Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Yes, But Does The Carpet Match The Drapes?

Whenever you haul something long, something that sticks out beyond the back bumper of your vehicle, it is both common courtesy and in the best interests of safety to somehow flag the item so that those behind you don't come too close.

Most people use a plastic flag, or some other brightly colored fabric to mark the jutting cargo so it does not wind up embedded in someone's windshield.

But sometimes, as is evidenced by this photo sent to me by a DGMS reader, a person just has to improvise in order to get that roll of carpet home...

A Pregnant Pause...

OK, Christina - so you deny, evade, elude - even when the obvious was, well, obvious - refusing to answer questions about your burgeoning belly.

Then what do you do?

Well, the logical step, of course.

Pose nude.

Yes, that's right.  Following in the child heavy footsteps of Demi Moore and Britney Spears, Ms. Aguilera has decided that the proper way to acknowledge her pregnancy to the world is to appear nude on the cover, and in the pages, of Marie Claire magazine.

I feel so foolish.  All I did was send birth announcements.

Can someone please explain to me the ego involved in this?  I mean, seriously, it has to be gargantuan.

I'm not a prude by any means.  You people know that.  I just cannot understand the thinking behind thinking that the world has some burning desire to see you pregged out and naked.

Don't get me wrong.  I think a pregnant woman is beautiful, natural, all that other PC BS, but I honestly couldn't care less about seeing a celebrity in all her airbrushed distended glory.

Yes, I thought Demi rocked - the first time she did it (the second time she appeared on Vanity Fair in a painted on suit - no child within). 

And when Britney came along?  Well, that was just plain wannabe-poseur-please-look-at-me-copycatting.

And now Christina?  Like I said, it's a tad hypocritical to go from complete radio silence to all butt the full Monty.

Do it for your spouse.  Get a pic taken for personal posterity.  Hell, have your stomach molded and turned into a sculpture for Junior to roll his/her eyes at when they are old enough to understand.

But enough already.  Christina, I'm happy for you and your hubby.  I'm happy for anyone who is starting off down the life altering path of parenthood.   It's a wonderful ride.

But to you, and all the female celebs who will procreate in the future?  Keep it in your maternity pants, will ya?

(Now, if the Dads-to-be want to take their skivvies off, that's a whole other topic ... and magazine.  Like I said...I'm no prude.)

I Don’t Wanna Be Your Teddy Bear

I’ve received many emails this week about the case of the British teacher and a teddy bear at a private school in Sudan, all of them asking if I planned to write anything about her case.

Yes, I have definitely been following this, even before it bubbled its way up from the bottom of the news to the top of the international headlines.

Like the case of the Girl from Qatif, which I wrote about last week (the young Saudi girl who was gang raped, then sentenced to 90 lashes, which was then increased to 200 lashes, for having been in the company of a man who was not a relative. Damn. There’s just never a male relative on hand when you need one, is there?), this one is right up there in terms of my disbelief at how justice is meted out in different countries.

For those of you not in the loop, Briton Gillian Gibbons had arrived in Sudan in August to teach at Unity High School. As part of a class project she allowed her pupils, six and seven-year-olds, to vote on a name for a teddy bear - a stuffed animal which to you and I is synonymous with snuggling, comfort, innocence. They decided on Mohamed, after one of the most popular boys in class.

The teacher intended no more offense than did the children, and nothing was undertaken with an intent to blaspheme. However, Sudan being a largely Muslim country, when news of the name spread (the first formal complaint filed was by a secretary at the Unity High School), there was an uproar from stauch Islamists who did perceive it as an insult to their holiest prophet.

And she was arrested.

She initially faced the more serious charge of inciting religious hatred, which held a sentence of 40 lashes and 6 months in prison.

International outcry was swift, British leaders, as well as leaders from around the world, brought pressure, and after apologizing to the court yesterday for any offense she had caused, Ginny was convicted on a lesser charge of insulting Islam, and sentenced to 15 days in jail.

She had already served five, so she is now in Omdurman’s women’s prison for the remaining ten.  It is overcrowded, filled with many inmates who are southern Sudanese women convicted of selling alcohol, and many who also have babies. As opposed to the penal system we are familiar with in the USA where inmates are provided with three meals a day, Ms Gibbons will have to rely on wellwishers to bring her any food and water.

15 days in prison. Over a teddy bear.

Don’t ask me to get behind that one in support.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for a "when in Rome" type attitude when it comes to international travel.

If I’m in France, I believe the onus is on me to speak some French, eat a croissant, and wear a beret.  But when it comes to different religions?  I do not expect anyone to believe as I believe, and for that courtesy and respect of differences, I expect the same in return.

Yes, Ginny traveled to a foreign land, but this woman did not set out to offend any religion, or any individual when she entered Sudan to teach.

Should she have been better versed in the religion of the country? Perhaps, especially considering it is one rife with rules, regulations, nuance, and is fervently embraced by its followers. But this is not like the Danish cartoonists or the artist–in-hiding I wrote of last month – they went after Islam full bore. And the artist freely admits he drew his sketch of Mohammed as a dog with the absolute express intent of pissing people off.

