... the Treadclimber lets you burn calories and work your heart faster and easier than any other product on the market?

Really. TV doesn't lie, people.

Lisa Marie, and Penelope Cruz....

... you decide.

Happy Monday! This comes off better if you see and hear it, but here's my mom's favorite dirty joke:

Irving's been widowed for several years when he finally retires. His friend Sol sits with him at the retirement luncheon.

"Oyving, old friend. Now that you've retired, ya gotta come down to Flawrida and live where my brutha does."

"Sol, vat's so great about Boca?"

"Irv, I'm tellink you. You get yesself a condo on da beach en Boca, okay? Den, you buy yesself a fancy schmancy new car and park it right out front. Da foist day, you go out dere and polish da car. Da vimmen vill come runnink to you!"

So, Irving figures he's got nothing to lose. He sells his house and moves himself down to Boca, where he buys a condo near the beach. Then, he buys a brand-new Rolls-Royce, and parks it right outside the front door of the building. On his first day in his new home, he dutifully goes outside and polishes the fenders. Suddenly, he hears a voice.

"Yoo-hoo!"

He looks up, and a woman has stuck her head out the window of another condo, and she's waving.

"Yoo-hoo, is dat your car?" she asks.

"Well, yes," admits Irving, puffing his chest out and sucking in his stomach, "that's my car."

"Really? Vould you like to come up and haf a drink vit me?" she offers.

"Sure!" Irving responds. She tells him to come to the third floor, and he drops the chamois to race for the elevator. When he gets off the elevator, he sees a door ajar and tentatively opens it. Inside a beautifully appointed living room, the woman reclines on a chaise, clad only in a lacy black negligee. She's perhaps in her fifties. She's coiffed, made up, and lovely.

"Vell, hello dere," she purrs. "Are you new here?" she gestures for Irving to enter.

"Uh, yes," Irving replies. "I just moved in downstairs."

"Ah," she says, pouring him a scotch. "And dat's your shiny car down dere?"

"Yes," Irv says. "It's a Rolls."

"Very nice," the woman says, handing him the scotch in a hefty tumbler. "So, tell me, New Man, vat is your name?"

"I...Irving."

"Irving, such a sexy name!" The woman rises to meet him. "Tell me, Irving, do you like sex?" She draws a finger from his throat down his chest.

"Um, uh," he stammers. "Sure, I like sex."

"Really. Do you like.... kinky sex?" The woman draws the negligee off her shoulders.

"Uh.... uh.... yes, yes." Irving stands absolutely still.

"Dat's good," the woman says. "Take off your clothes." The negligee drops to the floor, and the woman lounges back on the chaise.

Irving stands still for a second longer, then strips naked in three seconds flat with shaking fingers.

"Now, Irving, come to me, dahling. Come stand right here in front of me."

Irving complies. The woman takes his balls gently into her hands and looks up at him.

"And dat was really your fancy new car down there?" she asked, looking into his eyes, still cupping his balls.

"Yes, yes it's mine," Irving says, barely breathing.

The woman claps her hands together. "Den <clap> don't you ever <clap>  park in my <clap> spot again!"

I propose a new weekly topic:

The Enough Already! List.

So here, for the first time...

Paris Hilton: Enough already! We don't care! You're rich, you're skinny, you dye your hair an impossible shade of yellow, and you look like a friggin afghan hound. Get a job.

Britney Spears: Enough already! You filthy little skank, we just don't want to read about your trashy ways. We don't care about your ugly new husband. We've noticed you're getting porky and, frankly, your legs were always kind of short and dumpy. Try finding some decent songwriters and cutting a real album, or, better yet, take your money and go AWAY.

Barry Bonds: Enough already! How much ego do you have, anyway? Ya know what? You may be a wealthy professional athlete, but you're still a jerk. So no, I'm not jealous of you.

Michael Jackson: Enough already! I don't care what the jury says; some of your behavior is just wrong. Sometimes the appearance of impropriety makes whether the action took place moot. You sick, sick, motherfucker. Actually, if you'd just stuck to fucking mothers, you wouldn't be in this mess.

Sound effects: Pride is a Sin, Mike Keneally

Dear Browser Hijack Fuckers,

Cut it out. Really. You're ruining it for the rest of us. I don't need your online casino, your Sponsored Links, your free Viagra, or your horny virgin cheerleaders. I don't want to see my neighbor's wife's bush, or even her boxwood. I don't need cheap Vicodin, or access to a Nigerian bank account. I absolutely don't want you changing my browser search engine to DRSN. Greenstreet Interactive, you can go fuck yourselves too.

Do I sound bitter? Maybe. I've given you the best years of my life. You've taken my eyesight, my energy, and so very much of my time, which could have been better spent working on my cure for cancer. (Or, at the very least, cleaning the kitchen and organizing the last five year's worth of snapshots.)

I especially don't need you fucking with me at work, where I legitimately need to get things done. Please stop screwing up when I'm testing our web site replatform, because I never know if there's a bug or it's your fucking spyware. Hijack This, CWS Shredder, Ad-Aware... I've downloaded these and more, and while you may temporarily disappear, you come back to stalk me like that creep Jeff used to.

Know what I did to Jeff? Well, nothing. I changed my phone number; that was pretty much it. But I'm getting really angry with you, browserspywarehijackingmo therfuckers, so don't push me. I'm a working mom on the edge. I've got a nail file and a sippy cup, and I'm not afraid to use them.

So do all of us grownups a favor, and stop screwing around on that laptop you covered with Blink-182 and snowboarding sticker s. You're not cool. You're like 14, a virgin, and you can't spell. Get back to class and grow up.

BobbyJoe and I had some fun scaring all the kids on Blurt today. His blog got me to thinking about domination, sexually speaking.

Okay, people who know me in real life? Please stop reading now. Thanks.

DH likes when I attack him. He loves to be seduced. And, while I'm terribly good at it, there are certain aggressive tendencies many girls like their guys to display. I tease BJ about talking dirty ("call me a slut!"), but don't know if in real life I'd go for domination, being an assault survivor and all.

