A Few of My Favorite Things

The Sound of Music premiered on Broadway fifty years ago (November 16th, 1959), but I discovered it again for the first time last week.

The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.

What is that exquisite sound?

Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?

He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.

Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.

So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:

1. Coffee (touch of cream, no sugar)
   
2. Sushi
3. The Daily Show
   
4. Lithuanian folk songs
5. My attached garage
6. The iTunes Store
   
7. Leonard Cohen lyrics
   
8. Built-in bras
9. The Star-Spangled Banner (straight up, no soul)
   
10. Cosmic signs
    
11. Musical harmony
12. Reading in bed
13. White linens
14. Lost
    
15. Chamomile tea
16. Aveda Inner Light dual foundation
    
17. The combination of buttered movie popcorn with Skittles
    
18. Hot showers
19. Good lip balm
    
20. Lavender lotion from L'Occitaine
    
21. Striped tights
22. Black boots
    
23. Cinnabon
    
24. Cabernet Sauvignon
25. Guinness beer
    
26. Christmas Eve
    
27. Tylenol PM
    
28. Jello pretzel "salad"
29. Order and symmetry
30. Airplane Coke
    
31. The sun on my back
    
32. Abba
33. Geico caveman commercials
    
34. The smell of pipe tobacco
35. Foot rubs
36. Comments
    
    
37. and The Sound of Music, of course.
    
    
    

The Lowdown on the Wrapup

P-Dawg and I went on a weekend spa getaway to celebrate our anniversary.  Timid spa virgins no longer, we signed ourselves up for massages and seaweed wraps.  I thought they'd roll me up in some wet leaves and twenty minutes later I'd be skinny, but that's not how it went down.

First I almost kicked the massage therapist's teeth out when he tried to exfoliate my feet (I'm very sensitive), and then a smelly, wet paste made out of ground up seaweed was smeared all over my bod-day - kind of a shocker when you're expecting to be swaddled in something more akin to a fig leaf.  (I am from Ohio.)

Next, the P-Dawg and I were individually folded, burritolike, in some butcher block paper and a layer of warm thermal foil.  Then we were left alone in our respective mud cocoons for about twenty minutes to dwell on the various itches that developed the minute our arms were incapacitated. 


"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I have a facial twitch."

"A new one?"

"No. Will I die?"

"Someday."

(Time passes.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Right here."

"I really have to see a man about a horse."

"Me too."

"We oughtn't have pounded that mineral water."

(A few minutes are spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Enya.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I actually didn't realize it was going to be mud."

"Me neither."


"Do you think our bod-days are really being detoxified?"

"Nope."

"Well, crap. I was sort of counting on being a dress size smaller after this."

When all was said and done, I may have lost a pound or two of water weight and my skin was as smooth as a baby's butt for a solid week, but I'm not sure it was worth it on account of the ick factor.  Plus, I gained it all back when we went out to dinner that night, so it was kind of a wash.

And therefore I give seaweed wraps, as a general category, a solid "C" rating.  But I give our anniversary getaway weekend an "A+."

Rimarama Recommends: The Outdoors

My kids are Outdoor Kids but I am an Indoor Mom, which can be problematic.

In grade school, one of the worst punishments you could impose upon me was to send me outdoors until dinnertime.  If Chrissy Long was not available to play Mary Lou Retton with, I'd just roller skate around and around the cul-de-sac, hoping for the salvation a wipeout could bring.  Once back in the comfort and safety of my bedroom lair, I could rejoin Ramona, Beezus, and Nancy Drew OR resume the work of molding Barbie-sized wedding cakes out of wads of wet toilet paper if I so desired, AND I DID.

But like I said, J-dog and V-meister?  Outdoor kids.  They love dirt and sunshine.  And back when I was pregnant for the first time and busy planning my stay-at-home-motherhood fantasy, frolicking outside was not accounted for in my short-sighted daily itinerary of: nurse baby and read books until dinnertime.  So it was kind of a shock when all of a sudden I had these two kids for whom I was expected to provide, you know . . . fresh air.

Well, I don't know what happened - maybe it's the fact that I actually like our new backyard, maybe it's old age - but I'm slowly coming around to this Spending Time Outdoors concept.  On more than one occasion last week I daresay I experienced an intense desire to go on a hike.  (Has anyone else had this happen to them?)