I still do not wish him harm, but if you’re going to go out of your way to poke a snake, you’d better have some serious anti-venom on hand, and don't bother me with your look of feigned surprise when it strikes.

There were signs, late yesterday, that Ms Gibbons might be allowed out of jail early. The judge instructed her defense lawyer to prepare her travel documents (exit visa) as quickly as possible. And legal analysts predict much has to do with international pressure.

That pressure may hold sway over leaders who do not wish to be perceived by the rest of the world as barbaric, but it means little to the thousands of Muslim Sudanese protesters who flooded the streets in Khartoum today, many brandishing clubs and knives, still actively calling for Ginny’s execution. 

Yes, her execution.

They were heard to be shouting "No tolerance: Execution," and "Kill her, kill her by firing squad."

Look, Allah is not HER god. Mohammed is not HER prophet. And quite frankly? I don’t believe the rest of the world, all the people who do not follow Islam, necessarily need to play by their religious rulebook.

That doesn't mean that non-Muslims should feel free to poke fun, degrade, insult, or otherwise demean Islam.  Or that Muslims should feel free to do the same in regard to Jesus, Buddah, Vishnu, etc.  We should all respect our differences, especially when it comes to religion, because how a person worships is largely a result of their geography at birth.  If my mother had been sitting on a camel when her water broke, I imagine I would be garbed in some colorful sheetwear and facing Mecca several times a day.  But she was in Dayton, Ohio, so I know all the ins, outs, ups, and downs, of Catholicism.

I don't not insult Allah because I fear retribution (ok, maybe there is a little fear), but because I respect that in this big world, there are thought processes besides mine.

If Ginny had been raised a Muslim, in a Muslim land, had been indoctrinated into all the rituals, was well versed in all the reverence, and knew the penalties for noncompliance, then I could understand a little better.

But we’re talking about a British citizen, a decent woman, whose only "crime" is in allowing a bunch of rugrats to name a teddy bear.

An apology should have sufficed. Quite frankly, that tightassed secretary should have practiced a little of that Islamic love and grace and taken her aside to point out the misstep.

After all, I do believe it is the Qu’ran which teaches: "Keep to forgiveness, and enjoin kindness."

I’m still looking for the part that talks about common sense, but then that seems to be lacking in just about every religion these days.

Going All The Way For Charity

I’m a giver.

I always have been, and I suspect I always will be.

I give my time, my energy, my money. I help out friends. I have given plasma (sure, that was when I needed money to buy my second semester books and pizza, but it still helped someone else). I adopt Salvation Army angels at Christmas. I buy canned food with no intent of them ever seeing the inside of my pantry. I rack up more carpool miles in a single soccer week than an Indy driver on Memorial Day weekend. I give to UNICEF, the Red Cross, Youssif, Jack the Dog, and always try to push special cases to the fore so that others are aware and can help too.

I like giving, helping. Maybe it’s because I know how incredibly lucky I am. I lead a very comfortable life. Maybe it’s because it just plain feels good to help other people.

And maybe, like Earl, it’s because I am a firm believer that if you put good karma out, eventually the universe will drop some of it back on you – kind of like karmic bird poop, only it doesn’t stain..

So I give, often till it hurts. Sometimes it’s misconstrued as a chronic inability to say No, but that’s OK. I can live with the self inflicted "wounds" of being over-busy. If I can say Yes, I will.

That being said, I have recently discovered that perhaps I am not as open minded to the charity process as I thought.

I may be willing to open my heart, wallet, home, and vehicle, but one thing you will not find me opening is ... my legs.

Meet Maria Carolina of Chile.

Maria is a prostitute. With a heart (and kootch apparently) of gold.

Inspired by a two day "Teleton" fundraiser for Chile’s largest charity – one much like the long running Jerry Lewis affair – this one is also endorsed by television stars and aims to raise funds for poor, disabled children – Maria decided to auction off ... love.

Well, the physical portion anyway.

Yes, Maria auctioned off 27 hours of sex, raising $4,000 in the process, all of which she donated to the charity telethon.

Maria, who has become a celebrity of sorts, making the rounds on talk shows and in news headlines, defended her unusual fun raising (sorry, funD raising) scheme, "There are people who are going to be donating money that's a lot more questionable than mine. The only thing I did was publicize it."

Of one of her clients who generously opened his wallet (and pants), Maria says, "It seemed like a good deed to him."

Yes, Maria, I’m sure he was bursting with, um... pride...at his donation. Talk about giving till it squirts – whoa, sorry – I meant hurts.

Telethon official, Mario Kreutzberger, said he would not encourage "immoral" activities, but said he would accept her pledge.

After all, prostitution is legal in Chile, so it’s not truly dirty money, right?  Hand out, hand job...to-may-to, to-mah-to...

Ah well, to each his/her own.   I'm certainly not judging.  We should all give what our time and talents allow us to give to our fellow man, or in her case, men.