See, while I'd like to think I have an open mind, the older I get the more boring I am. There's also that little issue of not wanting to lose control over a situation, even though I know DH would never do to me what Fuckface in college did. So while anal sex is ABSOLUTELY out of the fucking question (literally), I think I should be a little more open to other suggestions.

And what do relationship experts tell you to do with your partner? Communicate. Be open-minded. Share your fantasies. But that's the problem -- DH is not comfortable doing that. He will share fond memories of our early-relationship naughtiness (remember that time at the truck stop? the alley by the taqueria?), but won't tell me if there's something new he wants to try. He would be open to my suggestions, I suppose, but now I'm so old and boring I can't think of anything. And I'm not sure he'd feel comfortable if I told him to try spanking me or telling me I'm a filthydirtywhore.

Of course, the question also rises that, should I decide to give DH the reins, what happens if I change my mind and freak out?

I'm not sure where this is going. But I'd love to hear your fantasies, if you're comfortable sharing. You can tMail if you don't want to comment, or comment anonymously. I know you want to hear mine. I already gave you the Pirates one. I'll work on getting up the nerve to post something new.

With a nod to the wonderful and talented Juniper, here's the first 15 on my work shuffle today:

1. New York City (DJ Strobe Booklyn Vibe Mix), Norah Jones, Peter Malick Group & Split-Vizionz
2. The Loving, XTC
3. Waltz in E Minor, Chopin
4. Abilene, Sheryl Crow
5. World Where You Live, Crowded House
6. Save Me, Aimee Mann
7. Fighting With Fire, Sam Phillips
8. Home Life, John Mayer
9. Love One Woman, Rollover
10. Devils And Angels, Toby Lightman
11. Searching for the Fertile Fields (live), Poi Dog Pondering
12. Captain Madness, Megan Slankard
13. Motla le Pula (The Rainmaker), Hugh Masekela
14. New England, Mike Keneally
15. Endgame, R.E.M.

"L. Brent Bozell, president of the Parents Television Council, criticized 'The Simpsons' for addressing the issue of same-sex marriage, though he said he hadn't seen the episode."

I'd just like to add that I watched the ep of "Postcards With Buster" everyone was freaking about, and completely missed all the supposed references to the lesbian couples in it. So did Jacob, who was much more interested in how maple syrup was made and didn't notice anything funky about the kids' families in the show. So, there.

Favorite thing for today: Getting NEW music in the morning mail.

Least favorite: people telling me that I look tired.

Sound effects: people, did you not even mouse over the link above? However, I promise once I've gotten through all the tracks I'll do Juniperfluxe's MP3 shuffle.

So we're all in list modes. I promised Juniperflux that I'll do the MP3 shuffle game tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm catching up on weekend blogs while watching "Unwrapped" on the Food network.

Edit:
Jeez, I could have sworn I listed my TV guilty pleasures here. tBlog must have eaten them. I meant to come clean about the stupid shows I watch but don't tell anyone I watch. I think they were:

1. Unwrapped & Good Eats, FoodTV
2. I Love The 80s/90s, Surreal Life, Celebrity Fit Club, VH1
3. 100 Most Wicked Women With Facelifts Etc., E!
4. Awards shows, especially if watched with others who will be catty with me
5. Mad TV reruns, Comedy Central

What are your guilty pleasures?

More weirdness. My body is changing so much. Y'all know I had this funky surgery last May, right? Well, my doctor has been monitoring my cholesterol, which has been high for as long as I can remember. It's dropped like 50 points in the past 12-18 months, which is great. The triglicerides are dropping like mad, but the LDLs are not, which (to my doctor) indicates a genetic problem. (Both my parents are on Lipitor, so there ya go.)

Anyway, part of my daily phamaceutical cocktail has included thyroid medicine for the past 13 years. The doc had initially put me on Synthroid, which didn't make me feel any less tired or thirsty or fat, so he went to the Armour when I was 24 or 25.

Many people who have low thyroid lose weight when they go on the drugs. I, naturally, was not one of those people. (I'm also not one of those lucky gals who loses weight when depressed.) My thyroid levels were closely monitored by the OB-GYN while I was pregnant with the boys, but the levels of medication basically have gone unchanged for years and years.

Well, in December, I had my band adjusted and it was a little too tight. I couldn't swallow pills, so I was off my meds for a while. (Don't worry, I checked in with my docs on this.) I figured I was giving my body a break, too. I had a mini-checkup with my doctor this week, where she noted my trigliceride drop and checked out my lungs from that bout with pneumonia in October. Then, since I was off the thyroid meds, she did a baseline blood test to see where my levels are.

Guess what? Her assistant just called to tell me my thyroid levels were in a normal range and I could stay off the pills. I'm pretty sure that's great news, but it's so weird to have these little things as part of your self-definition go away. It's kind of like how, when I go into the ladies' room at work, I'm so curious about the woman I see in the mirror, because she's starting to look more like I want to look, and less like I used to.

Sound effects: "Merely A Man," XTC

Morning, everyone. I'm a little foggy today. I took Zyrtec last night for the first time in years and it's addled my brain cells.

No Pirates for me last night; Dummy was on Showtime so we switched our movie channels so we could watch it again. If you haven't seen it, rush right out and rent it, okay? You might not have heard of it, since it didn't have a wide release. It was written and directed by Greg Pritikin, with whom I went to high school. In fact, there are a large number of Highland Park High grads who went on to great creative careers. F. Gary Gray went to my school and was in some musicals with me. Reggie Hayes was another HPHS guy -- and really, really funny. He flashed me once.

Of course, you've all heard of Gary Sinise and John Malkovich -- who preceded me (tosses mostly non-grey hair). But how about Steve Price? Mike Ruekberg? Tom Szidon? Mike Datz? Lisa Fishman? Okay, Lisa did some of the vocals and stuff for the Klezmer music on Dummy. She also played Mrs. Potiphar in our school's performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat -- for whose audition she recalled me prepping her. (I ran into her in 1996 while planning my wedding -- at the time, she was one of the two lead singers for the Maxwell Street Klezmer Band. It was really cool to have her there, singing at my wedding.) 

