficiently choke the tag and we all feel minty fresh.

Two days later, the noose falls off again in the shower.

Frack it all.

I think it’s never coming off and I’m going to have to bite the bullet and let a doctor have at it.

But then . . .

Today.

During a review of the situation, I discover that the noose must have worked well enough because now I have what looks like a mushroom growing down there.

A little stem with a dark bulbous cap on top.

I have murdered my skin tag.

I want to yank that sucker off, but I’m afraid of pain.

But afraider still of showing this thing to my gynecologist, who I have to see in a few days. What if it doesn’t fall off in time?

And so I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and pull hard and fast.

The mushroom cap pops right off! I’m standing in the ladies room holding my dead skin tag, feeling triumphant and now finally free of zit’s idiot brother.

So there you have it. How to get rid of a skin tag while keeping absolutely none of your dignity.

You’re welcome.

_________________

Mushroom came from here

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon

The battle against chronic pain continues!

And I WILL win. But not without a few casualties.

Those casualties, unfortunately, will be me. Only in singular. Casualty.

Last week my doctor sat at her computer with her handy book, What Pills HASN’T JD Taken? at her side. She came up with a duo of pharmaceuticals that would beat my back and hip pain into submission.

She shook her tiny clenched fists in the air.

“This is going to work!”

But then she paused and added darkly, “But at what cost?”

Um . . .

The cost, according to her book, of taking a muscle relaxer called something like Tizidizidin (“Tizanidine” — Ed.) was dizziness.

Excellent. Dizzy is fun! Who doesn’t love to spin around until they puke? ME! I mean, me? What I don’t want is drowsy. Drowsy is no good. I mean, it’s fine if I’m just planning to lie on the sofa all day and watch a marathon of Hell’s Kitchen (DO NOT JUDGE), but I wanted to get some things done this weekend. Nevertheless, I waited until Saturday afternoon, after I’d run my errands, to take my first Tizidizidin.

The first thing I felt was a distinct lack of pain. Oh, my gaw. I never believed it would really work. I am not in pain. I am moving and things are not hurting. BIZARRE!

The second thing I felt was a distinct slowing down of motor skills, followed by vicious dry mouth and lack of will to live. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my planned activities.

Dear Makers of Tizidizidin: In addition to the usual warnings of “don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery,” etc., I suggest you include the following:

• Don’t Nair your legs
• Don’t take a shower, especially in a tub where you’ve rinsed Nair off your legs and created a slippery surface even a sober person would have trouble navigating
• Don’t eat crackers and tuna salad, as this will be reduced to a paste the likes of which will take you approximately a month to swallow
• Don’t sort through the mail. You will throw out the checks and try to stick the bills under the refrigerator.
• Don’t get dressed. Those leg holes will be the death of you.
• Don’t brush your hair. What is hair? It doesn’t exist. It’s only a concept.
• Don’t talk on the phone. Those voices are trying to make you go into the scary attic.
• Don’t try to breathe. You don’t need to breathe. You are a starfish!

After standing and staring into space for about an hour, I made a move. For my camera.

I may or may not have been naked when I took this photo.

Finally I fell onto the bed. Every now and then I surfaced enough to form a thought: I am taking the most excellent nap! But I wasn’t really asleep so much as I was dead-ish.

Later — MUCH later, I read the directions:

Symptoms of overdose may include:

• drowsiness
• extreme tiredness
• confusion
• slow heartbeat
• fainting
• dizziness
• slow or shallow breathing
• loss of consciousness

Bingo-How-Fun! All of the above, I think. It’s hard to remember what with all the loss of consciousness.

Soooo . . . will I be taking Tizidizidin again?

Aw, HELL, yeah! It’s a killer appetite suppressant!

*        *        *

So what’s YOUR favorite muscle relaxer? Have you ever tried Tizidizidin? Please don’t tell me if it made you die. I need to fit into that dress I bought.

Always got a mouthful of such sweet things to say
Chewy’s full of sugar and I love her that way

This post was supposed to be about that mythical unicorn of the Sandwich World:

The Candwich!

It’s a sandwich . . . in a can! And I’m sorry to tell you that one of the flavors is BBQ Chicken.