But as for me? I think I’ll just keep driving carpool.  The only thing I have to "pump" that way, is gas.

If Loving This Is Pong, I Don't Wanna Be Right

If the YouTube debates left you longing for more in the way of political comic relief, give this game, courtesy of a DGMS reader and the great minds at CNN, a try!

PRESIDENTIAL PONG

Atari was never this good, man.

Project Runway Recap, Wednesday, November 28: Tiki Torches Carmen

Well, hyped and touted all week via a foreshadowing of Just Jack telling the cameras this is "the most difficult challenge that has ever been on Project Runway", my daughters and I spent the past seven days in serious conjecture...

Would they be flaying their own flesh? Shaving their heads and weaving cloth out of their tresses? (Leaves Rami at a disadvantage.) Painting clothing on their models a la Heidi in many a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue? Stealing clothing from Goodwill and refashioning it into something, well, fashionable? Oooo! Maybe they would be hunting down human beings and doing a little Silence of the Lambs dress making?

OK, ok – that last one was a little out there, and gross, but hey, it was a long seven days.

Well, whatever it was, we were sure it would be different, exciting, something that could stand proudly alongside previous season’s creations of produce dresses, garbage ensembles, and Postal uniforms. (I still have nightmares of Jay sweating through the crotch of his USPS shorts. At least he said it was sweat...)

Let’s find out...

This episode opened in the Gotham apartments as Just Jack and Joey Fatone stood around in the bathroom showing off their myriad tattoos. (Don’t know about you, but I wasn’t really looking at the skin art. I swear, Just Jack is just ripped.)

Did you catch the Kindergarten artwork shower curtain? Cats, owls, and what at first looked like turtles pooping – upon Tivo rewind and closer inspection it turned out to be rain clouds. Not as cool as turtles pooping, if you ask me.

Cut to Just Jack talking about being HIV positive for 17 years now, and a shot of him on the bed with his pharmacy of drugs. He says he, "has never been healthier", and if all one did was look, you’d be hard put to argue with him. He’s like Adonis come to life – I swear if this doesn’t provide hope and inspiration to other HIV patients, I don’t know what can.

This is a man who refuses to be defined by his medical circumstances, choosing instead to embrace his life and enjoy every moment. Methinks me loves me some Just Jack.

Out in the living room, Rami and Chris cut up about the recently auffed Barium the Librarian, joking loudly that perhaps Edward Scissorhair should have gone instead – of course he is within full earshot of the conversation.

To the camera he admits that his confidence was shaken by the last challenge – um yeah – being the second to last man standing will do that – but clings to the knowledge that he designs better clothes than most of them. (Most? What’s this? A true chink in Edward's ego?)

Fast forward to Parsons and Heidi explaining to the condresstants that they will not need their models for this challenge, hyping what’s to come as, "a first for Project Runway".

Again with the drama. What could it be?

The kids are then shuttled to 10 Rockefeller Plaza to meet with Tim for details. LOVE the contrast between Tim standing all groomed to within an inch of his life and Just Jack arriving in beach attire, although, I don’t want to see Tim in beach attire.

They follow Tim and emerge onto The Today Show set where they are greeted by someone they don’t know: Tiki Barber, former NY Giants running back and now GQ’d correspondent for the show.

Wait – sorry, I take that back. Joey F knows who he is, but then Joey is straight, something he again points out to America.

Tiki, a man with a waist sized neckline, and teeth like hospital floor tiles (perfect, white, no grout), lays out their challenge...

Here it comes! I was so excited. I just knew it was going to be some Where In The World Is Matt Lauer type challenge where they would be flown to Machu Pichu and forced to sew an evening gown out of moss and fog....

Dreamer.

The challenge? Design and outfit for Tiki to wear on the Today Show.

That thud you just heard was my excitement hitting my shoes.

OK, maybe it was also the sound of the contestants jaws hitting their shoes – after all, most of them have not clue ONE about designing menswear, especially for a man who admits he has a neck that is "so big" a "skinny waist" and a "big butt".

He helps by supplying that he enjoys dark colors, light colors, textures, depth, comfort. Basically, clothes.

Back at Parsons the kids arrive at the workroom and we see Just Jack literally carrying Scissorhair in his bag like Paris Hilton carrying Tinkerbell. Methinks Christian is in luvst (lust + love = luvst)

They get 30 minutes to sketch, easy enough, they can all draw a suit and tie, then 30 minutes at MOOD where they sweat and fret over how to best spend their $100 budget. If it were me, it would be right about then that I would be deciding Tiki would look really good in a toga.

In the workroom they all begin wrestling with muslin, and attempting to draw patterns. Then Just Jack is hit with the bright idea to take off his shorts (I love this man) and tear them apart. He shares the Looms of his Fruit with Victorya and Carmen so they , too, can make a decent pair of pants.

Rami, however, whines at this completely legal shortcut they are taking, choosing instead to "drape" his pants – Rami is very big into "draping". I think he should have taken my toga idea...