Tom Szidon's band, the Joy Poppers, did some stuff for Dummy, but the real star of the soundtrack is Mike Ruekberg (pronounced "Rick-berg," please). You can listen to snippets of his songs on his site. They grow on you. Probably my reasoning for pumping this stuff on my blog is pretty transparent -- I had crushes on all these guys in high school, but none stronger than on Mike. He was my big brother's best friend, and the bassist and lead singer for their band, the Three Rotating Llamas. (Steve Price played guitar.)

I followed these guys around like a stupid puppy. They would pull stuff like unloading all their equipment in the Highland Park "downtown" shopping district and perform an impromptu moonlit concert for anyone who showed up. My dad was grouchy and picked on them a lot, focusing on Mike's choosing to wear shoes without socks as the reason the boy would never amount to much.

There was one night I remember quite clearly, sitting at the dining room table in the dark and having a long phone conversation with Mike. I was alarmingly, shakingly, pantingly hung up on the guy. My brother found me on the phone, and nearly tore me limb from limb. He basically intimated that, should I attempt to go anywhere near Mike, he'd kill me. Being a little sister and in mortal fear of my brother (who was a half-foot taller and had 40 lbs on me), I stepped back and never really entered the abyss.

So here we are, almost 20 years later. Mike is still writing and performing his music, and living in LA. Greg has directed three films. Steve is on the faculty of some music engineering school or some such thing. Lisa is, as far as I can tell, still singing professionally. Gary Gray will never need to worry about money for the rest of his life. Reggie Hayes has a popular sitcom and still a bit of indie cred left over from Chicago Cab.

And me? The former senior drama stargeek and recipient of the first annual Barbara June Patterson Scholarship For Excellence in Theatre is a fucking software analyst who only sings in the car or the kitchen. No wonder I take Zoloft.

Sound effects: "OK, Casey," Rex Daisy

Oh, the thinks I think. Y'all got me going, just to see if I could do it.

1. I believe in bathroom privacy.
2. Some things should remain a mystery.
3. Romance, while perhaps not dead, is not feeling all that well.
4. I am horribly judgemental about poor grammar and spelling.
5. I have a crush on Orlando Bloom.
6. And Johnny Depp.
7. DH and I had dinner with Mike Keneally once at Baker's Square.
8. Mike Keneally finished my fries for me, and even tasted some of my piece of French Silk.
9. And my husband bragged to his friends, "Mike Keneally ate my wife's pie!"
10. I love dirty dancing.
11. The movie's okay, too.
12. But I have to be a little drunk.
13. I have a great singing voice.
14. I'm a little too proud of having big blue eyes.
15. I miss having a sex drive.
16. I worry, a lot.
17. I'm not very patient.
18. I can watch movies and read books many times.
19. I once dated two guys named "Brad" at the same time.
20. Sometimes it's easier to lie.
21. I'm lazy about cleaning up.
22. I wish I weren't.
23. But I'm too lazy to change.
24. When I wake up, I'm up for good.
25. Even if it's really early.
26. And I like to get out of the house early, too.
27. I walk around in socks at home.
28. I like wearing sexy shoes.
29. Ditto sexy underthings.
30. But they're mostly too uncomfortable to bother.
31. Sometimes I'd like to be someone else.
32. Someone rich, thin, and stacked.
33. Okay, I'm stacked anyway. But I've had two kids, ya know?
34. I've had weight loss surgery.
35. Cosmetic surgery really freaks me out.
36. I hate having someone privileged, stupid, and headstrong representing my country.
37. I have never voted Republican.
38. Howard Stern's voice turns me on.
39. So do really talented musicians.
40. I have never had a lesbian fantasy.
41. And I'm actually not lying about that.
42. I can't actually remember how many men I've slept with.
43. But it's not as bad as that sounds.
44. Okay, it's not great, but it's not that bad.
45. I'd like to be a successful singer.
46. But I'm resigned to that being a fantasy.
47. I wish I were better at doing my own hair and makeup.
48. I want to be a hot mom.
49. I have trouble making friends with other Jewish women.
50. I am really insecure.
51. Maybe that's why.
52. I don't know if I'll ever be financially secure.
53. That bothers me a lot.
54. I'm really maternal.
55. You can't make someone love you.
56. You can't make someone love the same things you do.
57. I don't understand the allure of Nascar.
58. Or hunting.
59. I am too uptight to go camping.
60. Or scared of the dark and bugs.
61. I have ridiculously bad eyesight.
61. I've had two operations on my eyes.
62. And two on my reproductive system.
63. And one on my throat.
64. I don't think Coldplay is all that.
65. I want to be mysterious.
66. But I have a big mouth.
67. I also wear my heart on my sleeve.
68. Which can be awkward to accessorize.
69. Isn't as much fun as you might think.
70. Because you can't concentrate on what you're doing, or what's being done to you, that's why.
71. I'm tired a lot.
72. I've lost 60 pounds in the last year.
73. And 40 inches.
74. I rock at giving head.
75. No matter how much my husband tries, I will never be into Frank Zappa.
76. Or Orthodoxy.
77. I'd like to have another baby.
78. I'd really like it to be a girl.
79. I'd be willing to do some biological two-stepping to make that happen.
80. I get jealous.
81. That thing that guys do in movies, where they hold the actress' face when they kiss her? That turns my knees to pudding.
82. I have very shapely, strong legs.
83. My legs and arms are actually too long for my body.
84. I was meant to be 5'10" but something weird happened when I was growing.
85. I'm only 5'6" on a good day, but I look much taller.
86. I take things personally.
87. I love shopping.
88. For almost anything.
89. I'm completely underwhelmed about my job.
90. Planning parties makes me high.
91. I'm like Monica on Friends -- I want to have "the" apartment where everyone gathers.
92. I'm a pretty good cook.
93. I hate illegal drugs.
94. I don't want to bump into people I used to know until I'm thinner.
95. I don't even want to see cousins until then.
96. I think my son's teacher is kind of hot.
97. (It's a guy. I told you I don't fantasize about women.)
98. Flirting is more fun than should be allowed.
99. And I'm really, really good at it.
100. Some things are better left unsaid.

