Consequences of Cruise

Right now, Chris Klein's penis feels thisbig. Dude, you have my deepest sympathies. If it's any consolation, I loved you in Rollerball.

PS- Katie, whatever he says about Scientology is whole lotta bunk. You're a Catholic schoolgirl from Ohio. Stay strong.

Jamba Friendly

As a rule, I go out of my way to be kind and generous to service people. They're always greeted with a "Hi, how are you?" And I actually wait for their answer. Then, when we're finished with our transaction, I like to wrap it up with an unfake smile and suspiciously cheery, "Thanks! Have a good one." Most of the time, I mean it. I swear. I figure, there are plenty of assholes in NYC who take obscene pleasure in rubbing virtual poop in the faces of their waitress, cab driver, maid, retail cashier, fellow MTA rider, even their kids. Now, I can choose to make their day worse, better or at the very least, not that bad. With all that skanky karma floating around, it's my civic duty to turn those frowns upside down. There's one thing, though, that ruins my whole I AM SUNSHINE routine, and that's when the service person is nicer to me than I am to them. What the fuck? Do they act like that to screw with me? Are they mocking me by bouncing the love right back? I mean, my internal pleasant meter goes haywire in these instances. It happened this afternoon at Jamba Juice. The whore behind the register took my greeting and raised it 2 octaves.

Me: Hey! How are you?

Jamba Slut: GREAT! HOW ARE YOU?

Lengthly pause...

Me: Uh, fine. I'll have a......a 16 oz......... Banana Berry with a Vita Boost.

I always get the same thing. I'm as regular as my lesbian menstrual cycle. But her wide grin has me flummoxed, my ordering rythym is RUINED.

Jamba Slut: GREAT! THAT'S $4.60. (She says that a 16 oz. smoothie is $5 without affect. Holy schnikes!) WHAT'S YOUR NAME?

Me: (No longer trying to be so much as civil, I say my name as though I was picking myself last in Dodgeball) Shannon.

Horrifying, I know. Manilow-esque, all the key changes. She Coba'd my Cabana. I almost puked. Her audacity shocked me to my core. But, there's a lesson here, one to grow on. If I'm being nice to you, don't go and upstage my ass! Spotlight is on me, bitches! I'm prime time, baby! The Shan is spreading joy and love, so just stand there and be awed by my graciousness, dammit! Watch me march down 5th Avenue to J'ba Juice and repeat those exact words to poor Carol, who's probably lighting candles and doing rain dances so she'll get a Jamba promotion. I'll learn her real quick. But not now. I have to finish my smoothie first, so you're safe for the time being, Carol. However, remember this face. You decide to up the enthusiasm like that again, and I'll rip your balls off, got it? O.K.

Thanks. Have a good one.

Rosie: You Have Got to Be Kidding

http://www.cbs.com/specials/riding_the_bus_with_my_sister/

Watch the clips! This could be the greatest Hallmark Hall of Fame comedy CBS has ever had the undeserved pleasure of broadcasting, with the possible exception of SARA PLAIN AND TALL. First the wife dies, Glen Close replaces her and for the remaining hour and 47 minutes, life on the prarie is slapstick, slapstick, slapstick! Rosie will indeed be nominated for an Emmy, which she's clearly fishing for here. But her category will be "Funniest Embarrassing Female Lead in a Film That Was Supposed to be Serious." Rosie, only Elizabeth Berkley knows how you will feel once this shitfest has aired. I hope she's able to console you. No one will ever take either of you seriously again. Ever.

Personally, I'd rather take a stab at humiliating myself playing a stripper. I mean, how guilty could I feel poorly representing the stripper community? But the retards? They need help, love and respect. So, to humiliate them by way of a shite performance is a mortal sin. The only thing that's meaner than making fun of retards is making fun of retards when you're trying really, really hard not to.

The lone upside, other than the tears of laughter that will stream down the faces of every viewer? Andie MacDowell won't be the one chewing the scenery. Congrats, Andie. You got out-sucked, finally.

I cannot wait to watch this. I already bought my adult diaper.