By midnight, not much has been accomplished, so they head off for some sleep, quickly returning at sunrise for 15 hours of work at Parsons.

Scissorhair is like the Speedy Gonzales of the sewing machine – you would think that would have been Ricky...never mind...

Chris explains that pants aren't really hard – they are "just two big sleeves sewn together". Yeah, Chris, with pockets, a zipper, the matter of a place to put your ass...

Tim eventually comes in with the male models – lookers all – and Joey F takes the opportunity to AGAIN remind us all that he is "the only straight guy in the room". OK, Joey, OK - we get it. You don’t like the dick, now stop being one and just sew.

As each designer meets their model, Enya is seen explaining to hers that she must turn around while he undresses and gets dressed – she cannot watch him disrobe. She tells the cameras that she is "a bit shy" and that "I have a boyfriend. He is the only one I have fitted intimately."

What does that mean? Spit marked with her tongue? I guess spit marking is a monogamous thing?

She goes on to explain that "He is the only male I choose to touch."

After America sees much more of you, Enya, he will quite possibly be the only male who chooses to touch you. Like Joey – just STFU and sew.

With seven hours left to go, Tim reappears with Kimora Lee Barber – actually it is Tiki’s wife, Ginny, but I swore when she walked in she was Kimora – just shorter.

She does a quick critique of everyone - some good, like Just Jack who is designing the right direction; and some not so good, like Carmen, who reconfirms that she really has never let go of the 80’s – her jacket is compared to a Members Only by Ginny.

Carmen no happy.

As the 1am deadline draws closer, she and Ricky begin to fing in the sewing room. Finging is the art of sing fighting. Neither of them is Pavarotti. Pavarotten? Yes. Pavarotti, no.

As the evening ends, Serial Killer gives his "Titanic sized panic" line. Again, all this week long hype is failing to live up to the challenge at hand. I get that menswear is not their genre, that it involves many seams, details, legs (face it, even the most glamorous dress is simply a glorified sack), but come on. I want to see someone tear a blister off and make it into a pocket! I want to see a sunburned person peel off their dead flesh and make a vest! I want to watch Enya pop a zit and imbue Tiki’s outfit with her white blood cells!

Where was I...

Dawn breaks and into the workroom tromp the designers. Again, Scissorhair has managed to snag a ride from Just Jack, this time literally being carried in by him – like a bride across a threshold.

Something tells me Just Jack is Just humoring little Christian. He really is like one of those yip yip dogs you see Jessica Simpson, Britney and Paris dragging around.

As the models appear for the runway show, time is almost up and Ricky has to resort to having his model sew on the buttons to the shirt. And you can see the tears are just brimming behind the dam of his eyes...any minute now that little Dutch boy is going to pull his finger and we’re all in trouble.

Sweet P is "horrified" by her dress shirt; Carmen has to sew her model into his pants, and then with zero time left to make a shirt, she opts to grab some fabric and give him a Pashmina.

Oh Carmen. Those are so two years ago. But then you hair is like, so, twenty-three years ago.

Out on the runway, Heidi greets the gang in flowing cleavage – I swear she is Paula Abdul with more brains and without the medicine cabinet.

A quick howdy-do to the judges:

Michael "I’m so fab I only wear black" Kors; Nina "I hate you all" Garcia; and Tiki "Someone Tell Me Again How I Got Roped Into This? Barber.

First out on the runway was Jillian-I’m-Going-To-Fly-Under-The-Radar-For-At-Least-Three-More-Episodes’s model in dress pants, shirt, vest, and jacket. The shirt pattern was a nice shot of contrast – seemed like a well sewn outfit, but nothing remarkable.

Next out, Carmen’s model – George Costanza, working his too tight pants, Members Only jacket, cap, and powder blue pashmina. Nuff said.

Just Jack’s lapdog, Scissorhair sent out a model in tan slacks, a tan casual pullover, and a jacket that seemed to be a cross between a pea coat and pee. It was just fugly, but then I’m starting to think that will be the name of his line if he makes it to Fashion Week. Fugly by Edward Scissorhair – when you don’t give a shit what other people think about you.

Kit sent out some nicely fitted trousers, a dress shirt, and a pretty great blazer made of fleece. Yes, fleece, the stuff of snuggy hoodies and winter pajamas. But somehow, in navy, it worked.

Rami dressed George’s nemesis, Lloyd Braun, in a very retro looking I-want-in-the-club jacket too, but his pants fit well. Nice draping, Rami.

Sweet P? Well, to start with, her model walked like he ran on Duracells – very robolike. The pants came out well, but his shirt looked like it had just given birth to his head – all stretched out, the collar flopping like labored labia (ok, even I admit, that’s a pretty colorful image - ICK), and around his neck hung a tie that must have been 7 feet long (a striped umbilical cord?). Sweet P must have gotten Shaquille O’Neal and Tiki Barber mixed up.

Serial Killer showed a pullover sweater, trousers, and a cravat? What, are we dressing Warren Beatty?

