It's my potty and I'll cry if I want to

Speaking of standards... Pardon my indelicacy but why are there differently shaped toilet seats?

Are butts that dramatically different?

Evolutionarily speaking, at what point did we try to make the leap from this:to this:
And since both exist, did some make the leap and some fail?

In Hollywood, do they have a best selling anorexic version that is even more elongated?

Why do we need a full seat at home but a split seat in public? No, really, why??

These are the questions that keep me up at night. Educate me, somebody, please!

And why do people feel the need for "decorative" toilet seats? Do you really want to see this when you go to the bathroom?

Scary!

And yet (I am not making this up) it is listed under the title: Primary Child Toilet Seat. The child that uses this is going to need a lot of therapy.

And for your viewing pleasure, some of the ugliest toilet seats I've ever seen:
Now if they could some how make it glow like a candle, ahhhhh.

How manly do you need to be in order to require one of these:

Those are either fishing lures or enlarged images of parasites. Either way, Ew, right?

Now, here's a beauty:

Is this to help the hunter feel more, um, inspired? By the way, those are antlers "dripping" over the seat.

How about a toilet seat that looks like it's growing mold even before you use it?

"Clean it?! No, that's just the design!!"

Somebody is buying these. Is it you? Fess up.

The Not So Universal Interconnectedness of Remotes

In Urban Bohemian's latest post, he mentions giving his cousin a mini-tutorial on how to use his universal remote.

I totally get this. The universal remote is anything but.

We have one. It's different from my sister's. It's different from my friend's. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever encountered two that look or work the same outside of a store display for universal remotes. I swear my brother-in-law's is controlling the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter. I have yet to successfully navigate it. (The remote or the orbiter. Shhh, don't tell NASA.)

When my mother, a talking-head-aholic, comes to visit, I am on standby at all times, because she'll want to switch between the MSNBC political wonks and the CNN political wonks* and the TV will either go to fuzz or the "Are you sure you want to purchase Naughty Minxes?" screen the minute she touches the remote.

Even people trained to use their universal remote occasionally hit the wrong button causing others** to go into endless gnashing of teeth and the wailing, good god, the wailing. ALLLLLRIGHT, already with the wailing!

There's just no reason this has to be so hard. We need a standards committee. We need someone to invent a universal universal remote. I'd do it but I gotta go--I inadvertently ordered "Mandy Does McKeesport" and, you know, if you miss the beginning it's impossible to follow the plot.


* And, really, shouldn't they just merge and call it Wonkavision?

** You know who you are.

Cloning, Tights, and the Q du Jour

We saw him again. We were at Jackson 20 Monday night and there he was. Unlike last time, he was with the missus and their daughters. He was slumped so low in his seat that he looked to be about my height (5'3") instead of his usual 6'2". I guess all that stickin' can wear a man down.

Me: "That's James Carville."
Hubby: "I believe you're right."
Me: "It is! It's him. It's them," I hiss, not letting the fact that Hubby has already agreed with me stop me from arguing, because when you are married to an extremely reasonable, well-adjusted, easy-going man, you have to pick up the slack on the crazy meter. I accept this burden. I knew what he was like when I married him.

As the Ragin' Cajun* was less than 10 feet away, I considered taking out my camera phone but didn't. After all, it wouldn't have been polite and I didn't want to pester him when he looked so weary.**

That's twice in a year he's shown up where we are. Coinkydink? Is he following us? Is he cloning himself so he can be omnipresent? I think I read about him doing that. Creepy. Is that so he can be "stickin" to everybody? And is it only a matter of time before Billy Mays will be SHOUTING about a CARVILLE REMOVER? It's like that episode of the Flintstones where there are multiple Freds. Very disturbing.

A better encounter: Cous, pronounced like Cousin, the bartender at Jackson 20 was very friendly and knowledgeable. I tried one of their specialty cocktails--it was a concoction of some fancy gin and Finlandia Grapefruit Vodka and Lillet. Quite smooth and tasty but it leads to...

Today's panel discussion topic: Is $15 too much to spend for a single (albeit 3-liquor) cocktail in Old Town? Discuss.


* I think if you're going to have a nickname like the "Ragin' Cajun" you have to show up in a pro wrestler's outfit once in a while. Red tights, the works. Otherwise, you're just not owning it.

** Okay, AND the lighting was set really low in there and the picture wouldn't have come out well. There. Hmph. ...Okay, AND after that comment he--a vocal Hillary supporter--made about Hillary's three testicles, I didn't think it was wise to provoke him.