I even put on sneakers and packed a picnic lunch, for crying out loud.  And you know what?  It was lovely. There are some really nice things outdoors, readers.

And do you know what else?

Nothing beats meandering down a mossy trail on a cool summer's day with walking stick in hand and two wonderstruck little human beings tripping along beside you.

Just Call Me Hawkeye

I neglected to mention that during my blog sabbatical this summer, I ended up having LASIK surgery, after all. It's been almost three months now and I've officially changed the name on my drivers' license to, "Eagle Eyes Rama."

The surgery itself is nothing to be afraid of, as long as you're not one of those people who starts bustin' out the ninja moves if someone comes near your eyes. For one thing, they give you a val1um right before the procedure begins and what this does is cause you to chuckle while the surgeon marks up your eyeballs with a magic marker.

I found that I was actually quite relaxed - giddy, even - while the operation was taking place. I only freaked out once when the technician kept telling me to focus on the green light, but I couldn't see it because the surgeon was still adjusting things. I started to become a little frantic, like, "I CAN'T SEE THE GREEN LIGHT WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?" and then the technician got in trouble with the surgeon for stressing me out.

You experience a lot of strange sensations (you might also smell something burning) during the surgery, but it doesn't actually hurt. The procedure I had involves cutting a flap in the cornea and re-shaping the surface underneath. The worst part was that, after they cut my "flaps," I had to lie down and rest in the next room over for a few minutes before the second part of the procedure began. While I was "resting," my numbing drops began to wear off and I started to experience some "discomfort," as they like to say in the biz. At first I thought I could master the discomfort, but when I realized I could not, I stumbled, batlike, into the hallway in search of relief and had to be escorted back into my holding cell.

The rest of it was pretty uneventful and I actually don't even remember all the details anymore. When it was all over, I could already tell that my vision had improved, albeit through a brilliant haze. I had to wear a horrendous pair of wraparound safety goggles for the next twenty-four hours and then every night for a week, which thrilled J-dog and V-meister to no end.

As I'd feared, my eyes were very dry for the first month or so after the surgery and not a day went by when I didn't say to the P-Dawg, "P-Dawg, I knew this would happen. Now I'll have to wear goggles and live in a climate controlled humidity chamber for the rest of my life." And each time, the P-Dawg pretended as though no one had spoken.

So even though my eyes are still drier than they were before the surgery, there are very few days when I am uncomfortable because of them and it's still better than the worst bad contacts day. All told, I'm very glad I went through with it. The only drawback is that I have a lot more crows feet than I'd realized and I found out my shower is pretty gross. But on the flip side, I could easily, with valium, pilot a stealth bomber or build myself a nest out of shiny objects.


P.S. I realize I'm jumping the gun a little with my pretty new autumn themed Queen Elizabeth/Disney Princess banner, but I couldn't stand looking at retro mom running away from her kids for one more day.

Baby Powder: Not Just for Bums

I was recently stone-cold busted by my hair stylist for washing my hair daily.

It hasn't been its usual shiny and lustrous self lately, but I chalked it up to motherhood, heat, humidity, and old age.

Still, I didn't think much of my enormous lampshade head until the other morning when the V-meister enthusiastically noted, "Mama! Your hair looks like a giant mushroom."

She meant it as a complement, I think, for who doesn't love a giant mushroom?

Still, I took it pretty hard.

Suzy Stylist confirmed that things were amiss when she took one look at my poofball coiffure and declared that I was tragically overwashing my hair and stripping (STRIPPING!) it of it's natural oils (Ew).

I do appreciate honesty in a hairdresser, but getting "the talk" is almost as bad as being reprimanded by the dental hygienist for not flossing.

Turns out that Suzy and her minions at the chi-chi salon where you have to wear all black just to step foot inside and lookout! if you happen to be wearing a banana clip (just sayin') only wash their hair every three days. AT MOST.

"For realz?" I asked, dumbfounded. "How do you avoid Squiggyhead and the second day kinks?"

That's when Suzy let me in on the second part of the dirty little stylist secret: baby powder.

You rub it through your hair at the roots on the days you don't wash it and voila! Instant Pantene commercial.

Also, since you are not spending the extra twenty minutes washing and blowing your hair out, why, you can use the bonus time to smooth out your unruly locks with your handy dandy ceramic flat iron, which you'd never have time to employ otherwise.