Victorya dared to go different with a white jacket and nicely fitted pants. Again, nothing too daring, and nothing that would get her auffed.

Joey Fatone created a purple dress shirt, fitted vest, dress pants, and a deep purple tie and pocket square. It was the most daring, in terms of color, and actually looked the most Tiki-ish. (God help my Spellcheck on that one – I sense a seizure coming on.)

Just Jack was just daring with striped dress pants and a contrasting striped shirt. Stripes and stripes? Not usually, but somehow this worked, and it looked clean and sharp.

Oh Ricky you’re so fine, but your outfit – not so much. The lining was interesting, but the rest of the outfit was boring and poorly made. I sense the Dutchboy getting ready to pull out...put on your hip waders.

Finally, Enya. Dammit, she did it again. Out comes an outfit I couldn’t hate. It was casual, comfortable, earthtones – very low key, but it fit well, and looked great on the model.

With all the designers assembled, the following were pulled forward:

Jillian, Scissorhair, Whiney, sorry, I mean Rami, Serial Killer, Victorya, Chris, and Enya – all were deemed safe and asked to get the hell off the runway.

The remaining designers were joined by their models and critiqued...

Kit: Tiki liked the look, texture and said that it "fit his nature" (must be code for "butt" – she did do that double vent in the rear); Michael lauded her choice of fleece for the blazer.

Sweet P and her vagina shirt did not fare so well. Tiki called it "messy" yet "conservative"; and the best Michael could offer was that he liked the 7 foot tie.

Just Jack was praised by everyone but Nina who bitched that he only made two pieces. Heidi auffed her with a look and stated she’d rather see two well made pieces than a bunch of poorly made items. Nine glowered – she’s good at glowering.

Ricky got nailed by Nina for using safety pins to hold his garment together. Tiki called it "sloppy" and said "I would look like a fool." Oh dear. Tiki, you don’t say things like that to a man teetering on the brink of an emotional Niagra. Ricky started to cry. I swear that boy bawls more than an Amsterdam whore. (OK, ok, different "balls")

Joey F got good feedback, but Heidi made it clear that she never wants to see her boy Seal in purple, saying it’s more "David Beckham than Tiki Barber." Um, Heidi – That’s ok with roughly fifty million of us out here...

Finally it was Carmen’s turn. Tiki stated about the jacket, "If it’s short like that all you’re going to do is look at my butt."

Heidi loved that Teeks has the same body issues as a woman, but then, Tiki does got back.

Michael called the crotch on the pants "insane"; and Nina the Executioner made Carmen take the pashmina off her model, leaving him standing there naked under the jacket. I think Nina just wanted a look, if you ask me.

The judges debated, giving high marks to Joey F, Just Jack, and Kit, while dissing Sweet P’s as "intentionally ugly?", Carmen’s as an outfit a Boogie Nights star would wear (sorry Michael, but Dirk Diggler ain’t fittin’ in those pants. Not by half.); and Tiki said Ricky’s outfit looked like his five year old made it.

With the contestants back out, Heidi quickly sent Joey F to safety. Tiki gave the win to Just Jack and promised to wear the outfit on The Today Show. Kit and Sweet P were also sent to safety, leaving Carmen and Ricky on pins and needles (sorry, I have been wanting to work that in).

Heidi told Carmen her model was "half naked", but come on, in all fairness that was only because Nina insisted on de-pashminaing the poor boy. Ricky was spanked for bad "construction" and "unacceptable presentation".

In the end though, it was Carmen who received the official auffing and Ricky who cried tears of relief. (Someone get that boy a bottle of water – surely he’s getting dehydrated.)

Carmen stated that she was ok leaving on a menswear challenge since it’s just not her thing. She gathered up her belongings and hailed a DeLorean back to the 80’s.

And that’s it for this week. Are you still happy with the remaining designers? Were you a bit let down at this highly hyped challenge? Do you think Ricky’s mental seams are beginning to come apart? And what do you possibly think is in store next week? They showed Serial Killer saying, "America, start praying for us now." And it was apparent there’s a team challenge in the offing.

Hmmm, design new wardrobes for The Muppets perhaps? I’m not holding my breath.

Oh, and for the record, I still think my idea for Tiki is the best...

Project Runway Recap In Holding Pattern...

Hey everyone ... for those you waiting for the recap, it will be running a tad late today.

Earlier this week, while cleaning my desk (not a small task, but one requiring two trash cans, twenty folders, a shredder, and a backhoe), I ran across a giftcard to a spa here in town.  It had been given to me nearly a year ago by one of my soccer teams.  Well, upon closer inspection, I discovered that it expires on December 2.

(Shows you how often I do something truly indulgent for myself.  Here sat $120 in free massage money for A YEAR and I didn't find time to use it.)

That being said, I immediately picked up the phone, booked the massage, and headed there straight from jettisoning my daughters at their schools this morning.

Was it enjoyable?  Yes, of course.  If you haven't tried a Hot Stone massage, you're missing out.  (And to the minds out there who immediately slipped into the gutters, I am not talking about those hot stones...or pebbles in some cases...)