My peeps, you KNOW ol’ JD would eat a Candwich so you don’t have to, but there’s one problem (apart from the fact that I don’t feel like throwing up today): The Candwich is not available for public consumption.

So why is everyone from Stephen Colbert to Gizmodo to D-Listed screaming at us about a product that we can’t even eat yet???

Who cares.

Because today I am pleased and horrified (plorrified?) to introduce:

The Strandwich

Remember how grossed out you were when, after months of nagging your mom, she finally gave in and let you try a Fluffernutter sandwich? Those commercials made it look so good, but the combination of peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff turned out to be the most heinous flavor duet since diced peppers and corn (AKA: Mexicorn!)

I’m'a give you one more second to enjoy the ignorance of youth, because what you didn’t know then?

You now must acknowledge. There is a Strawberry Fluff. It’s here. It’s real. It’s not backing down.

And it is a key ingredient in the newest sensation of the Sandwich World: The Strandwich.

Now, I don’t have the soft white bread of my childhood, but I do have these stale diet hot dog buns.

Mmmm. What you can’t see from this photo is that the bottom of the bun is all soggy. That’s what makes it so diet-y! (i.e., one bite, and you’re done).

I cautiously open the jar of Strawberry Fluff and see . . .

. . . this.

It smells like Mr. Bubble and looks like hardened Pepto-Bismol. And what is that disturbing residue along the rim?

Maybe it just needs a good stirring . . .

. . . errr

The texture is like nothing I’ve ever encountered on this planet. It could definitely be used as a fixative of some sort. Surely it isn’t edible? But, no, there on the label it says, “Now With More Edible!” Oookay.

Fluff meet bun:

YOU GUYS! You’re not going to make me eat that, are you? It’s pink cement! On a stale wet diet bun! I needed two spoons to get it from the jar to the bun! Oh, but wait. I forgot the peanut butter. The peanut butter is the key ingredient that will pull together these two seemingly mismatched components:

Or not.

Seriously, I’m not eating that. Would you? Would anyone?

PRUDENCE! (Click to view action tongue)

Didn’t I just say I don’t feel like throwing up today?

Well, look. I’m not a quitter. I’m going to eat a damn Strandwich if I have to have Dave knock me out and stuff it down my gullet.

Thanks to my can(wich)-do attitude, I remember those stale diet graham crackers.

MUCH more palatable (and with just a hint of sogginess). This looks almost edible. I could be on to something here. My Strandwich will conquer first the Sandwich World and then the Real World! It will be chomped on by all!

No.

I blacked out shortly after taking that one brave bite, but oh, my children. The taste lingers. IT LINGERS!

I have a well-rounded vocabulary. I’ve always thought I was pretty good at expressing myself. I only resort to expletives when it’s absolutely necessary. But I simply can’t find the words to describe the horror of The Strandwich.

Did you know pink has a flavor? It tastes like nightmares and ear-aches and the killer under your bed. Don’t be deceived by its innocent color.

I have created a monster.

A monster that no one will eat.

Except maybe . . .

PRUDENCE!

*        *        *

What’s your most hated sandwich?

________________

Candwich came from here

Time
After time
I sit and I wayyyyyyy-t for your call

It all started with some querulous old lady calling me and rambling on about a music festival and Dom Delmonico.

Or, it was just my lovely mom, politely asking if I’d like to accompany her to a concert at Frontier Days, Arlington Heights’ Fourth of July festival.

Either way, it involved Dennis DeYoung.*

OF STYX!

(*Also known as Dom Delmonico, apparently.)

Why would my mom want to see Dennis DeYoung? Well, some years ago he put out an album of Broadway hits, and the combination of aggressive vibrato and perky mullet were just too much for her to resist.

Hey, before you go making fun of some querulous old lady, I used to think he was kind of cute too, way back in the 70s.

In fact, you could say that Tommy Shaw and Dennis DeYoung were sort of a stepping-stone to what would be my most intense rawk-and-roll-related obsession.

Tommy Shaw looks pretty good these days and is obviously still rawking.

Dennis DeYoung is . . .

Anyway.