Who knew?

I suppose the French did.

(They wear the same outfit for four days in a row, you know. On day five, they wash their hair and change outfits. Honest to Pete. I was there and I saw.)

Anyway, even though I noticed she had a bit of a femme 'stache and you should always take whatever someone with a mustache says with a grain of salt, I took Suzy's advice to heart and went three days without washing my hair. (I did shower! GOSH! Get off my property!)

And you know what?

The world didn't end, my hair was all sleek-like, and it smelled like a baby's butt.

Rimarama recommends: dirty hair.

I'm curious, though. Am I the only person in the blogosphere who didn't know this bit of wisdom?

I mean, for serious. How often do you lather up, reader?

Wii - It's Better than a Commodore 64

I'll be honest: Every time I read a post about somebody Wii-ing it up on this new-fangled video game system the kids are playing nowadays, I say to myself, "Sounds fun, but . . .

1) "Is it postworthy?"

and

2) "Could it possibly be better than playing Frogger on a Commodore 64?"

We were at a friend's house for a party last night and there was a commotion in the basement.

I went down to investigate, only to find myself smack dab in the middle of a heated Wii tennis match between two Lithuanian immigrants.

So engaged were they in the action being projected onto a vast expanse of basement drywall, that they barely noticed the assembled children making bunny ears and various other shadow figures in the middle of their virtual court.

Never one to miss out on the action, I challenged my friend V to a match.

The gymnastics and harp lessons my parents had me enrolled in for all those years?

What a colossal freakin' waste of time.

Turns out that I'm a natural virtual tennis pro.

I picked this sport up with a quickness, my friends, and I never looked back.

I'll let you in on a dirty little Wii secret, too: the trick is to pretend as though you are actually playing real tennis on an actual tennis court.

Go ahead and hop around the basement, shuffle to and from the virtual net, swear like a trucker, and rock that virtual sweat visor.

This is the only way to win.

I probably don't have to tell you that I creamed the pants off my friend V with my powerhouse serves and deft backhand volleys.

Except for the negligible two or three times when my visual-spatial judgment failed me and I collided with the wall, my form was impeccable and the calories burned were most likely on par with what I would have worked off if I were, say, Jazzercizing with a hangover.

And I would still be in that basement now, running in place and yelling at the screen like a pint-sized female version of John McEnroe, were it not for the unfortunate fact that I accidentally whacked the little J-dog upside the head with my virtual tennis racket when he crept up behind me in the dark, bringing the evening's match to an abrupt close.

The P-Dawg and I are now conducting our home search around the singular criteria that there must be a wide enough expanse of drywall in the basement for us to stage nightly Wii tournaments.

Real Estate Dos and Don'ts

Or, "How to sell your hut in two months or less and negotiate a thoroughly mediocre real estate deal":

• Do . . . price your hut dirt cheap to move.

• Do . . . photoshop the bejeebus out of the photos that are posted online.
  
  
• Do . . . appeal to at least three out of five of your potential buyers' senses by decorating your hut tastefully, keeping it neat as a pin, flooding it with light, strategically placing fresh flowers, and brewing a pot of coffee or baking some Otis Spunkmeier cookies before every showing. Also, bust out the Febrize and spray the sh1t out of everything in sight.
  
  
• Don't . . . chuck wayward toys into your vegetable crisper when frantically picking up the house for a last minute showing. People could totally look in there.
  
  
• Don't . . . decline any showings. If, for example, a potential buyer wants to come back for a second look the day after their first showing, don't turn them away because it's your kid's nap time! You and everyone else involved will get a taunting email from the centralized showing service saying, "Second showing DECLINED BY SELLER." And you will have a lot of 'splaining to do to your real estate lady.
  
  
• Do . . . ask for your long-awaited offer in writing before moving forward with negotiations. Especially if you happen to be on vacation in Canuckland with a crappy cell phone connection. It's possible you could mistake the amount of money the buyer wants us you to pay in closing costs for the amount of their down payment! Ha ha ha ha! Having inaccurate information in this regard could adversely affect the ensuing negotiations.
  
  
• Do . . . bury a statue of Saint Joseph in your yard.

Was it a coinkydink or divine intervention that sold my hut? You be the judge.