But as much as I wanted to completely float away mentally, alas, I could not.

Why, dear Linda, could you not relax, you query.  Were the stones too hot?  Was the room too cold?  Did the sheets chafe against your tender flesh?

No, no, no.  The stones were perfectly heated, the room and massage table were comfortably warm, and the sheets were at least 400 thread count.

The problem was to be found in the masseusse.

I shit you not - she could have been space cadet Elisa's (she of the Project Runway hocker on the fabric fame) twin.

From the I-always-talk-like-I'm-halfway-through-a-reefer voice, to the desire to engage me in discussion about the people I "nurture in my existence", to the point when she lay her forehead on my lower back to "join our energies", all I wanted to do was laugh.

Look, I have experienced massages in fine resorts, strip mall day spas, cruise ships, and outdoors on beaches.  I have had every personality from earth mothers to Nurse Cratchet work on my body, but this went beyond any wind-rain-earth-cosmos Enya-type I have ever encountered.

She ended the session by laying her hands on my stomach and repeating in her breathy-pass-the-doobie voice, "Love yourself, feed your self, self, self, self..."

I got dressed and got myself self self out of there as quick as I could so I could laugh my ass ass ass off in my minivan van van.

Anyway, off to work on Project Runway...stay tuned..but in the meantime, you look hungry, go feed yourself self self...

Peterson Relative Helped "Roll Out The Barrel", But There's No Barrel Of Fun In This Case

Like many people, I have watched as the investigation into the disappearance of Illinois woman, Stacy Peterson, has unfolded.

She was first reported missing, by her sister, back on October 29.

And like many people, I have swallowed the same mouthful of bile with each appearance in the media of her "loving" husband, police officer Drew Peterson, 53.

You see, Stacy Peterson is Drew's fourth wife. Not that that fact alone causes more than an eyebrow raise in today's disposable marriage society. Many people have more marriages than redwoods have rings.

The upset stomach is not even about the fact that Drew hooked up with Stacy, *23*,  when she was 19 years old - he is a full 30 years her senior.

May-December marriages are nothing new, and some actually do go the distance - although in the end the "distance" typically goes to the May portion, outliving the December by many miles.

And it's not even out of the realm of human marital behavior for a spouse to decide "F*ck it." and take off.

So given those facts, Stacy disappearing might not have moved out of the local Chicago headlines, certainly not registering more than a blip on the national radar. But there has always been that one niggly detail...

Drew's third wife is dead.

Oh, and Drew's second wife, Vicki Connelly, has come forward with documented evidence of his threats to kill her and "make it look like an accident", not to mention accounts of his cheating on her with said dead third wife, Kathleen Savio.

Oh Drew...what a tangled web we weave...

Wife #2 has detailed how he reveled in his double life - the outside world knowing him as a seasoned narcotics officer, respected by his peers - but inside his home, he was a tyrant, ruling with two iron fists, domineering, even planting microphones around the house to spy on her movements and conversations when he was at work.

It was when she flat out "caught him cheating on me with someone with my own eyeballs", that she sought a divorce. She says that by that point, he was so involved with Savio that the parting was actually fairly amicable.

(As for Drew's first wife, Carol Brown, she describes him as domineering, controlling, and that she sought a divorce after also discovering his sextracurricular activities with someone else.)

With further digging into Stacy's troubled relationship with her husband - relatives have come forward in droves detailing personal conversations with Stacy in which she expressed fear for her life (the same type of accounts by relatives of Savio), authorities decided to do some literal digging, and exhumed the body of Kathleen Savio two weeks ago.

The original coroner's jury (made up of laypeople - not experts) ruled the cause of death to be drowning in her bathtub. I don't know about you, but I would have to be three sheets to the wind and have a bathtub deep enough to scuba in to drown while bathing.

A new autopsy, performed by an individual with 9,000 under his belt, former New York City chief medical examiner Michael Baden, concluded Savio died after a struggle, and her body was placed in the bathtub.

And Will County State's Attorney James Glasgow recently stated Savio's death appeared to have been staged as an accident.

Drew, Drew, Drew...that doesn't look very good now, does it?

Despite how all of these tidbits seem to continually point to Drew as his graduating class's Most Likely To Whack A Spouse Or Two, he has bombarded the media with loud protestations of his innocence.

He even went so far as the couch on Good Morning America, pleading with Stacy to come home. That was sickening enough, but his constant enjoyment of the media circus - he actively seeks them out - a la Britney Spears - clowns around with them (see below pic where he is goofing with a Chicago Trib reporter) really highlights his love of attention and control and his lack of remorse/sadness/distress over his wife's whereabouts.

Pardon me while I swallow that bile again.

You know, there is that age old saying, "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras." Ergo, it has never been a stretch to "See dead and missing wives, think murderous husband, not slippery tub or mysterious strangers."