The Frontier Days flyer promised “Dennis DeYoung Featuring the Music of Styx.” Not “Dennis DeYoung Sings Broadway Standards.” And nothing about Dom Delmonico.

My mom was fine with that. Dave and I figured we’d humor an old lady, eat some funnel cake, and enjoy watching all the freaks.

Dennis DeYoung? Meh. Whatevs. Dave wanted to hear “Come Sail Away,” and I was curious to see if he’d do “Mr. Roboto.” Other than that? Freak watching.

But then it happened.

“WELCOME TO THE GRAND ILLUSIONNNNNNNN!”

I was on my feet!

“LAY-DAY! FROM THE MOMENT I SAW YOU!”

I was waving my arms in the air!

“OH MAMA I’M IN FEAR FOR MY LIFE FROM THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW!”

I was devil-horning in the general direction of the stage!

“DOMO ARIGATO, MR. ROBOTO!”

I was scream-singing along!

Dave wasn’t quite as into it (nor was my mom, for that matter), but he did express disappointment at every slow song.

Except:

“Lame . . . Oh, wait! This is Babe-I-Love-You — ILOVETHISONE!”

They played most of the hits, including “Suite Madame Blue,” which I’d forgotten all about and also “Lorelei” and “Too Much Time on My Hands” and “Fooling Yourself” and Dennis Delmonico sounded GREAT and the band RAWKED, and, and, and . . .

I LOVE STYX!

And finally, they did “Come Sail Away,” and weeks later, I am STILL having to listen to Dave’s impression:

Zzz’ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’ve GOT TO be freeeeeeeeeeee!

And my mom? I think she went home and played a certain album. And maybe did her own impression.

Has the moon lost her memoreeeeeeeeeeee?
She is smiling alooooooooooooooooooone

*        *        *

Who’s your rawk-and-roll obsession? What’s your favorite Styx song? And most important, who the hell is Dom Delmonico?

______________________
Kilroy and DeYoung came from here
Broadway DeYoung came from here
Styx came from here
Plant and Page came from here
Tommy Shaw came from here
Old DeYoung came from here

Jump by your will or be taken by force
I’ll get you either way
Trying to keep the hellfire lit
I am stalking you as prey

Welcome! Professor JD here. You might already be familiar with my esteemed colleague Dr. JD, who helps troubled and diseased souls across the Internet with their medical issues.

My role is similar. If you have a question, I will answer it! For free! As a professor of . . . things, I consider no question too bizarre or too personal.

So let’s get to it!

Just how often are you puking on your shower curtain? You do know you’re supposed to puke in the toilet, right? When it comes down to cleaning up puke or installing a new shower curtain, it’s a toss-up (see what I did there?) I suggest moving to a new house, one that has a shower door. But aim for the toilet.

Well, first you need to ask yourself if you even like porn. Maybe you’re one of those weirdos who doesn’t get turned on by photos of naked dogs posing on furry rugs. But if you’re not one of those weirdos, perhaps you have a collection of porn videos that is confusing and scaring you. Please forward these videos to Professor JD for a more in-depth resolution to your query.

Ending this question with an exclamation point makes me feel excited about big butts! Yes, I agree, you must get a big butt no matter what. If butt implants (WARNING: photos of butts!) are too expensive, consider either eating lots of donuts or eating lots of pizza or both. (It worked for Professor JD!)

Let the other person make the first move. It’s horribly embarrassing to find your tongue jammed into someone’s mouth when they were just going in for a polite peck.

It’s simple: One tongue goes in the opposite mouth. This is assuming we’re talking about two people. If it’s more than two, you’re just going to have to draw a diagram or something.

Men show their tongues when working out as a way to attract women, duh. Also, why all the interest in tongues? Tongues are better when you ignore them. Once you start thinking too much about your tongue . . . damn it.

This may actually be the title of a Lifetime movie as opposed to a question. Either way, my answer is: Maybe.

Are you responsible for that topless person from above? If so, give her back her underware. This game is no longer funny.

The thong may start out lying on top of the butt, however, chances are as you move around throughout the day, it will begin to slip inexorably up the butt. Some people claim that this sensation is not annoying. These people were obviously born without nerve endings in their butt cracks.