Sound effects: "Coming Back In," Toby Lightman

Wanna know how much I hate seeing the preschool's phone number on my caller ID? It usually means one of a few nasty things:

1. "Did you know that you owe us like $7,000 in unpaid tuition?"
2. "Jacob gave Brent (his teacher) a fat lip today."
3. "Danny threw up everything he's ever eaten and is currently running around in some other kid's Jockey shorts."

So I wasn't all that thrilled yesterday when the call came at 3 pm. It was the co-director, Debbie, calling to tell me Jacob puked everywhere, oh, and by the way, Danny seems to have bad diarrhea. My initial (unspoken) response was, "thank G-d Jake didn't clock anyone."

I shot an e-mail to the three people to whom I'm obliged to report every bathroom break, and hit the road. Naturally, it was raining out, and turning to big giant flakes of fat, puffy snow. Since here in Chicago we are unaccustomed to bad weather, everyone drives minus-twelve miles per hour when it's like this, so it took me over an hour to get to the school (with a lightning-fast run through Target for Pedialyte, ginger ale, coloring books and graham crackers). When I got there, poor Jacob was huddled, wearing another kid's t-shirt and jeans, under a blanket. He was so weak he was practically catatonic, and all the teachers tiptoed around him. Debbie slipped his shoes on his bare feet (all of his clothes were in the wash there) and tucked him into his coat. It was all I could do to get the poor kid home -- I even had to carry him up the back stairs to our apartment.

Two seconds after I got his coat off, Jacob was retching into the kitchen garbage can. By 7 pm, the total vomit count was something like eight, including the times at school. The poor kid looked like a torture victim... his eyes and stomach were all sunken in, and he looked skinny, gangly and weak. The last time he threw up was in bed, and I stripped the bed with him in it and carried the whole bundle of kid and dirty linens into the bathroom. The poor kid could barely raise his arms for me to strip him so I could give him a bath, but the warm bath seemed to help. By the time DH got home, Jacob was in clean pajamas, with clean linens, sipping more ginger ale and listening to his lullabye CD in bed while I bathed Danny. 

Jake ended up sleeping with us last night, waking once or twice from the fever to croak a very polite request for more ginger ale. This morning, he barely blinked when I kissed him good-bye. However, I checked in with the nanny and she said his fever is down, and he's quietly coloring at the dining room table.

Is all of parenthood just tripping from this illness to that injury to that behavior issue? Wow, it's so exhausting. The only thing that helps is that, when he's sick, Jacob is incredibly well-behaved. He's very, very quiet, and obedient, and just prefers to cuddle up with us when he doesn't feel well. And Danny? Well, when I told Danny last night that we should be quiet because Jacob was sick, he went over to Jacob's bed and petted him gently, the way we've taught him to pet the cats. Oy, I tell you. These kids are going to break my heart.

For Angie:

I've had too big and too small, and they both suck.

Appendix of Facts (since I know you're all dying for some details):
1. DH is not either of those men.

2. Small guy memory: You want your first impression of sex with someone to be a sigh, or a moan, or even a shriek. You don't want it to be "is it in yet?"

3. Big guy memory: We were making out on our 2nd or 3rd date, when he nibbled my ear and whispered "d'ya have any extra-large condoms?"
4. My response: Choked with laughter
5. His response: Proved why his question wasn't all that funny.
6. My response: Abject terror, followed by absolute rejection of said man's further advances.

Snagged from Aliciarose:
Leave me a comment with the following information:

A. First, recommend to me (or list your favorite):
    & nbsp;  1. A movie
    & nbsp;  2. A book, and
    & nbsp;  3. A musical artist, song, or album

B. Everyone who reads this has to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want.

C. Then go to your blog, copy and paste this allowing your friends to ask you anything they want!

So, did you give anything? Get anything?

As reported earlier, I gave DH the anatomically correct, solid chocolate heart. It was a minor hit with him, and a major hit with the kids, who have been mooching chocolate shavings from it. (It's very tasty, by the way.)

DH gave me a Wooden Smoke t-shirt from Mike Keneally. (And he got Mike's Vai Piano Reductions Vol I for himself as well.) I'm trying to look on the romantic side of his gift. After all, I liked the Wooden Smoke CD enough that I had it playing while I was in labor with Danny. And Mike Keneally is one of the few artists we can agree on. And the gift supports Uncle Mike, as we call him at home, so that hopefully he can tour again.

However, it doesn't feel romantic to me. I told him I liked it, and I will wear it, but I guess I was hoping for something with more thought of me in it. It makes me wonder how well we know each other.

I must have watched Pirates of the Caribbean three times this weekend, at least. It was on Starz! like every 20 minutes, it seemed. In fact, I fell asleep in the middle of the Interceptor/Black Pearl battle last night, and when I awoke this morning, the movie was running again, same channel, at exactly the same place! Needless to say, I watched until the end before I left for work.

So, now I'm tied up with fantasies of Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom. Even Geoffrey Rush was enticing (in a disgusting way) in that film. I'm not sure what exactly appeals to me so much, except that the film was written by Terry Rossio and Ted Elliott, the guys who wroke Shrek (another of my favorite films). It's a big, sweeping, melodramatic action flick with lots of cool elements - romance, great costumes, creepy ghosties, swordfighting, etc. It appeals to me the same way that Princess Bride does. (And if you're a fan of the film but haven't read William Goldman's book upon which it was based, get out right now and get it, okay?)