(I must add that I think our real estate agent redeemed herself in the end. I almost choked on my Eggbeaters omelet when I noticed that she had our hut listed as a "showcase property" on the local real estate site. When I told our potential buyers to take a hike because it was the J-dog's nap time, she immediately got on the horn with their broker to make amends. And when it came down to the wire in our negotiations, she took a hit with her commission and got the other agent to reduce hers, as well, in order to push the deal through.)

Ah, but real estate bidness is not my only excuse for abandoning the old blog and chain during the past few weeks - I also went on vacation, had a stomach bug, and lost precious hours of my life towards the scrubbing of one hundred thousand laminated flashcards, wooden beads, and brass bells for end-of-year Montessori school clean up.

Also, since we didn't get the house we bid on earlier this month, we are now in the exciting and also frightening position of trying to find a new house to move into before we need to vacate this one. And it's kind of slim pickings.

Let me ask you this: would you buy a house that is overpriced, super Hi-Kwality on the inside, but kind of looks like it should be in a Florida retirement community instead of the sludgy midwest?

And how tacky is it to have a ginormous wet bar in your family room or a wall mounted TV above the jacuzzi in the master bath?

Just wondering.

Rimarama Recommends: Melatonin

First of all, no deal on the house.

I'm more angry than depressed over it, actually. They strung us along way past the time that our offer expired and their agent kept stalling and not returning our agent's phone calls before finally giving us some bull$hit explanation and ultimately saying "no."

I have added their agent to my official Enemies List, which also includes all of the engineers from my old tech writing job, our wedding DJ, and Carmine the landscaper, who I once chased down with the Ramamobile to get him to cough up the eighty bucks he owed me.

Whatever. I don't even want their stupid house anymore.

My guess is that it will still be festering on the market two or three months from now, when the sellers find their dream home, and then, if I'm still available, I'll offer them five bucks for it. But I will attach that five spot to an invisible string and jerk it away at the last possible minute, just like my mom did to me on April Fool's Day back in '82.

Oh yes, my revenge will be sweet. (Dear Saint Joseph, don't pay no nevermind, I'm just talkin.')

Anyway, onward, ho!

Today's subject is melatonin.

You might be wondering how a person as high strung as I tend to be is getting even a wink of sleep, what with all the real estate and other, non blog approved craziness going on right now. And I'll tell you: I drink a fifth of Jack Daniels with my Amb1en tablet every single night while watching Poker TV.

I kid! Don't ever do that.

Actually, I have a new friend, and his name is Melatonin. I first met Melatonin about ten years ago. Our relationship ended badly when I failed to read the dosing information on his jacket.

The result of this foray into the nefarious underworld of non-FDA regulated herbal remedies was that I stayed up all night peeing day-glo yellow every ten minutes, became convinced that my kidneys were failing, and had a full blown panic attack which necessitated calling my at-the-time med student boyfriend, the P-Dawg, at three in the morning screaming, OMG, P-DAWG, I'M DYING, SHOULD I CALL 9-1-1 ???

But don't let this scare you away from the Melatonin.

For the past few nights, I've cranked up the old noise machine an extra decibel or two, curled up with my 500 hundred page hardback, The Secret History of the World, and taken a sub-lingual melatonin tablet that tastes just like an Altoid mint. And, even though my thoughts race faster than a hamster on a wheel, I've fallen peacefully asleep, dreamed super vivid, wacky dreams, and woken up feeling fresh as a daisy every morning.

And so I heartily recommend melatonin as the homeopathic remedy of the day.

P.S. Just an FYI: It's possible there may be some shark cartilage in those tablets. In case you were interested in trying it, you know, I thought I should tell you.

And Now I So Happy, I Do the Dance of Joy

Readers, I am borderline ebullient today, and all because of my bathroom scale.

My bathroom scale, EggBeaters, and crab meat/avocado/cherry tomato salads with lime vinaigrette.

Apparently, all it takes for my funk to lift is a Friday morning weigh-in indicating a total weight loss of 2 pounds over the last week and a half - a week which included a mere one power walk and three Snickers ice cream drumsticks.

The secret, my friends, is EggBeaters. Every single morning for the past week and a half, I've eaten an EggBeater omelet cooked with olive oil spray with a pinch of cheddar cheese. This breakfast of People with Weak Will Power Who Can Only Diet Until 6:00 pm contains only about EIGHTY CALORIES and can tide me over well until mid-morning, at which time I eat a handful of blueberries or some such in order to prevent myself from gnawing my own fingers off.