On 10" x 12" of Jade in Newsprint

I adore the marketing & advertising folks at American Apparel. We have the same taste in women. I can be found, mouth agape, ogling their print ads on a regular basis. Today, however, they’ve outdone themselves. On the back page of today’s free “Metro” newspaper is Jade, the summit of hotness. She’s easily the hottest model I’ve seen in 6 months. (In New York, that’s kind of a long time because everyone’s gorgeous, so one is never deprived of eye candy for long.) She personifies every fantasy I’ve ever had. She’s what is typically referred to as a natural beauty, one who needs no make-up, no elaborate hairstyle, no lighting concept, nothing added. Natural beauties are sold “as is.” They’re often considered equally at home on a beach or at a cocktail party, and there’s little pretension to their persona. They glimmer and shine gently, from the inside out. I am defenseless in their presence.
In the ad itself, Jade is clad in a yellow mesh tank top, and the fabric looks a lot like boys basketball shorts. As a typical lez-thlete, that works for me big time. Should she know how to correctly use terms like, “in the paint,” “moving screen” and “soft hands,” I will propose marriage. Her arms aren’t overly toned and I love that. Women have naturally sexy, soft flesh, yet somehow the toothpick look is always in. Who’d rather lie in bed all day with a splintery popsicle stick than a warm, padded pillow? Sadly, Jade’s yellow mesh tank is not see-through. (Double-layered? Shelf bra?) However, upon careful inspection, I can proudly report that Jade’s nipples appear to be a significantly darker shade than her lips. Quelle surprise! I am titillated. During my long, arduous boob gawking career, this has occurred but once or twice. It’s a profound rarity, perhaps a phenomenon. Evidence is piling up. Jade is a real live angel. One with a fierce tattoo on her left arm, too. Grrr. Even if it’s a temp or fake, Jade, I think you’re just the right kind of edgy. I may be a bed-wetting liberal, but I like my edgy moderate. After all, I’m 30. What was cute and daring at 23 is now borderline pathetic, or maybe I’m the only one my age who feels like that when trolling the aisles of Urban Outfitters for whatever says, “This age-appropriate, slightly bohemian style comes naturally to me. Notice I wear it like my own skin.” Ugh. It's a curse. New clothes, priced like couture, that scream ‘chic, worn before I was born’ look like ‘I’m an internment camp refugee. May I eat the lint in your pockets?’ on me. While everyone else looks trendy, relaxed, hip and cool, I have to hide in the corner because I'm attired in the same fashion as a homeless leukemia patient.
But I digress. Back to Jade. Let us travel south of her equator to what she’s sportin’ on her bottom half: a tiny pair of black, terry briefs. They appear to be the smallest shorts known to man. And they are a solid 4 – 5” below her navel. Her skin is perfect, nary a blemish, scar or blotch. It’s probably the kind of skin that acquires tan effortlessly, and she probably oozes sexy when she sweats. She’s got some Latin in her somewhere. In contrast, when I sweat, which is constantly, my milky complexion turns sour. Like a junkie, my face puffs up, and my cheeks look like a 2-year old’s first experiment in red water color. To the untrained eye, the subject appears incredibly nervous or very ill. That’s so not hot. Not to mention that I’ve got a scar for every step I’ve taken, forward or back. But Jade and I do share one thing in common. We both have beauty marks. She’s got a great one off-center on her chin and another on the inside of her left arm, barely above the moderate tattoo. Under the tank and undies, could there me more? Is God so generous? I’d be honored to do research, you know, for the progress of science. Jade would be mapped to within an inch of her life. My beauty marks, however, aren’t placed so well. I’ve got one on the top of my right foot. What good is it there? There’s a good one way up my left thigh. I like that one. I’ve got a bunch of them on my stark white belly. (In sunlight, I actually glow like one of the aliens from the pods in “Cocoon.”) My face is a disaster zone. Freckles, a scar or 4, beauty marks, blemishes galore, sun spots, cream cheese…Save me, Dr. Z! I’ll never forget that the ones on the inside of my arms once caused a friend’s Mom to exclaim, “My God, what are those things?” Again, so not hot. I used to fear short sleeves the way regular kids feared getting abducted by whoever took Adam. Or worse, getting molested by the guy in the ice cream truck.
I’d like to thank the following for giving me Jade today: Bless American Apparel. Bless the ad sales department at ‘Metro.’ Bless Jade’s parents for procreating. Bless the jerk who said to Jade, “You know, you could be a model.” Bless the stylist for this photo shoot. Bless the 8-fingered woman in Mongolia who made Jade’s outfit and bazllions more exactly like it for $.37/hour. Bless whoever designed camera lenses. Bless Jade’s agent for letting her keep her brows nice and thick. Bless you, Jade. Please don’t spend your entire career doing blow, smoking too many cigarettes, eating only spouts & catsup if the moon is half full. Be nice. Everyone hates bitches, but when the bitch in question is tall and perfect and gorgeous and her shoes cost more than a year at Cornell, she could get shot in the face. And don’t go giving that shit away either, baby. Adopt strict admissions standards, so your reputation is known around town: "It's almost impossible to get into Jade." I regard your body as the picture of perfection, and I’d treat it as I would an irreplaceable gift. You should, too.
Hey, if you ever want to picnic in Central Park or go to the batting cages at Chelsea Piers, give me a holler. We could talk or not talk.