Anyway, back to important subjects: my fantasy. Okay, I'll lay it bare for you, faithful tBlog friends. <No laughing.> Somehow, someway, I'm discovered by Gore Verbinski, who casts me in Pirates 3 (4?) as the Pirate Queen. My character is captured, along with the women of my crew, by Captain Jack Sparrow. I allow Jack to think I'm a member of the British royalty, traveling with my virginal attendants on a ship whose captain and crew were lost to illness. I allow this misconception until my all-female crew manages to take over and imprison all the members of the Black Pearl's crew (my goal all along in allowing Sparrow to capture my own ship). See, I need Sparrow because he has the key to/information about/something I want to get. I need him to get it, and seduce him into helping me. Somewhere along the line, he discovers that, in fact, I am not British royalty after all, but the infamous Pirate Queen, Siren of the Seas.

I need a cigarette.

You'd think we'd all get used to dealing with spam but it's just so fucking irritating. I logged on to my Yahoo account, which I use basically for Yahoo Groups, and found a message that is supposedly from PayPal. Here's what it says:
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; Dear PayPal Member:
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; Your account has been randomly flagged in our system as a part of our routine 
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; security measures. This is a must to ensure that only you have access and use of  
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; your PayPal account and to ensure a safe PayPal experience. We require all
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; flagged accounts to verify their information on file with us. To verify your
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; information at this time, please visit our secure server webform by clicking the
    & nbsp;   &n bsp; hyperlink below.

Then there's a link to click, which leads to a random-looking http. Anyway, I checked out PayPal's site and they have plenty of info on spoofmails, so I sent them mine.

Don't let the spoofers win! Don't click those damned links! Has anyone gotten taken in by a spammer? Don't some of those things look too darned good?

(continued from here)

At the end of my senior year in high school, my parents got an apartment downtown and sold our house. So I spent my last summer "at home" in the middle of the Gold Coast of Chicago. I dated a little and worked for my folks in their studio, then went off to the University of Illinois in August. I couldn't wait to be on my own. I shared a two-bedroom suite in a private dorm with three other girls, and we all went through sorority rush together. 

I pledged Sigma Delta Tau like the good Jewish Princess I was, and went to parties at the frat houses with my new friends. Life at school was strange for me -- on the one hand, I was a sorority pledge in a hot house, and on the other, I was a drama geek. As a theatre major, I was expected to live, eat, breathe and sleep at the Krannert Center, where almost all of my classes took place. The theatre department frowned on the Greek system, because it took our focus away from our work. I packed my partying into the Friday and Saturday nights, instead of heading to O'Malleys on Tuesdays and Kam's on Thursdays and Sundays.

So, you're thinking, this is where the Freshman 15 comes in, right? Well, not exactly. Some time during my first month at school, I attended a party at the Sammy house with my roommates. SAM, as some may know, is a big Jewish frat. I knew many of the guys there, and all of them were wasted beyond belief. My version of partying was always pretty tame -- I never liked getting drunk because it meant losing control, and I was way too prissy to do any drugs. So I wasn't drunk when I ran into "Name Withheld," a former football player from my high school (who I'd tutored through high school Business Law).

NW was very drunk and really friendly to me, and I remember being flattered that such a popular guy would pay so much attention to me. He and a few of his friends walked me and my roommate back to our place, and they all settled down to hang out. Someone put music on, and NW laid down on my bed. I remember thinking "G-d, I hope he doesn't throw up on my bed," when suddenly, one of the other guys said "I think these two want to be alone."

I stammered "no!" but everyone else cleared the room, and one guy in particular (whose face I still see in nightmares sometimes) leaned in, grinned maniacally at me, shut off the light and slammed the door. I leaned forward to get up and turn the light on when NW grabbed me. I'll spare you the dirty details, but my night was not pleasant. And so began the downward spiral of my freshman year in college. I tried to go talk to someone at the counseling center, who (1) wanted me to leave school and move back home, and (2) yelled at me for not calling the police. What you have to realize is that this was 1988.... people weren't really talking about date rape and sexual assault, and I was not at all promiscuous. The idea of telling my parents what had happened was almost worse than the assult itself. So therapy didn't help me.
 
Most of my freshman year is very hazy. I have a few memories, but it's almost all repressed. I dropped out of SDT on the night of our pledge dance, and some of my former "sisters" never spoke to me again. NW told everyone he slept with me, which people believed until they found out the truth. One day I stood up during a studio class and my knee gave out; I spent half of the rest of the year on crutches and in physical therapy, dealing with chondomalatia. So I couldn't dance, couldn't run. Didn't feel comfortable socializing. The only comfort I had that year was food. 

I didn't realize I had gained weight until I went home at Thanksgiving to visit and buy a dress for our winter formal. Suddenly, 10s didn't fit, and I had to get a 14. I blamed it on my bum knee and the fact that I couldn't run (which, along with the original StairMaster, had been my primary form of exercise, about three days a week). My mother lectured me about my eating.

I had auditioned at the end of the year to be re-admitted to the theatre program, but was let go (along with everyone else who had pledged a fraternity or sorority house). It destroyed me, but even though my dad offered to let me transfer to another school, I didn't want to lose my whole freshman year in credits. I dreaded going home for the summer after my freshman year. I fought with my parents all the time, and was terrified that my mother would find out about what happened to me. However, my parents refused to let me stay on campus for the summer, even to take classes. I finally said I'd come home, but only if my mom found me a female therapist and didn't ask me any questions.

That summer was sort of restorative for me. I went to the shrink once a week, and spent my days interning at Channel 7. I auditioned for a play at a city theater, got the part I wanted, and then dropped out. (Now I knew I could act; that was all I needed to know.) Every afternoon, I went to the East Bank Club and swam for an hour or two, trying to build my strength up without putting additional stress on my knee. My body toned well, but I didn't lose an ounce.

I went into my sophomore year of school weighing probably 175 pounds. I thought I was gargantuan, but I was toned and curvaceous. On a whim, I sent a few funny things I'd written to the Features editor of the Daily Illini and promptly forgot about it. So when Dan Bernard called and offered me an interview as a humor columnist, I was shocked. I went and met him, and was offered the job. Dan molded me, teaching me journalism basics and introducing me to the DI lifestyle. We all lived in the newsroom, feeding off of silly AP wire photos and playing chairball on our rolling desk chairs, using oranges and pica poles for balls and bats.