Yet as creep-like is his persona - I'm sorry, but the man just looks like an egotistical, controlling, Fuller brushtached asshat - and as disturbing as have been all of the second hand accounts of his behavior towards his wives, there has been no hard evidence thusfar to nail his cheating, dominant asshat to the wall.

Until now.

Just yesterday, news reports came out detailing that Thomas Morphey, stepbrother of Drew Peterson, stated that on October 28th, the day before Stacy was reported missing, Drew called him to the house for assistance in removing a large blue barrel, which he describes as "warm to the touch", from a bedroom in the Peterson home. (There are also reports that a neighbor witnessed the two men loading it into an SUV.)

Sources say the man attempted to take his life the next day out of fear that he had unwittingly helped dispose of Stacy's body.

Investigators are now concentrating their attention on nearby waterways, dredging, using underwater cameras, divers, etc, in the hopes they may find the alleged barrel.

Still, Peterson continues to deny any involvement in Stacy's disappearance.

That's ok, Drew. Deny, deny, deny. And you keep right on denying. As long as that second wife stays dead, and Stacy stays missing, your barrel of fun will just keep on rolling, won't it?

Hmmm, I hear OJ may be looking for a new roommate, er, cellmate, soon.  You two could swap stories...

And the days march on...

Hut, 23, 4

Two! 23, 4...

The Mother of All Studies

I was recently asked to contribute to an article for a television magazine put out by channel CBS.

The topic was television Moms.

Easy enough to write, I thought. No problem.

Of course, like any assignment, there were guidelines to follow. I needed to respond in several areas about the mothers: Their parenting style; Rate them on a scale of 1 to 10; Were they a "good" mom or a "bad" mom; advice I would give to them; and my conjecture as to whether their parenting prowess, or lack thereof, would have screwed up their "kids" by age TWENTY-FOUR or 30.

I've often said I am happy to write about anything. I'm a word whore - it's what I do. But the fact that I was also able to not only choose the mothers I wished to devein, but was also given carte blanc to wax crapsodic about them, made this a particularly attractive offer.

I like to wax crapsodic.

I know. You're shocked, right? I should have told you to sit down before I typed that.

Anyhoo, I thought you might enjoy my observations about some of the truly iconic Mothers of all time...

Carol Brady

Ahh, dear Carol, the ultimate 70’s groovalicious mom. The perfect shag haircut and a pantsuit in every color of the rainbow...

How would you describe her parenting style: Love, logic, always a moral to the "story" or situation being confronted each week.

There were always consequences for actions in the Brady household – something sadly lacking in real world parenting today. You’d never catch Peter planning an attack on his school. He knew better. He knew it would earn him a whole Saturday cleaning the meat locker at Sam’s butcher shop.  And Marcia would never be caught flashing the pooty poot while getting out of Davy Jones' limo at the dance.  Alice always made sure there was clean underwear in that split level.

I always respected that she allowed the kids just enough rope to get snagged in their own embarrassment, but not completely hang themselves.  Think Greg channeling Johnny Bravo...

Give her a rating: On a scale of 1 – 10? Given the challenges she faced in raising a blended family and still finding time to do needlepoint, I would give her a 9. But, because she had a live-in lifesaver in the form of Alice, I have to back out at least two and a half points. That meatloaf didn’t make itself, you know. Final score: 6.5

What made her a good mom: Carol was hands-on (again made easier by the fact that Alice's hands cleaned the house and cooked the meals.) She was involved in the kids’ lives, had her own interests outside the family (singing in the church choir – I still weep for her being denied her solo due to an "ill-timed" tonsillectomy). Carol was wise, always had good advice, and always kept tabs on the kids.

What made her a "bad" mom: I grew up on this show, so I never thought Carol was bad in any way, shape, or form. Honestly, I think she pretty much rocked, and I dare say many, many people from my generation silently wished their own mothers were more hip, stylish, understanding, and, well...groooovy.

What do you think some of her actions might have done to their kids? Maybe what we might have said to kids then....what we should say to kids now....

Well, it’s safe to say that in 2007, no in-home dispute is ever going to be settled by building a house of cards or having a potato sack race in the backyard.

I think the Brady kids probably grew up just fine, with a strong sense of right and wrong, good and bad, effort = results, etc. There were punishments for misdeeds (missing out on the big dance, getting grounded...) and Mike always had some fortune cookie nugget of wisdom to hand down. (I think if anything may have traumatized the kids it would have to be when Mike got a perm several seasons in.)

If you could give them one piece of advice (to make them a better parent): Put a $%^#! lock on the bedroom door. Those kids, especially Cindy and that satanic Kitty Carry, all routinely walked in after lights out. Carol and Mike were definitely the get jiggy type, so I doubt all that ever got interrupted was that damned needlepoint she never seemed to finish (seriously, what the hell was she making? A cul-de-sac doilie?).

What can we learn from Carol: It’s possible to be a great mother, stay involved in the world around you, nurture your marriage relationship, and still look good in polyester.