Spitty Payback

Yesterday Michael A. Smith hacked a loogie into the face of Jane Fonda while she was on tour in Kansas City promoting her autobiography. Immediately following his goopy release, he turned in the opposite direction and ran. Cons, neo-Cons, military enthusiasts, Jesus freaks, Limbaugh lovers, Dubya dinks and crabby-because-of-their-hard-arteries old people have a new hero.

Jane Fonda’s just-published memoir, "My Life So Far, covers a wide array of topics, including her 1972 visit to Hanoi to protest the Vietnam War, during which she was photographed on a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun. She has apologized for that photo, but not for opposing the war. The gall of that bitch to visit enemy troops and humanize them! Typical behavior for a Liberal hippy slut.

Smith, a Vietnam veteran, told The Kansas City Star on Wednesday that Fonda was a "traitor" and that her protests against the war were unforgivable. He said he normally does not chew tobacco but did so Tuesday solely to spit juice on the actress.

"I consider it a debt of honor," he told The Star for a story on its Web site, www.kansascity.com. "She spit in our faces for 37 years. It was absolutely worth it. There are a lot of veterans who would love to do what I did." First, no actual spit intentionally left Jane’s mouth in Vietnam circa 1972. Second, I can assure Mr. Smith that the veterans, too many to number, who were wounded in Vietnam wouldn’t want to do what he did. Most of them couldn’t run away.

Ms. Barbarella herself received two standing ovations: one when she came out and one when she finished speaking. And after the Phlegm Incident, the actress never got up from her seat and continued autographing books after the tobacco juice was wiped off.

"The important thing is that she was so calm and so gracious about it," an observer noted. "She was wonderful." Jane pulled off yet another brilliant performance.

Now, on to what’s been up my ass about this since I read the story yesterday afternoon. When I do something I consider my honor and duty to do, I stand there and take responsibility for what I've done. Normally I’m beaming with pride and can barely contain my excitement for the ass bussing to begin. But should I be on the receiving end of credit or criticism (smiles and applause vs. a royal ass-reaming, ego deflation), I stick around. Running away, as was the case with Mr. Smith the Killa Spitta, indicates shame, not pride.

Did Smith think he’d jog all the way to the local V.A. and brag about his triumph? “Hey, fellas, I got even with Hanoi Jane for us. I fuckin’ spit on her!” And the other vets would respond, “What a hero! You paid a debt of honor today, Mike! Here, take our medals, please.”

TO MR. SMITH and ALL HIS FANS:
Jane Fonda did not spit in anyone's face 37 years ago, but rather, she simply spoke her mind, something--ladies, take special note--people should never do if their opinions aren't yours, aren't mainstream and could be volatile or potentially controversial, right? Reason dictates that you need not agree with a word she said, nor do you have to buy her book, nor are you required to insist upon fueling a very old and dangerous fire. But please, recognize that common sense suggests you have the decency and respect to keep your bodily fluids to yourself. Spitting on a lady and running away are the actions of a child and a coward. Wait, I take that back. Pussies do what you did, my fellow American. It was a total pussy plan.

Speaking of spit in the face, I’d like to burn an American flag for no reason other than the fact that the Constitution says I can. Smith and cronies hate it when we crazy, disrespectful liberals do that. It’ll be my own little debt of honor. Yeah! Come to New York, try to put the fire out with your spit, captain dickface. There’s no such thing as an un-American American.

Sincerely, though, to every veteran--yes, you too, Mr. Michael Smith--and to each man or woman currently in uniform, in or out of harm’s way, thank you for defending my freedom. Now let's party like it's 1776.