I signed up for intramural fitness classes; every Monday through Thursday afternoon, I took an aerobics class followed by a hips/abs/buns class. By winter break, I was tight as I'd ever been, but I still hadn't lost a pound. So, I joined Weight Watchers for the first time, and boy, did I hate it. I tried all the tricks, I went to all the meetings, but it didn't fucking work. I got sick of it and dropped out after a few months.

My sophomore year was when I began gaining notariety as a columnist. First, the New York Times found me and interviewed me on sexual attitudes on campus. Then, a column I wrote goofing on midterm exam cheating landed me a slot on ABC News Nightline, with my idol Diane Sawyer interviewing me and two tight-assed academic deans (from BU and Stanford, I think). After that, I couldn't show my face outside my room or the newsroom; teachers were cracking down on academic dishonesty, and my peers were pissed. I stopped going to my exercise classes (because, frankly, I was worried for my own safety as threats made me change my phone number and have it unlisted!).

I was actually glad to go home between my sophomore and junior year. I spent it, again, working out and working for my parents. When I got back to school my junior year, it was in an apartment with a senior I found on the Jewish house grapevine. I spent most of my free time hanging out at the DI, working as the first female Campus Scout (an honored weekly humor column always written in the third person). My best friend at the time was T, who was one of the few female sportswriters around. She and I would work at adjacent desks and giggle about cute guys in the newsroom. One guy, Tim, was especially cute but a little inaccessible. T and I called him "G-d in human form come to save the female race."

I was active my junior year until I came down with mono, around the middle of my first semester. I battled that shitty illness for months, dropping out of the majority of my classes while I sweated out the fever. My second semester, I had to gradually up my workload because the mono really wiped me out. One day, in the newsroom, I was joking around with Tim, forgetting to be shy around him, and ended up offering him a ride back to his frat house. We sat in my car for almost two hours, talking, and then he asked me out. Score!

I don't remember being especially self-conscious about myself with Tim. This really cute, popular, smart guy liked me! Tim was a senior in Electrical Engineering, a leader in his house, and an avid soccer and baseball player. He had several job offers way before he graduated, and excellent grades though he made schoolwork seem effortless.

During my senior year, Tim proposed and I accepted. This was not necessarily welcome news to our families; I was Jewish, and Tim was not. But damned if I wasn't going to make this work! Since graduating, Tim had worked for Schlumberger, going out on oil rigs. He was stationed in Layfayette, Louisiana. It was a horrible situation -- he would be gone for as much as a month at a time. So even if I moved out there to be with him, what would I do? The area was economically depressed. I didn't know where I'd be able to work, and I'd be alone almost all the time. Eventually, Tim ended up leaving Schlumberger and taking a job instead at the power plant in Northern Indiana, just about 45 minutes outside of Chicago. He found us a 2-bedroom apartment, and I moved there straight from my college apartment the day after graduation.

My weight rarely came up with Tim; I was still fairly fit though not pleased with my body. He didn't really have issues with it since he could see I was physically fit, and liked my curves besides. In Indiana, where I worked as a news reporter, I joined the local Y and started taking aerobics again. Tim bought us a NordicTrak, which I tried to use but never really liked. I kept it together as best I could through a turbulent year of living together, until finally we broke up on Mother's Day, 1993 -- just a few months prior to our planned September wedding.

(To be continued again)

Oh, this is just sick.

For those of you who don't want to register to read the Chicago Tribune, allow me to paraphrase John Kass' column today.

(ALLEGEDLY ALLEGEDLY ALLEGEDLY)

Okay, so this Chicago lawyer, James Foley, was on vacation in Cape Coral, Fla. with his family, when they found a friendly mutt running loose. Foley found vet tags on the dog (Ariel)'s collar, with a phone number in Alaska. So he called Ariel's Alaskan vet and left a message, along with his cell phone number, saying he found the dog.

As it turns out, Ariel is the beloved pet of 7-year-old Miles Korzeniewski and his family, who had recently moved to Cape Coral from Alaska, and had left the dog in the care of a neighbor while they were on vacation. Ariel escaped from the neighbor's yard, and the neighbor papered the neighborhood and hounded the pound, trying to find Ariel.

Amazingly, she didn't find Ariel, because laywer James Foley crated him up and flew him back to Chicago with his own family. When the Korzeniewski family returned home to find no dog but (apparently) phone messages from their Alaskan vet, the dad, Mike, called Foley. Foley didn't return the calls for about a week. By then, Korzeniewski was pretty irritated, and told Foley he was going to make out a police report. Foley, not one to be intimidated, said he couldn't give the dog back because he'd given it away to a nun with an organization for disabled children.

Foley won't say who the nun or the organization are. Korzeniewski got fed up after a few weeks, and finally contacted Chicago police. He and his wife also fired off a letter to Foley's law firm (Hoey & Farina), complaining about their associate's behavior.

So when John Kass finally "pinned down" Foley for an answer as to why he won't give the dog back, I'm sure you can imagine the asshole's answer. He was going to give the dog back until Korzeniewski called the cops. Why? "Because [Korzeniewski]'s a pain in the ass." Foley also said that the lawyers at Hoey & Farina "laughed at" the letter that the parents of heartbroken Miles wrote them.

<<<< DELETIA: I originally put in links to H&F's law firm and information on the wonderful man in their employ, but decided to be careful. You know where I was going with that, though, dontcha?>>>

Oh, and the kind of law these people practice? Personal injury. Think maybe the Korzeniewskis can find a PI attorney in Florida who'd like to bring civil charges against Foley? I bet they can....

Oh my, you must rush over to Mimi's house and read her entry. The best is the chat at the bottom.

Lint, fuzzballs and cat hair are the new black.

Music I'm listening obssessively to while I test our web site replatform:

John Mayer, Heavier Things: I don't care if he's Mr. Pop. His songs are eminently listenable and his voice is yummy. You can listen to some of his stuff on his site.

Megan Slankard, Freaky Little Story: A guitar guy at work turned me on to her, and she's great. She's a freakin' prodigy, and completely self-produced. Best line from one of her songs: "Too bad you saw me naked."