No.

This question has baffled scholars and scientists for years. How the fuck potatoes grow is that you stick a potato seed in the fucking ground and wait a while. Then you pull it out of the ground and fucking eat it.

While this is not exactly a question, I feel compelled to point out that “netherregions” is only appropriate as a single word when referencing Robert Plant. Example 1: “My nether regions are all itchy.” Example 2: “Robert Plant’s netherregions look like they’d be all itchy.” (Because Robert Plant wears such tight jeans, is my reasoning.)

Yes, although in America we spell it “fetus,” which makes more sense because it has fewer letters. That “o” is totally unnecessary. Where are you from? I bet you pronounce “lieutenant” with an “f.”

Of course not! Who told you that? I hope Dr. JD isn’t filling your head with nonsense about green leafy vegetables and “high cholesterol” again.

Well, the statute of limitation on poison is nineteen years, so you are pretty much shit out of luck unless you happened to have a video camera set up in your bedroom. Did you? Were you able to capture any ghosts or other paranormal entities? Were the ghosts friendly or did they try to scare you? I’m beginning to think the ghosts were responsible for your poisoning, in which case, once again, you are shit out of luck.

I would imagine Amazon.com sells Pentagon-shaped crackers. They sell freaking everything. I’ve ordered Washington Monument-shaped crackers from Amazon, and man, are those things pointy.

If you see a moth that looks like a pork chop, you should run. If, by chance, you are feeling brave and creative, I would recommend that you compose a song about this moth to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”

No. It’s a way of saying you are a pork chop.

Yes. If you listen to Metallica’s “One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Devil!” backwards, you will hear the line “How the fuck do (green) potatoes grow.” Any song that includes the F-word is automatically about the devil; hence green potatoes = the devil.

HA! Everyone wants to know this. Believe me, you wouldn’t even know what to do with a JD if you got one.

What I mean is, I like it burnt to the point of the liquid turning to ash, which is actually impossible, so I think then what I mean is that I like it really hot? (Does anyone else know the answer to this one?)

This is true. Many people erroneously believe that bones can actually burn if a fire is hot enough. This is absurd! Bones cannot burn! No, there is a giant bone dumpsite just outside of Newark. That’s where your bones (and too-hot coffee) go.

Cube heads can be the most difficult to shop for, especially when it comes to sexy underware. The thing to remember is, the shape of the head does not necessarily have anything to do with the shape of the nether regions. At least I don’t think so. Because, man, that would be bizarre, wouldn’t it?

Yes, you are. Sorry. Blood relatives who share sex germs usually end up with cube-headism, which may or may not affect your nether regions. I’ll have to confer with Dr. JD, but I think the only cure is to eat a steady diet of green potatoes.

What the hell kind of parent are you? You probably let your son play with your sex toys too. For god’s sake, pick out the bugs first. As for the bugs he’s ingested? It’s too late. I hope you feel guilty.

Ah, yes. I remember there was a bit of a kerfluffle when everyone forgot Prudence’s first birthday. Don’t let it happen again. Mark this down in your calendar: March 28. She will be three years old next year.

Yes. Yes, they do.

*        *        *

Do YOU have a question for Professor JD? Does it have to do with tongues? If it has to do with tongues, please just Google it.

___________________

Mutant tongue came from here

I give my complete attention to a very good friend of mine
He's quadrophonic

This is the story of a laptop who died and the brave woman who struggled to find meaning in a life with no laptop.

(Hint: I am that brave woman. And the laptop who died? WAS MINE!)

(Yes, I refer to my laptop as a “who,” not a “what.”)

I believe it was the wise-beyond-her-years Cardiogirl who once said, “Trying to blog on a strange computer is like trying to take a crap in someone else’s bathroom.” Or she might’ve said “dump” instead of “crap.” Or she might not have said this at all, but someone did. And it’s true.

Turns out I cannot blog anywhere but on my laptop (who is not only a “who” but a “she”). I sat at my decrepit desktop computer (definitely an “it”), and the words just wouldn’t come. So I couldn’t blog. I couldn’t even read other blogs, because that decrepit desktop? Is really uncomfortable to sit at.