Chances they screwed up their kid at age 30: Oh heck, if anyone was going to go "bad", it was probably Jan. Living in Marcia’s long blond shadow had to have repercussions. I imagine she probably ran off with "George Glass", joined a commune, and raises organic turnips now.

June Cleaver

An icon then, a doormat now.

How would you describe her parenting style: June was always there in her pearls, apron, and high heels, ready to soothe hurt feelings, school problems, all dilemmas with a plate of warm cookies and some cold milk. She deferred the big conversations and decisions to Ward. June’s punishment style essentially boiled down to giving the "look" of disappointment.

Give her a rating: 4. Her heart was in the right place, but she’d never survive the new millennium parenting trenches in pumps and a pristine white blouse. OK, fine, one point for managing to vacuum in heels. Overall rating: 5

What made her a good mom: She loved her children. She loved her husband. She was always there when someone needed an adult (or a brownie).

What made her a "bad" mom: She left all discipline and decision making to Ward. She was the epitome of "wait till your father gets home". In my house that would be a good thing. I’M the one they don’t want to deal with.

What do you think some of her actions might have done to their kids? Maybe what we might have said to kids then....what we should say to kids now....

From a generational standpoint, Wally and Beaver probably looked for someone subservient when it was time to find a mate. Someone who would make sure the newspaper was waiting, the kids were kept clean and quiet, and who could make one heck of a good casserole.

Wally and Beaver would have benefited from Mom telling them to wash their own skidmarked underwear, and from hearing her tell Ward, "See you in four days, darling. I’m headed to Vegas with the girls from my Bridge Club."

If you could give her one piece of advice (to make her a better parent): Kill the pearls and skirts, and buy some Keds and some Juicy sweatpants. You’ll be a much happier person. Oh, and keep a closer eye on that Eddie Haskell – he was ALWAYS up to no good.

What can we learn from June: How to make a pot roast.

Chances they screwed up their kid at age 30: Her sons were in for a rude awakening. Not all women are like Mom. The majority nowadays expect Dad to be hands-on with dinner and the kids, not rump-down in the Barcalounger after work.

They were, however, probably awfully polite as adults.

Edith Bunker

A personal favorite. A dingbat with the heart of a lion and the wisdom of an idiot savant.

How would you describe her parenting style: Edith, like June before her, was very much a product of her generation. She went from her parents’ home to her husband’s home, with very little exposure to the real world. Archie was the breadwinner and absolutely dominant, ergo, Edith deferred to him in just about every aspect of their lives, from what to eat to what political views she embraced.

As a mother, Edith invested all of herself in raising Gloria. Pampering, spoiling, catering and kowtowing to...the result being a self centered brat of a child who ruled by emotional blackmail.

Give her a rating: 7. What?!? Higher than June Cleaver?!?. Absolutely. She had to put up with a whiny brat and a verbally abusive husband. (Not to mention she had to do the nasty with Archie - that's worth 1,000 points and a bottle of Cuervo Gold right there.)  And Edith was, with rare exception, always cheerful despite the drudgery of her life and the fact that every person in it was basically dismissive of her presence.

What made her a good mom: Edith loved her daughter. Period. Her child’s happiness was her "job" and she always tried to excel at it, whether it meant making cookies or not burning the toast.

What made her a "bad" mom: Edith had no life of her own and all but had the words "Wipe Feet Here" on her back. She lived to cater, to coddle, to assuage. That’s a lethal mix when raising a child. What you get is Gloria Stivic who famously resorted to very loud tantrums when she felt wronged or that she was not getting her way. (Seriously, Sally Struthers had the biggest mouth I had ever seen when she wailed. An honor that was taken away when I saw my first Aerosmith video and the Grand Canyon that is Steven Tyler’s maw.)

What do you think some of her actions might have done to her kid? Maybe what we might have said to kids then....what we should say to kids now....

Well, obviously by never truly punishing or reprimanding her daughter as she grew up, she sent a spoiled brasshat (brat + asshat = brasshat) out into the world. With Gloria there was never a sense that she was held accountable for anything. Her mother always coddled, her father famously placed blame for everything on everyone else – not exactly stellar role models.

What should she have said to Gloria? "Shut. The. Hell. Up." Seriously, that kind of tantrum would happen one time under my roof.

If you could give them one piece of advice (to make them a better parent): Accept that your child is fallible. Always be behind them – to have their back when they need support, but also to kick them in the ass when they are afraid to move forward or need a reminder that their actions carry consequences.  (And when it comes to Gloria? Buy a huge roll of duct tape and use it on her mouth.)

What can we learn from Edith: How to sing. I can still hear her now..."And you knew who you WERE then!"

Chances she screwed up their kid at age 30: Well, as the show was set with Gloria as an adult child who comes back home to roost, new husband in tow, we got a bird’s eye view of just how screwed up she was, and how the same dynamics still played out between her and her parents. She was adept at "playing" them both – yes, even bullheaded, bigoty Archie tended to melt or simply give in to stifle her.

So, what make-believe Mom did you worship as a child in front of the boob tube?  And what real world advice would you give to your virtual counterpart?