For lunch, I have been eating either salad greens with avocado, grilled chicken, cherry tomatoes, radishes and one tablespoon of blue cheese dressing, or salad greens with imitation crab meat, cherry tomatoes, avocado, and lime/olive oil dressing.

Once dinnertime rolls around, it's a balls-out noshfest and I eat pretty much whatever I want (within reason - we are talking more like spaghetti noodles with turkey sausage and marinara sauce, not KFC, people.) On roughly three out of seven nights a week, I will even drink a box of Franzia glass of Rhone red.

Before bed, I have a cup of chamomile or vanilla rooibos tea with honey and I may or may not eat an entire full fat Snickers ice dream drumstick (280 calories). If I don't eat a full fat Snickers ice cream drumstick, then I will eat seven gingersnaps or a Skinny Cow ice cream drumstick (150 calories for either option).

I have no idea what my total daily caloric intake is, but I'm telling you, it's the Egg Beaters. You have to be careful because they come in a carton that looks suspiciously like coffee creamer and there have been some close calls in which I poured the raw egg whites into my morning cup of joe, thankfully realizing my error only seconds before imbibing.

But seriously, the EggBeaters keep me feeling full on way less calories than my usual breakfast and, as long as I stick to a salad that's high in protein for lunch, I feel like I can stop dieting at dinnertime so it's not as hard to start all over again the next morning. (I know this is kind of backwards, as you are supposed to reduce your calories as the day goes on. But whatevah, Dr. Phil. I don't see you fitting into a size four pair of jeans that you wore before you got pregnant with Number One.)

So there you have it. Things could change at any time (like if my scale cops an attitude with me tomorrow morning), but for now, I feel thinner, prettier, smarter, more confident in my parenting skillz/ability to sell my hut, and dammit, people like me! (Maybe. Probably. Most of the time, right? Don't answer that.)

Happy weekend, everyone!

Good Housekeeping with Rimarama

No time to blog today, as I am busy, busy, busy, cleaning out my hut. However, I thought I'd take a brief moment to share some good housekeeping tips.

Two things I've been obsessed with lately: radish sandwiches and Magic Erasers.

Don't knock the radish sandwich until you try it. My mom used to make them for me and the brothers Rama in the summers when we'd picnic out in the backyard. Deelish.

The radish sandwich must be made with Wonder bread, butter, and radishes. That's it. But don't try to put whole radishes in between pieces of white bread. You must slice them first.

Next up: Magic Erasers.

I whiled away thirty-four years on this planet without knowledge of their existence, but I am making up for it this week. The Magic Eraser is the cleaning product of the century.

For those of you unfamiliar with this miracle invention, it's a sponge-like eraser, AND IT IS MAGIK.

You wet it, squeeze out excess water, then go to town. I bought myself a starter pack of four of these babies and I burned through them in the space of one morning.

As soon as their superior cleaning powers became apparent, the Erasers and I were inseparable. I used them, one after the other, to wipe down everything and anything that wasn't moving or breathing, and still I yearned for more.

Few household surfaces were spared my radish sandwich fueled Magic Eraser cleaning spree zeal. The P-Dawg had to intervene when I started eyeballing the aluminum siding and his wing tips.

This concludes today's edition of Good Housekeeping with Rimarama.

A Handful of Words

. . . that crack me up:

titmouse
goji berry
dingleberry
cockles
goober
wanker
squeegee
pecker
nubbin
doofus
Huckabee

You're welcome.

Care to add to this by no means comprehensive list?

Go ahead. You know you want to.


Tufted Titmouse

Link Love on the Lam

Guess what I saw at the post office the other day?



"Suspect hovers around the five foot mark, and was last seen wearing a leopard print leotard with crazy stripe leg warmers. Suspect is not armed, but considered dangerous. Distinguishing features include a minuscule post-skin tag removal scar on the inner left nostril and unusually lustrous hair."

Can you freakin' believe it?

I did return those dang library books, I just haven't paid my (greatly discounted) fine yet. Sheesh.

I'm going to go under the radar for awhile until this whole thing blows over, so posting will be light for the next few weeks.