I couldn’t watch my beloved Hulu, listen to Mel Gibson’s mad rantings, or watch Lindsay Lohan beg for mercy. Because that decrepit desktop? Has no sound.

Why don’t you just put me in one of those sensory deprivation boxes and LET ME DIE???

Because I cannot die. I have things to do. So you don’t have to.

Like what, you ask? Well, when you don’t have a laptop, you watch a lot of TV. That’s just basic math. I believe the equation looks something like this:

no laptop = more TV

If that equation is too complicated, just move on.

TV comforted me and showed me many wondrous things.

• VH1’s Two-Hit Wonders reminded me how cute that guy in Jesus Jones used to be and how awesome that OTHER song by Fine Young Cannibals is.
• BBC’s Kitchen Nightmares taught me that Gordon Ramsey’s f-bombs get bleeped, but he can apparently call someone a “limp dick” with no repercussions.
• The Game Show Network has the “new” Newlywed Game! Sample question: “Men, if your wife was a car, and you had to follow the rule of putting your hands at 10 and 2 on a steering wheel, where would your hands be?” All men: “SIX!!!!!!!” (Really, “six”? I would’ve thought, like 9 and 3.)

But the most awesome TV experience had to be my discovery of On Demand. Oh, I knew you could watch movies via this magical channel named “1,” but I did NOT know I could catch up on Top Chef, rewatch old Mad Men episodes, or grind along to (head explodes) EXERCISE TV!!! With each click of the remote, a new and awesome choice revealed itself. Choices I felt compelled to scream at Dave every five seconds as he tried to work in the office.

“OHMYGOD you can watch Naked News!!!”

“OHMYGOD you can watch Styx! IN CONCERT! Wait. They only do one song. BUT IT’S ‘RENEGADE’!!!”

“OHMYGOD you can watch MTV’s True Life! And it’s the one about the porn industry!!!”

And it was all free! Well, except for Naked News.

• I also read. I slurped up the 2d and 3d books of Stieg Larsson’s trilogy like delicious melty ice cream.
• I contracted Humidity Sickness.
• I managed to get covered in tar (more on that later).
• I put up a new shower curtain and is it just me or is that the most horrible of tasks? The standing! The raised arms — aching for relief! The things that won’t poke through the little holes! Oh, my patience was tested that day, my friends.

But mostly I watched TV.

And now I’ve got some big decisions to make. Hulu’s Hell’s Kitchen? Or On Demand’s The Sperminator?

It’s going to be a busy day.

*        *        *

Can YOU write or be creative on a strange computer? Does anyone use pen and paper anymore? And what about Mel Gibson? Crazy? Racist? Misogynist? (Answer: ALL OF THE ABOVE.)

AND! Coming soon on I Do Things: “How to Get a Lot of Comments.” (It has something to do with leaving the same post up for three weeks.)

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Dead computer came from here

And all the pain
Only after the rain
Can you live again

Have you tried buying unscented deodorant lately?

Such a product has become increasingly hard to find, as the makers of personal hygiene products seem to think we all need to smell like scented carpet cleaners.

Man, I would rather smell like my own sweat — YES! Even that really bad sweat that smells like Spaghetti-O’s! — than some of these awful, powdery, flowery deodorants.

I like lightly scented soaps and body wash, but they just haven’t made a smelly deodorant that smells good. If I had to wear a smelly deodorant, it would share the same qualities as my favorite air fresheners and boast an aroma of  “Seabreeze” or “Fresh Linen” or “After the Rain.” But time and time again, I’m fooled into thinking I’ll smell like freshly laundered towels left outside during a summer rainstorm, only to end up stinking like old lady talcum powder.

My recent triumph over finally finding an unscented roll-on was short-lived. After describing my deodorant woes to Dave, he responded, “Yeah, I noticed when we were out last weekend you had these big white smudges under your arms.”

. . .

I glared at him for one second before running into the bathroom to perform a test.

Nooooooooo!!! Unsightly white underarm circles of horror!!!

So much for unscented.

I headed to the store to find the least obnoxious flavor of deodorant that WOULDN’T turn my underarm region into The White Pits of Dover. According to my research, women can choose from four basic smells: Powder, Clean, Flower, and WTF.