Gracious Jane Fonda

9th Commandment BROKEN 

Pope _________ the __________

Quickly, before the new pontiff decides on his official Pope Name, I have a few suggestions:

Pope Fellatio the Never
Pope 50 Cent
Pope Pius Prissy Pants
Pope Kermit the Frog
Madonna
Pope Rick James, Bitch
Pope Angie Harmon
Pope Scritti Politti
Pope Jordan XXIII
Pope Long Duck Dong
Pope Grande Chai Latte
Pope Michael Jackson
Pope Copius Copulation

***UPDATE***
Pope Fuck the Police
Pope Bitches N' Money, not to be confused
with the seminal Pope Salt N' Peppa
Pope Duty Free
Pope Oliver Clothesoff
Pope Poop Shoot
Pope Herpes HPV XXXXXXXXXXXXX

OK, last ones, I swear:
Pope Ditka Butkus (Go BEARS!)
Pope Vasectomy I and Only

New On Broadway: Not So New

"The Wedding Singer," that celluloid celebration of the 1980s starring Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore, has been transformed into a Broadway musical and booked for a New York opening for April 2006. Yahoo!

Broadway is so inspiring, especially in the past 4 or 5 years. Musical theater has never been so fresh, inventive and challenging. Dreamers are wide awake and hard at work on the West Side. Theatrical aspirations breed limitless inspiration. The days of lame original musicals have passed, much to the chagrin of "Brooklyn" and "Urinetown." (Does anyone remember a single tune from "The Scarlet Pimpernel?" I'll give you a hint: the word Pimpernel is in there somewhere, all over, again and again, and 3 more times after that.) It’s almost as if producers, beloved for their fiscal generosity, renown for their creative integrity, have adopted a new credo.

“Show me original material and I’ll kick you in the nuts. I want movie adaptations! Negotiate rights to the catalogs of perennial pop superstars! Book be damned, I want a Score the people can already hum! Songs now, plot later, or never! We're in the magic business!”

What a blessing this raison d'etre has been for followers of the Great White Way! The magic is back on Broadway. Since Julie Taymor's visionary "The Lion King" we’ve been spoiled with similar quality and quantity. Take “Mama Mia,” for example, based on the revelatory music of ABBA. The story centers around a young girl who gets lost at Waterloo. She wants someone to take a chance on her, and realizes that money must be funny in a rich man’s world. Gaiety ensues when wacky wild Fernando flashes the audience. It’s truly edgy stuff. “Saturday Night Fever” was another artistic achievement worthy of high praise. I personally saw this show 24 times, and it just got better with each experience. The plot was sucked directly from the movie, and the entire score was a copy of the classic 1977 soundtrack. WOW. WOW. WOW. Years later, Orfeh’s performance in the Donna Pescow role still haunts me. (www.orfeh.com) After the curtain call each night, the cast encouraged everyone to disco! Well worth the trip from Great Neck and $85 obstructed mezzanine seats!

But I don’t mean to single out only my favorites. Plenty of shows have proven that nothing succeeds like repetition warmed-over: “Hairspray,” “Footloose,” “Beauty and The Beast,” and “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” Not a crapper in the bunch! How about the divinely inspired “Little Women” the musical? It’s a fucking laugh-a-minute riot fest. Kate Hepburn, if she were breathing, would be damn proud. (PS--If a musical's title includes the tag "The Musical," that means it's gonna be awesome. Buy the Original Cast Recording at intermission before it sells out.) Cudos, too, to the paunch bellied singer songwriters of yesteryear. We honor your genius with “Movin’ Out,” “All Shook Up” and “Good Vibrations.” Word on 42nd St. is that the Eagles are looking to join the party, “Hotel California” anyone? Might there soon be “A Heartache Tonight” at The Minskoff? Or will “Desperado” let someone love him, and ride his fences all the way to The Shubert?