But before I go, I also have some long overdue bling to pass on. The last thing I need is my mug on the front of blogging's Most Wanted list, as well. I am already being tailed by the meme police.

I received this Reflective Blogger award (shaddup!) eons ago from a person who asked to be nameless, and I would like to pass it on to Chani at Thailand Gal, because she is a reflective blogger if there ever was one. Peace, Chani!



Works for Mom bestowed upon me the Community Blogger award and I want to pass it on to Liv at Madness, Madness I Say! Girlfriend is all about the communi-tay and she is also one of those amazing bloggers who responds to every comment left on her posts!


Painted Maypole and Oh, the Joys tickled me pink with the "Blogging that Hits the Mark" award. I would like to launch this award at Heidi of Viking Conquest and at Avery Gray because their blogging is splat-tastic!


Sugarplum's Mom gave me the "You Make Me Smile" award, and I am passing it on to Janet at Three and Holding. I find that, in general, Canadians make me smile.



It has also recently come to my attention that Slouching Mom, who has been called the Meryl Streep of blogging, and who has been nominated for a Blogitzer (among other awards) herself, recently nominated my little old blog for this (thanks, Sarah!):



So far, my blog has FOUR VOTES!!!!

That means I'm only 76 votes away from running neck and neck with the current leader!!! (As the P-dog always says, you have to shoot for the stars if you want to hit the roof.)

But I would be happy just to break into the double-digits by the end of 2008, which is when voting closes. (I think you need to create an account in order to vote, but it is quick and painless, and would make one Lithuanian hobbit diva's entire year. )

Peace and joy, dear readers.

Rimarama Recommends

The other day, the Vidal Sassoon hair drier I've been using for the last ten years finally blew up. (That's right, Vidal - you don't look good.)

Its death was a long time in the making though, since it was already missing a few parts (like a filter and a thingamahoohoo that fell out awhile back), but the final blow (A PUN! DO YOU SEE?) came when it sucked a good handful of my coiffure into it's gaping hole of doom, then sputtered and smoked for a few seconds before kickin' it.

Vidal's demise propelled me to go forth and purchase a top of the line tourmaline hair drier with ion technology.

I'm not exactly clear on what an ion is, or how hair driers and ions became bedfellows, and I'm pretty sure tourmaline is a banned substance that went missing in Russia a few years back, but I will say that I have not had a bad hair day since I began using it.

This is what my hair looked like before (uh, fifteen years before, towards the tail end of a dorm party):

I Can Haz Ramen Noodlz?

As you can see, I had yet to be introduced to anti-humectant pomade (or the concept of brow maintenance.) Or a brush. In those days, all we had was mousse and gel and we liked it.

This is what my hair looks like today:

See How It Shines?

It is full of body, swing, and lustre! There is not a fly-away hair in sight! The ion/tourmaline technology locks in moisture and repels the chunks of food, dirt, dust, and insects that might otherwise become entangled therein.

It's as if I'm wearing a virtual helmet.

I paid around thirty bucks for this item at my local discount retailer. (FYI - you do NOT need to show the cashier your ID and/or proof of citizen ship to purchase this device. Shocking, I know, because of the tourmaline and all, but whatever, le Tar-jay. Don't come crying to me when the feds are a-knockin.')

And I'll admit, it was not without a little trepidation that I prepared to flip the "on" switch for the first time.

Would I develop superpowers from the ionic blast?

Would the tourmaline technology enable me to see through walls? Scale buildings?

COUNT BACK CHANGE?

To be quite honest, the blow drying itself, when it finally happened, was kind of anti-climactic, except for the fact that it took me exactly half the amount of time to complete the deed than it had with old Vidal.

I could not be more pleased with my new toy.

And therefore it is with great enthusiasm that I recommend space age ionic blow driers. If you have wet hair that you would like to make dry (yet healthy and lustrous) within mere minutes, you need one. (Unfortunately, I cannot tell you which particular brand I purchased myself because I am not getting paid even one red penny for this glowing endorsement. But they have them at Tarjay. It's the third or maybe fourth one from the right end of the display. Don't pay more than thirty bucks.)


Note to Readers: This post is what I call "scraping the bottom of the barrel." There is NOTHING going on right now. Hopefully you can look forward to a post of substance sometime later on this week. Or next.