Getting in Touch with our Inner Taigan*

It is so gorgeous Monday that we can not stay home. So, agreeing to avoid sneezing on anybody (isn't sneezing on others everybody's secret hobby? no??), we venture out into the super-summery weather.

We do our part to stimulate the economy by taking advantage of a sale or two and then try to go to Indigo Landing. I say "try" because we wind up slowly circling the packed parking lot six, seven, eight times before we give up. Apparently everyone else is of the opinion that watching sailboats bob at Indigo Landing is the perfect way to spend the afternoon, too, and they're five minutes ahead of us and not about to give up their perch.

Dejected, we leave Indigo Landing but it is not long before we remember Le Gaulois, on King Street, and their courtyard. We get a fantastic al fresco table close to the street (great for gawking) and next to flower boxes that are brimming with color. We nibble on oysters, lightly dressed Caesar salad, garlic toast and sip wonderfully crisp white wine.


As we sit, talking for hours, we coo at the dogs that pass. "Ooo, look how sweet. What kind is he?" Because Old Town is all about the dogs. High-fallutin, special-breed dogs that are things I've never heard of and can't pronounce and were born with hair that lays much better than mine. Alexandria has a 1 to 3 dog to person ratio.** And dogs know how to absolutely bask in a sunny day. We learn much about seizing and appreciating the day from them.

Truly relaxed, we linger, talking for hours. Every five minutes the Old Town Trolley goes by with a load of tourists. I wave at every trolley. Enthusiastically. Who says the locals here aren't friendly?! I take it upon myself to singlehandedly change this perception.

Most of the tourists just stare through me but occasionally one catches my eye and grins and waves back. This is all the encouragement I need. Now I am waving like I'm 10 years old and meeting up with summer camp friends. I am waving like they are Ed McMahon and I've spotted my name on the giant, cardboard check under their arm. They are laughing. We are laughing. It is a good day.

* Yes, this is a real breed of dog.
** Source: Totally Made Up But Plausible Statistics, Cochran, et. al., 2006.

A Not So Fine Romance

Today's rant--er, thoughtful discourse, is on romance.

I'm not what you'd call a touchy-feely type. Once, when it was announced that a guy, who'd been working with us for about a year, was leaving town, I blurted out, "Who's gonna do his work?"

This was met with an open-mouthed stare. "Wow, L.A., that's cold! Not 'Gee, I'm gonna miss him.' Not 'He's been a great person to know.'"

*blink* "Um, yeah, all that."

I am one of those cold, heartless people that, by default, think more about task than people. Sue me.

This makes me productive. This makes me practical. This makes me Cruella Deville.

Whatever. I barely knew the guy. He wasn't dead; he was just leaving town. Eventually, they were going to get around to the work, I just got there a little faster.

So, it should come as no surprise to you that I don't put much stock in romance. Yeah, I like chocolates, picnics in the park, snuggling next to a fire, candlelight dinners. And I am most fortunate to have someone wonderful with which to enjoy these things. I like all the trappings of romance, I just don't buy into romance as a concept. Here's why...

I think romance is a made up thing. Made up by a confluence of marketers: Hollywood, Disney, Hallmark, FTD, all telling us we should have romance in our lives and what their particular definition is. Feeding us story lines that tell us we are somehow less if we don't have these things as defined by the official arbiters of romance.

Don't even get me started on the flower delivery competition at work on Valentine's Day. You're going to see your honey at home tonight, right? So, the whole purpose of getting flowers at work, on the one day of the year when the price is jacked up 300% and the quality is guaranteed to be horrendous, is to rub other people's faces in your happiness, right? Yeah, that's romance.

And it isn't enough that the prince dances with Cinderella. He has to carry her stinkin' shoe around and annoy everybody in town. All Cindy has to do is say "Woo, hoo, Princey, I'm over here." But does she bring herself to do it? No. She's too busy waiting to be rescued from her life of misery.

How about a little personal responsibility, Cindy?

How about being the captain of your own flippin' destiny?

How about going back to the castle and giving that big door a knock?

How about not falling in love with the first guy that dances with you?

How about getting out from a life of drudgery without being aided and abetted by a prince?

How about developing your own self so that you begin to enjoy your own company and find that lots of princes start to see you as a catch?

How about appreciating the fine qualities of life/others without putting Disney-specific expectations on it?

I know, just call me Cruella. Tomorrow's topic: Why I hate puppies.