The “Powder” group:

• Powder Burst
• Powder Fresh
• Powder Romance
• Sheer Powder
• Smooth Powder
• Tropical Powder

The “Clean,” “Pure,” or “Fresh” group:

• Completely Clean
• Fresh Fusion
• Daringly Fresh
• Morning Clean
• Pure Clean
• Pure Rain
• Shower Clean
• Shower Fresh
• Totally Fresh
• Wildflower Fresh

The “Flower” group

• Delicate Bloom
• Diva la Daisy
• Honeysuckle
• Refreshingly Floral
• Sweet Pea and Viola
• Truth or Pear (???)
• Va-Va Vanilla
• Wild Cherry Blossom
• Wild Freesia

The “Maddeningly Vague” group:

• Classic Romance
• Green Euphoria
• Just Dance
• Regular
• Satiny Tropical
• Sexy Intrigue
• Tropical Paradise

If you’re a man, you can smell like anything that makes you think of an erection:

• Cool Peak
• Extreme Blast
• Fresh Blast
• Game Day
• Matterhorn
• Pacific Surge
• Power Play
• Power Rush

So basically women are supposed to smell like powder and men are supposed to smell like power. I am just not down with that. I want to smell like an erection! I bought Pacific Surge, because it contained both an ocean reference and the promise of some sort of  . . . well, surge. I could use a surge. Maybe not in my armpits, but who am I to be picky?

I’ll let you know how it works out. And PLEASE! Tell me if you’ve found an unscented no-residue deodorant. I’ll send you my partially used Power Surge as a token of my gratitude.

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Soggy flowers came from here

I don’t like spiders and snakes

I have a bone to pick with two of my favorite bloggers.

Oh, they know who they are. But YOU don’t, so sit right down and listen.

Maureen, from I’d Rather Be Blogging recently had the audacity to proclaim herself a nerd while simultaneously posting a photo of her cute junior-high self in a cheerleading outfit.

A cheerleading outfit.

OK, first of all, in 1972, when Maureen was flouncing about in her cheerleading outfit, I was . . . oh, wait! HAHAHAHA! Maureen is older than me! I was only 12. Take that, Cheerleader Maureen! But also? Shut up! You look gorgeous. “Nerd cheerleader” is an oxymoron. At least it was at my school, where only the cutest and shortest girls were chosen for this elite status.  Oh, how I wanted one of those pleated skirts and bulky sweaters! I was so jealous that they got to wear their uniforms all day on game days (why didn’t they just change later?).

They thought they were so cool. And they were right.

Maureen, you were not a nerd.

I, however, was both a nerd (I sang in the chorus and took part in the annual variety show [ingeniously named "Showtime"]) and a burnout (I smoked pot in “The Pit” and wore roach-clip earrings).

I don’t know exactly where that dual role got me. Singing Pothead? Stoned Soprano? Humph. It’s no Nerdy Cheerleader.

Babs, from Beetle Blog, I’m lookin’ at you next. Yes, you. You told the world about conquering one of your biggest fears, which involved allowing a giant snake to be draped around your neck.

Oh, how you bragged of facing your fear! Let’s all face our fears, you chortled! It feels so goooooooooooooooood.

But here’s my thing. Fears are not made to be faced. They are made to be avoided. That’s why they’re called fears. I personally am afraid of my fears and would rather not have to deal with them unless absolutely necessary. I’m afraid of flying, but I have to fly to get where I want to go, so I take my “nerve” pills and get on the plane. Actually, I quite like those pills, so I guess this doesn’t even count.

But other fears, like bungee-jumping or touching my belly button? Not gonna do it. I am afraid. Humans were made to have fears so we wouldn’t go around putting our hands in the fire (altho, based on my impressive collection of scars, this particular fear may have bypassed my nerve center).

Anyway, my point is: We’re all human, but I am pretty much right about everything. I embrace my nerdly fears. I only wish I could do so while wearing a cheerleading outfit. And smoking a big, fat doobie.

*         *         *

What are your biggest fears? Touching a snake? Touching a spider? Touching my belly button? Don’t even think about it!

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Body of cheerleader came from here