Return of the Juan Panther

Today, in Juan News:
Juan and I have a very special co-worker in our tiny little enclave. This co-worker drives us a little, um, fucking crazy. The entire office feels this way. A consensus of annoyance and irritation has been reached amongst all 9 of us. We just don't dig her.
So, a few of us were gathered in mine and Juan's office, chatting about shoes (my favorite subject), the special co-worker included. How did Juan feel about this invasion, Shannon? Well, he does not like it when someone wears out their welcome, or in this case, his welcome. Hence, the swift and desperate cry for help. Juan needed rescuing. He stood behind the person in question, and jestured wildly, as if to say, "I'll slit your throat," or "Get out or I'll throw you out,"or "My wife is Columbian, bitch." The slit your throat thing might have actually meant I'll cut your entire head off. Or perahps my wife will slit your throat. There's plenty of room for interpretation because I totally suck ass at Charades. Nonetheless, he made his point. As a courtesy to him, and for my own relief, I abruptly ended the conversation. I wonder if this co-worker thinks that everyone in the entire world is curt like our snarky selves. Is anyone nice to her? Anybody? Does she try the patience of her local grocer? Could the hourly employees at her favorite shoe store dream of pummeling her, too? What about the people on the subway? Can they tell what lies beneath? I pray for her everyday. I ask God to bless her with all the nice things I wish for myself. Doesn't seem to be working too well. For either of us.
But I digress. Eventually an exit was made. And, boy, did I hear it from my padre!
"You have to make her talk? Why you not cut it out? I have to suffer, bitch?"
We all suffer, Juan-o. She is the pebble in everyone's shoe in this office. But we suffer together, and we'd never make it alone. Thank God one of us is good at charades. That shit was hysterical, bitch.

An Ode to Angie Harmon

Oh, Angie Harmon
Your parents done went and humped up a beauty
A princess from Texas
I thank God for you. God made you ‘da bomb!
When I look at you I ascend to the brighest heaven
Attraction in its purest form
A lot of blood flows to one place
Sweet Jesus Mary Mother of God

Angie, my dearest love, my affection for you obeys no rules
Knows no boundaries, adheres to no standards
I put up with a lot of shit for you
You’re a Republican
Nasty-yuck-ew-gross-hork
You even spoke at the RNC with your pretty girl husband
That ain’t cool, Angie
When you told me and women around the country flossing could prevent heart disease
I devotedly flossed for you
I watched Good Advice and Agent Cody Banks
Video Voyeur: The Susan Wilson Story, too
Those flicks were limp, babe
I’ll never have that time back

But when I gaze upon my angel
All is forgiven
I worship you
I want to help you pick better projects
I want to lead you toward the righteous, honorable Democrats
I want to christen you a sister of Sappho
I want to kick Jason’s femmy ass
I want us to go to the Vanity Fair post-Oscar bash arm-in-arm

Onyx hair so pristine it could be Asian
Your deep dark flawless eyes evoke trust and hotness
I could crawl into that cleft, those dimples
Your voice sounds like you’re choking on granola
If you are, don’t spit it up, it’s your trademark
I hear it when I sleep
Yo baby, are your legs real?
Wrap them around me
Twice

Come to my house and play Abbie Carmichael
Explain to me how disgusted you are by my crimes
Shame me. Be cold and with holding
Tell me how justice is served where you come from
Include the phrase, ‘Needle in your arm’
Now, “punish” me, but first I’ll time how long it takes us to get naked

This is a great script. And it’s all for you, Angie.

 

Attention Stereotypical, Bonified Fags!

Garland's 'Wizard' Dress to Be Auctioned
Tue Apr 12, 6:40 PM ET

Entertainment - AP
SAN FRANCISCO - "Wizard of Oz" fanatics hoping to own the dress worn by Judy Garland in the iconic film might need to appeal to the "Great and Powerful Oz" for financial support.

The blue and white gingham dress worn by Garland when she played Dorothy Gale in 1939 is on display at Bonhams & Butterfields here, and is set to be auctioned April 26 in London. Bonhams said the dress could fetch from $50,000 to $70,000.

"This dress represents the quintessential magic of childhood in the most beloved film of the 20th century," said Jon Baddeley, group head of Bonhams collector's department. "It has become a cherished memory for millions of fans worldwide and was worn by one of the most talented and respected stars in Hollywood."

The dress was custom made for Garland, who was 17 in 1939. It has a 27-inch waist and Garland's name on an inside hem label.

The dress will also be displayed in Los Angeles in mid-April. The auction house didn't identify the previous owner.

Do Me, Stalk me, Do Me

Kids, Shan is suffering from pre-PMS gas. Don't walk down wind. I call the PMS week "Attack of the Double-Hs." The Hs being Hungry and Horny. From the time we ovulate until the time we actually streak crimson, all women's appetites increase exponentially. There is no satisfaction to be found. We want only to eat and bang. No hole can truly be filled. And I've tried. The cruel irony here is that, when we want "it" most, we are moody, bloated and insecure. Sexy, eh? Yup, there are lines around the block to get a piece of that fat, miserable, bitchy ass. Not to mention the achy, sore boobs. That's hot, too. They're like 2 swollen bruises with nipples. Yummy. Nothing says let's get it on like, "Hand me my fat pants, baby. I can't button these." The unpredicable bawling screams Tiger in the Sack. Touch her in just the right spot and she'll bite your head off, literally and figuratively. PMS, the Harlequin Novel: As she attempted to seduce me, mumbling with her mouth full of pepperoni pizza, grease gathered at the corners of her lips, light gleaming off the acne on her chin and forehead, I laughed in her face. "Not at this point in your cycle, honey. You're ripe to conceive and hideous."

