Preadolescence and Chili

Ah, preadolescence; a time when the world is perfect, you're immortal, and you feel as if you could accomplish anything. Apparently, though, this time in one's life, just prior to adolescence, is also the time when such things as body odor are discovered.

After a hard day playing outside in 95-degree heat, my son walked into the house, lifted his arm into the air and took a whiff.

"Smells like chili," he announced.

My stomach lurched.

"It's time to get him some deodorant," I told my husband.

But you know, even after taking him to the grocery store and letting him pick out his own deodorant (he chose Axe), he still has trouble remembering to put the stuff on.

"Do you want to be known as the stinky kid?" I asked him one day, thinking that scaring him into remembering deodorant might work. ('Cause let's face it; we all knew a stinky kid when we were in school. Hopefully, you weren't that kid, but for virtually every class, there's at least one stinky kid.) My son shook his head.

"Well then," I told him, "you can't forget to put deodorant on."

My little sister did something similar to my son when she got to be about nine or 10 years old. She came in after a hard day of playing outdoors and announced that her armpits smelled something akin to chicken noodle soup.

I have never looked at chicken noodle soup the same since.

As a parent, I knew this time was coming. And as my son continues to approach adolescence and actually enters it full on, I know his voice will change, that he'll have to shave, that he'll develop an interest in the opposite sex... I just can't figure out, though, why it is so difficult to understand that deodorant is a necessary thing. He walked into the house the other day talking, once again, about how he smelled like chili.

"Did you remember to put your deodorant on today?" I asked.

"I forgot," he said.

Looks like chili's on the menu again.

What a Gas

This past weekend was filled with such wonderful things. A trip with my husband to National Harbor. A relaxing day at the pool. A farting birthday card...

Yeah. You heard that right. Hallmark has officially outdone themselves with their newest concept in greeting card hilarity: the farting birthday card. Of course my husband found it to be too much to resist and purchased it for me for my birthday. Touching. Reminds me of the time that my father gave my mother a vacuum cleaner for her birthday.

And just when you think one farting birthday card was enough, then came a second! Unfortunately for my children, the second one doesn't fart, but it's all about farting. And it was addressed to me from (of all people) my mother.

So I have to wonder; is my family trying to tell me something? Well, in the event that they are, I did purchase some Beano. But now I'm wondering if I should buy stock in it...

P.S. Did you know that Beano's Web site has an introductory video about their "University of Gas"? No? Check it out: www.beanogas.com. Classy.

P.P.S. Pull my finger.

Designer Irritation

"Hey Elizabeth, can you put this up on that shelf for me?" My four-foot-something coworker holds a Costco-size tub of Folgers coffee.

"Sure," I tell her, "as long as you don't look at my rolls when I reach up to put it on that shelf." She laughs and tells me that she'd be willing to bet that hers are worse than mine. Maybe, but as I'm reaching up to put the Folgers away, I'm not thinking about the smallish tire that rests, ever so gently, above the waist of my size 12 jeans. No; I'm thinking about the fact that you can't buy those '80s style high-waisted jeans that everyone crucified a size eight Jessica Simpson for wearing. Ah, high-waisted jeans and oversize graphic T-shirts with shoulder pads. Minus the shoulder pads and those damnable stirrup pants, I miss those days. These days it's skinny this and tight that. And it's sad, but I can't remember the last time I wasn't on a diet.

And I don't get it. In an age where 67 percent of American adults 20 and over are considered to be overweight or obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and where 34 percent are considered definitively to be "obese," why do fashion designers continue to bring us styles that are the 2000s equivalent of the 1980s oh-so-popular Spandex? It's just wrong.

Now, I don't want anyone to misunderstand where I'm going with this. I believe there ought to be more fashions for full-figured women to choose from than floral mumus. What I am requesting, though, is that we stop this skinny and very-low-rise jean madness because, the truth is, not everyone wants to or can pull it off--myself included. Sure, they sell skinny jeans in my size, which, on a good day is a 12, and on a bad day a 14 or 16, depending where it is I'm shopping, but those jeans aren't really made for women who are my size. They're made for women who haven't given birth, for prepubescent girls, and for women who have no ass.

And another thing. Why don't we all just get real and accept the fact that most people don't fit into the size two, four or six category. Most of us are eights, 10s, 12s, 14s and 16s, or bigger. It's true. Even I used to wear a size 22.

And while it might be fun to watch Kate Moss try to keep from passing out on a runway, or to read what she eats in a day, which, according to one Web site, is probiotic yogurt, toast and fruit for breakfast, grilled chicken and vegetables for lunch and grilled fish and vegetables for dinner (WTF?), and while it might also be fun to see how she does with that diet on a four-day-a-week gym routine, which she also claims to do, no one is laughing that because of a minority of people like Kate, the rest of us are relegated to only a few stores at the mall and to a few racks in upscale stores (Hell, I can't even walk into Bebe without feeling ashamed of my size, and I'm a size 12, for God's sake. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16!), and to magazines which do not reflect the majority of Americans.

I guess all I'm asking is for designers to cut some of us a little slack, and for other smaller-than-the-rest-of-us sizes to do the same. We women, after all, are our worst enemies. I'd like to see more fuller figure models walking the runways and in more magazines. And please, stop shoving the obvious majority of us into tiny things that we shouldn't be wearing--like skinny jeans and tight-fitting T-shirts. 'Cause, while I have lost 6.4 pounds since I started back on Weight Watchers a couple of weeks ago, I've still got that tiny tire of flab hanging above the waistline of my low-rise jeans.