Toby Lightman, Little Things: You might have heard her song "Devils and Angels" get some airplay last year around this time. It's not fair that her major debut was completely overshadowed by crappy pop wannabees like Ashleeeeee Simpson. The chick's got a lot of soul.

XTC, Oranges & Lemons: I am addicted to the following list of songs:
1. Mayor of Simpleton
2. King for a Day
3. The Loving
4. Poor Skeleton Steps Out
5. One of the Millions
6. Scarecrow People
7. Merely a Man

What are you listening to? Anything new you can recommend?

This is a crosspost.

I just realized that I entitled my new blog "JTLoses" but I really haven't talked at all about the actual losing part. My weight has been an issue for me as long as I can remember -- long before (if you look at pictures of me growing up) it really should have been. I wasn't a fat kid... I did have chubby cheeks and there is at least one baby photo of me looking like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but now that I've had kids I have seen that's a fairly normal and brief phase of babydom.

As the child of a commercial film director and photographic illustrator, I actually did some modeling and acting as a kid. I took ballet from an early age, piano, and voice. I didn't play sports well but I had crappy eyesight and, we learned later, a complete lack of depth perception that well explained my failure in the Pigtail League.

I was fairly tall as a kid, but somewhere around 11 or 12 years old, I stopped growing taller. I don't think anyone realized what was going on. I kept gaining weight as if I were growing, and I was long-limbed in general, so nobody noticed. I had insanely large feet and very long fingers, which were great for piano. Then, when I was 13, my family moved from where we lived in the Cleveland suburbs to the Chicago area. Somehow, my medical records got lost in the shuffle. At Highland Park High School, I had a terrible lack of confidence that was only partially explained by being three or four inches taller than most HP princesses, and therefore feeling like a behemoth. At that point in the mid-80s, weight was really monitored by those stupid charts at the doctor's office, and the idea that you should weigh 100 pounds at 5 feet tall, and you were allowed an extra 5 pounds for every inch above that.

At 5'5" and 15 years old, I weighed more than the 125 lbs that theory allotted, but I wasn't a fat girl. (Of course, I still thought I was disgusting.) I was somewhere around a junior's size seven. My mother, who did plenty of fashion shoots and was gorgeous from the time I can remember, was happy to help me try to lose weight. She encouraged/nagged me to exercise, and paid for me to see dieticians, nutritionists, and even go to Diet Center. When I was 16, I did Diet Center with her. Hot water with lemon every morning, five bland cardboard crackers with a plain salad for lunch, etc. I got down to 122 pounds or so, and then promptly became ridiculously sick. I vaguely recall my mom coming in to find me in bed on a Saturday afternoon, deliriously terrified that the squares on my duvet were out to get me. My temperature was around 104. I was in bed for probably a week, but I do remember getting up during that time to weigh myself, and celebrating when I spent one weak day at 117 lbs.

Needless to say, that weight loss didn't "take." When I graduated from high school at age 18, I wore a size 10 and weighed about 145 lbs. I had long legs, a high but defined waist, and just edged over my 34Bs. Little did I know that would be the high/low point of my figure's history!

I didn't think so.

Okay, y'all, let's get some hot discourse going here. What turns you on?

See, I wear comfy things to bed, like shorts and t-shirts, or cotton nightshirts. I know it's not sexy, but it's comfy. When it's time to <ahem> turn up the heat a bit, I tend towards stuff like push-up chemises and teddies, like  or  or

Now, the question is, what kind of styles do you like? What do you find sexy on a girl? Bear in mind, I like to highlight my strengths (big boobs, long legs, long hair) and hide my not-so-strengths (tummy that shows a bit of wear and tear).

Check out this marvelous post by Manolo on how to properly gift your loved one for Valentine's Day. I know most of you guys (and some gals, I'm sure) can't stand VD (or VD, for that matter). However, here's my take on it.

I don't give a big fat hooeyfuck* if it's all commercial. (*That's for you, Dougie.) I don't care if Hallmark created it to improve their sales in the dead days between Christmas and Easter. Here's the thing: For about 21 of my 34 years, I was single. Every Valentine's Day was a misery for me. Oh, my dad would lovingly bestow a bag of heart-shaped chocolates on me, and when I was a teenager he took me shopping a few times to buy me really cool shirts or jackets (I still have one of the jackets he bought me; the other, an Aussie duster, sadly got destroyed in a taxicab door). But Valentines from significant others were few and far between.

There are definitely some attached people, even women, out there who will say they don't need their S.O. to give them anything on VD. That's all well and good. I bet they're all involved with people who surprise them with romance on a regular enough basis that it doesn't matter.

But DH, G-d love the guy, is definitely romance-impaired. It's hereditary, or learned, I don't know, but the guy's idea of romance is updating my Windows registry or something techie like that. So Valentine's Day is mandatory for him, as is my birthday, our anniversary, and Mother's Day. If, someday, he becomes the kind of husband who surprises me with little romantic gestures for no reason, I may lay off the Valentine's Day Mandate. But for now, assume that DH is required to gift me with something, however token, to show his love for me. 

Oh, and because every female who knows I'm married will ask what he gave me, and hell hath no fury like single friends who can't live vicariously through their married ones. :-)

He told me not to get him anything, but I couldn't resist this.

You guys rock. Thanks so much to those who voted for my blog to be featured. I hope I can make it a little more interesting for those who visit.

I'm not feeling very interesting right now. I ran errands all weekend, spent today at my parents' house with my kids, and now I'm charging my pocket PC/MP3 player while I watch "Starlicious Makeovers" on E!. How sad is that?

However, next weekend, I'm going to accompany my husband to the cast & crew premiere of Cup of My Blood, for which he was the computer consultant and web developer.