Had an awesome show at The Improv on Saturday night. Why aren't I famous already? And how come no star-fuckers stalk me? I've got to be worthy of obssession. I want to have to issue a restraining order. And I want my stalker to defy it time and time again, until the police need to intervene. The rest of my fantasy will play out in court. A lawyer draped in an Armani suit circa '89 with his almost white hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail will ask me, "Ms. Ennis, do you see the man/woman who has been harassing you? Is he/she in the courtroom today?" "Yes," I'll respond, tossing in a rehearsed sniffle. "Let the record reflect that the plaintiff has identified the defendant," my lawyer will conclude. That's when I lose it, and the shit hits the fan. I'll karate point at my stalker accusingly, shaking & shouting, "I was afraid to wait for the F train. Do you know what that's like? Do you!?!" A couple of tiny round spitballs fly out of my mouth as I'm yelling. It's then that I pause, gather myself, maybe even wipe my lip. I realize that if I crumble, he/she will have won. This is a profound emotional experience. I am never quite the same.

One last thing:
I got propositioned by a swingin' couple via nerve.com At least they weren't ugly, thank Christ. But I have to confess that I get more offers from two-somes seeking a three-some than I do one-some's seeking someone to pay for dinner. Am I that non-threatening sexually? That married chicks wouldn't be worried about inviting me into their bedroom avec hubby? God, it's like feeling impotent without actually being impotent.
The wife was charged with hunting for a third. I suppose the woman is the better lure when baiting a willing lesbo. When I informed her that it was never going to happen, and that yes, I was sure that her husband's equipment didn't do it for me, she tried to play Yenta. Once she'd conceded, she recommended another nerve'r! "She's looking for a girl and is beautiful and we had a good chat. She's online right now." Oh. My. Goodness. Me-Wanna-Menage-a-trois was setting me up! How oddly generous, kind and thoughtful of her, putting my carnal desire first. It's that kind of selfless act that just might coax me into a 3-way one of these days.

Chris Tucker Speaks the Language of My Soul

IT’S FRIDAY. YOU AIN’T GOT NO JOB. YOU AIN’T GOT SHIT TO DO. I’M GONNA GET YOU HIGH!

Thankfully, I do have a job. Two actually. One is a necessity and the other an avocation. Also, I’ve got more than enough shit to do. Le schedule de Shannon est mucho full-o. And this blondie’s days of getting high are but a hazy memory. Honestly, they’re more like a blackout. But the sentiments expressed in the quote above still mirror my wishes to all of us this Friday afternoon in April. Have a relaxing, enjoyable and bitchin’ weekend, y’all.

Much love from your Auntie Shannon.

For God's Sake Would You Cover Yourself? And Give Me $1.

Today I paid $7.06 for a salad. Romaine lettuce, black olives, carrot, grilled asparagus and chicken cutlet. One of these ingredients had better imbue me with magic powers.

It is absolutely gorgeous outside. In fact, we’ve had two beauties in a row. However, I don’t think we’re quite at the ‘Open Toed Shoes’ stage yet. In the past two days, I have seen some prematurely exposed, psychologically scarring feet. People, before you whip out your nasty clod-hoppers, you must get a post-winter pedicure. Be prepared for a long ordeal because the Korean ladies will scream in horror at the calcified chips of steel that are your toenails. And they’re gonna have to use a buzz saw to get at them. For the calluses? An electric sander should do. Jing May better work! That nasty raw potato skin will not just slough off. We’re talking nearly 5 months of freezing temperatures, dry air and house arrest in a pair of Timberlands. She may even have to go a few rounds. Prepare thyself accordingly. In the meantime, keep ‘em covered.

While we’re on the subject of covering, I also need to mention the clothing issue. Our bodies have been hibernating. We are flabby and pale. Why then, would we want to subject each other to that which protrudes from our tanks, shorts and belly shirts? A little discretion would be nice. If your gut floweth over, hideth it. The overexcitement reminds me of when I was a young babe. As soon as we heard the weatherman say, “62 and rising,” my brother and I would rip off the Catholic school wool (for which, btw, I have built such a tolerance I could wear a wool thong) hella quick, and run to our rooms and plow through our closets to find a pair of shorts. We’d be outside feeling liberated, shamelessly half-naked, riding our bicycles when, not 10 minutes later, Mom would be out on our porch yelling. “Get in here NOW! Come back inside and put on pants and jackets. This is pneumonia weather! Don’t go gettin’ gay!” (OFF TOPIC BUT FUNNY: I showed her! Sorry, Mom. I got really gay. Any regret about that word choice?) And she was right, as always. Though no one got pneumonia, it did get cold and snowy again. Mom and her tirade were vilified.

Incidentally, there is no such thing as Spring in Chicago. We go immediately from setting records for diving below Antarctic wind chills to the oppressive heat indigenous to the 4th circle of Hell. In the all too brief transition between Winter and Summer, there might be as many as 4 days where the sun peeks out and temps hit the low 60s. Wahoo! But that’s it. Chicago’s best asset during this time (and most others) is Lake Michigan. If you’re anywhere near it in the Spring, it’s always a bit warmer by the water. And if you’re lucky enough to catch a summer breeze blowing in from the East, the sweltering 95% humidity is temporarily lifted. But few Chicagoans actually live by the lake, and those who do pay handsomely for the privilege. Oprah’s got a nice pad on Lake Shore Drive. Local celebs like John Cusak do, too. But non-autograph signers with the cash to compete live elsewhere on the North Shore, in exclusive communities like Lake Forest and Kenilworth. Did you know that houses in these spots boast beach front property? Well, you’re not supposed to. No one is ever allowed to go there, especially not the wrong kind of people. In fact, these suburbs don’t exactly discourage cross burning. Their income per capita trumps what NYC spends on its schools, police and pigeon patrol. Simply put, it’s their lake. They own the damn breeze.

Maybe the North Shore would be willing to sponsor my next salad.

J Lo, Prounounced JELLO

I share an office with Juan, my Peruvian amigo. Juan is about 36, married and has two children under the age of 3. But we are in love. Not the kind of love he shares with his wife, who, I am sure, is lovely. And not the kind of love I share with anyone else, be it friend, family or fetish. Ours is an innocent, non-threatening romantic love. As my very special buddy, Juan has earned the dubious honor of spending more than 45 hours/week with my cranky, silly ass. He laughs at my jokes and calls me princess, and yells at me when I burp. He reminds me that I am a young, atrractive piece of ass in his own subtle way. "Don't bend over and show me that ass. I am a man. I am a Latin man. And you......whew! Ay!" And you know what? It feels great. I have someone in my life who pony pets my fragile self-esteem 5 days a week. (Once, I let him touch the tattoo on the small of my back because he thought tattoos felt like scabs. I thought he was going to pass out. He got all flushed in the face and I have never seen a grown man retreat into the shell of a 4 year old girl in record time.) In return, I have taught him how to over-use the word "bitch," a la Dave Chapelle as Rick James. He employs the phrase in questions, mostly. "Are you hungry, bitch?" "Have you finished your presentation, bitch?" "Is it cold in here, bitch? Or is it me?" And every day at 5:30 p.m. he says,"Good night, bitch," as he leaves me for his real family. The pronunciation alone kills me every time. A huge "B" sound, lips all pressed together in preparation for the pop, followed by the distinctive "beeeeeeeeech." He makes me so proud.

Juan has seriously changed my life. He's added this dimension to my personality that I never knew existed. What it is exactly, I do not know. But I do know that it's good, it's sweet, it's protective and I'm happy to continue to cultivate it.

This morning my man had me in tears laughing. The innocuous office radio station was playing Jennifer Lopez's "Waiting for Tonight." Unconciously, he starts sining along, as he is often prone to do. However, he's making up lyrics, bless his heart. It went a little something like this:

Jennifer Lopez, everyone wants a piece of that big ass

From the looks of it, they've all been successful

Why not me, bitch?

Fucking beautiful, right? Tender, heartfelt and smooth as hell. Bernie Taupin eat your heart out. One more thing, bitches, don't discuss inventions of any kind with Juan, unless you're prepared to accept that the Incas are responsible for every development in the history of mankind. Oh yeah...and Hitler was an alien, bitch.