From my colleague Brian:

For a couple years I've been blaming it on lack of sleep, not enough  sunshine, too much pressure from my job, earwax build-up, poor blood or
anything else I could think of. But now I found out the real reason:
    I'm tired because I'm overworked. Here's why:
- The population of this country is 273 million.
     140 million are retired.
    & nbsp;   That leaves 133 million to do the work.
- There are 85 million in school.
     Which leaves 48 million to do the work.
    & nbsp;  Of this there are 29 million employed by the federal government.
- Leaving 19 million to do the work.
     2.8 million are in the armed forces preoccupied with killing Saddam
Hussein.
    & nbsp;  Which leaves 16.2 million to do the work.
- Take from the total the 14.8 million people who work for state and city
governments.
    And that leaves 1.4 million to do the work.
    & nbsp;  At any given time there are 188,000 people in hospitals.
- Leaving 1,212,000 to do the work.
     Now, there are 1,211,998 people in prisons.
- That leaves just two people to do the work. You and me.
And there you are sitting on your ass, at your computer, reading jokes.

Nice, real nice.

(not Kodos)

Edit:

Okay, that didn't work. It was supposed to show that my Winnie the Pooh personality is Kanga, which makes sense for me because when Jacob was an infant, I called him Roo. We wore him around in the Baby Bjorn all the time like a baby kangaroo. Then his first sound was the "ooo" sound.

And now he's five. Wow.

Know how I wrote a letter to Jake on his 5th birthday? Well, it pales in ridiculous ineptitude compared to Heather. Wow. Hey, all you lovesick teens... the love affairs and foibles you're experiencing are, shockingly, nothing compared to how you will hopefully feel about your child someday. So don't take it all too seriously.

I have refrained from commenting on the whole Postcards From Buster debacle until now. For those of you without kids, the show is a spinoff of the hugely popular PBS kid's show Arthur. The "scandal" arose when Education Secretary Margaret Spellings made a big deal over one episode, where Buster goes to Vermont and meets families involved in making maple syrup and maple candy. As it happens, two of the families are helmed by lesbian couples.

Okay, I'm a parent and I'm relatively conservative in my personal views. But I have nothing against gay and lesbian people. Leave kids and animals alone; what two consenting adults choose to do in private is their own business and not for me to judge. This is not to say that I've already discussed sexuality with my kids (I haven't), and when pressed I'd admit that I think my kids' lives would be less complicated if they turn out to be straight.

However, I have absolutely no problem with my boys seeing a cartoon where there are lesbian or gay couples. They're not having sex in the damned show -- they're having dinner together. I'm willing to be that most kids wouldn't walk away from the show with a billion questions about alternative lifestyles -- they're far more likely to ask about maple sugar candy.

I can't remember who I stole this from, but it's most likely Almsthvn. I've had it saved to my desktop for a while, so let's get it out of the way!
    Q: What color is most reflective of you?
A: Deep burgundy reds
    Q: How did you get the idea for your diary name?
A: JT has been one of my nicknames since I was 16. I was happy to get JT for tBlog, but it was not available on blogspot. So JTLoses is my blogger name because I'm in the middle of a major weight loss.
    Q: What song are you playing now, or wish you were playing?
A: I am playing "Never Did No Wanderin," from Mighty Wind soundtrack
    Q: Has the death of a celebrity ever made you cry?
A: Phil Hartman. It was so senseless, and he was so incredibly talented.
    Q: What color underwear are you wearing?
A: Black, I think. I was in a rush this morning.
    Q: Do you want a baby?
A: I have two kids, but yes, I do want to have another baby someday. Caring for a newborn is strangely addictive.
    Q: What does your mom do for a living?
A: She's a psychologist who sells her own jewelry on the side.
    Q: What does your dad do for a living?
A: He's an assistant dean at Northwestern University.
    Q: What is your pet's name?
A: We have two cats, SCSI (Scuzzy) and GUI (Gooey)
    Q: What was the last concert you attended?
A: I don't get out much. We saw some live performances last summer (kids' music, like Ella Jenkins and Justin Roberts). Does Mike Keneally's live acoustic performance for Taylor Guitars count? If so, it's been over a year. *sniff*
    Q: Who was with you?
A: My husband and a bunch of other slobbering MK fans.
    Q: What was the last movie you saw?
A: I watched most of How To Marry A Millionaire last night. "Cattle?" "You know, like cows!"
    Q: What was the last tv show you watched?
A: Arthur, with my kids yesterday morning.
    Q: What is your fave piece of jewelry?
A: My engagement ring - it was my husband's grandmother's ring. And I have a silver cuff bracelet to which I'm strangely attracted. My mom has given me several pairs of earrings she's made, and my current faves are silver chandeliers with tiny black and dark red beads.
    Q: Who is your best friend of the opposite sex?
A: I don't have really close guy friends anymore. Something about getting married does that, I guess.
    Q: Write a song lyric that's in your head?
A: "Life's a piece of shit/when you look at it."
    Q: What song is that from?
A:  Always Look on the Bright Side of Life
    Q: Who last IMed you?
A: Someone from a local Mom's group. Now, I'm IMing with people at work for a project.
    Q: What shampoo do you use?
A: Dove Increased Moisture.
    Q: When was the last time you cut your hair?
A: About a month ago. It wasn't enough!
    Q: Are you on any meds?
A: Yes, when I can swallow them without gagging.
    Q: Do you have a mental disorder?
A: I'd better not answer this in case I ever run for President.
    Q: What is your fave frozen treat?
A: Breyers Vanilla Fudge Twirl, or Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia mixed with Fudge Brownie. Oh, and a Dairy Queen swirl cone with chocolate dip. Yummy!
    Q: Are you sexy?
A: Dead sexy!
    Q: What's your favorite shopping store?
A: That's like asking me to choose between my children! I love Costco, and the new Target near me is awesome because it's so big and clean. For clothes, I guess department stores for me, and the Gap for my boys. Ask me again when I've lost another 30 lbs.

A vote for JT is a vote for big-breasted smart-asses! Please check me out and vote for moi. If you do, I'll flash you... :-)

Added later for new tBloggers and outside readers: If you don't know how to vote, go above the tblurt chat window, there's a link there Feature your blog! click on it, then scroll down you'll find everyone's name there. If you want to vote for me, click on vote, it's to the right of my name.

Thanks to all for voting!