P.S. I would also like a larger selection of Halloween costumes. I am so sick and tired, every October, of having so little to choose from at Party City. It's either the Evil Queen costume from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland. Why punish what is so obviously the majority of Americans? 'Cause trust me, I'm pretty sure some of us really want to wear that gothic fairy outfit--albeit in a larger size. Either that, or we just want to strangle that skinny, gothic fairy. And then we can feed her to Kate Moss--'cause I'm pretty sure she's hungry; she's just afraid to show it. Be not afraid, Kate! Be not afraid!

Larry Craig, Mark Foley and Eric Massa Walk Into a Bar...

Former U.S. Senator Larry Craig, former U.S. Representative Mark Foley and former U.S. Representative Eric Massa walk into a bar...

I haven't figured out a punchline for that joke, but I think it's pretty damn funny as it is.

And if you don't follow the news, here's an abridged biography on each of the "walk-into-a-bar" folks.

Craig is a former Republican politician from the state of Idaho. He served from 1991-2009 in the U.S. Senate, until he got caught in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport tapping his foot on the floor of the bathroom stall--something that apparently indicates you're interested in having gay sex--by a plainclothes police officer, Sgt. Dave Karsnia. In addition to tapping his foot on the floor of the stall, Karsnia, in a report he filed, said Craig peered through a crack in a restroom stall door for two minutes and made gestures suggesting to the officer he wanted to engage in "lewd conduct." Craig would later plead guilty to disorderly conduct and and subsequently resign from his post as a U.S. senator.

Mark Foley is a former Republican congressman from Florida who resigned in 2006 as a result of "questionable conversations" between himself and congressional pages, which took place between 1995 and 2005.

And Eric Massa, the third party in this "three-guys-walk-into-a-bar" joke, is the former Democratic U.S. representative from New York who resigned, just days ago, "amid an ethics inquiry into allegations that he groped and sexually harrassed some of his male employees over the years," wrote Michael Scherer for Time.com. He's also the same guy who claimed to have tickle fights with his male colleagues, and to have been accosted in the shower of the House gym by none other than White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel.

Massa told a local radio station over the weekend, “I’m sitting there showering, naked as a jaybird and here comes Rahm Emanuel, not even with a towel wrapped around his tush, poking his finger in my chest... Do you know how awkward it is to have a political argument with a naked man?”

Um, no. No, I don't, and I'm pretty happy with that.

I talked with a friend of mine today who told me a New Yorker friend of hers was having a helluva time scraping the Massa bumper sticker off her car. Yeah, I can understand the implications of having that sticker on your bumper...

But you know, all joking aside, if anyone ever wants to hire me to work in Congress, I am so there. I mean, if you think my blog is interesting now, just imagine what it could be like if I worked alongside people like Massa, Craig and Foley. 'Cause even though those folks are gone, you know there's more out there that's just waiting to be discovered. As the Daily Show's Jon Stewart put it, it'd be like "opening Al Capone’s vault," although unlike Stewart's rendition of that event, there'd probably be far more in that vault than just a dog-eared men's fitness magazine.

So, for those of you who don't follow the news, aren't you upset for not having followed it this week? 'Cause to me, this is far more entertaining than Oscar night ever hoped to be!

And hey Facebook, where's that new Tickle Fight application?

Diets and Detoxing

I dropped 1.6 pounds this week. Not enough, in my estimation, so I am back to my normal routine of South Beach cereal bar for breakfast, a Lean Cuisine or salad for lunch, and a Healthy Choice meal for dinner.

I let my husband pick out my Healthy Choice meals for me. Last night, my meal consisted of corn, mashed potatoes, something resembling roadkill that Healthy Choice more eloquently dubbed "classic meatloaf," and gravy, and an apple-cranberry crisp--minus the crisp. Oh, and there was a healthy dose of self-loathing in there, too.

Why do we women do this to ourselves? Why do we torture ourselves with bathroom scales and piles of Cosmopolitan, Lucky, Vogue and similar magazines--the pages of which feature heavily airbrushed celebrities and 92-pound prepubescent girls?

And do you know what happens if, while you're on a diet, you decide to cheat even a little? Because I do. Yesterday, I got to experience what happens if you cheat on a diet during our monthly staff meeting.

Let me preface what happened by saying that, once a month, one of the directors in our office leads the staff meeting, and that this month, it was my turn to take the lead. So, all eyes were on me. Yay for me.

Everything started out smoothly. We all had a slice of pizza--the beginning of the end--and enjoyed shooting the breeze with my fellow coworkers. Then the meeting started, and about halfway in, I realized my stomach was not taking kindly to the pizza I'd eaten--probably a result of the fact that I'd been on a Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine diet for about a week.

"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."

I did my best to ignore the rumblings from my stomach, hoping that no one noticed, but the sound came again.

"Brrrrumparumparumpabrrrr."

The Web development manager gave me the "why-the-hell-is-your-stomach-making-that-awful-noise" look. All I could do was shrug. My coworkers sitting on the opposite side of the conference table looked at me. There was simply nothing I could do to stop the sounds my stomach was making.

Now for those of you out there who've tried the NutriSystem weight loss system or Slim-Fast meal replacement bars--and I for one have tried both--you know exactly what I'm talking about. And if you're drinking Slim-Fast shakes, well, let's just say that I hope the bathroom is close by...

Which brings me to my next question: why are cleanses all the rage now? I was discussing a "detox tea" with some friends of mine via Facebook yesterday, and anyone who is familiar with the word "detox," it's come to mean far more than freeing yourself from alcohol or drugs. Detox, these days, means "cleansing" your insides of pretty much, well, everything.

I tried a 10-day "cleanse" once, and I only lasted two days. Wow, was I sick. A word of warning: if you ever try a cleanse or detox--which are, arguably, pretty much the same thing--don't EVER do it while you're at work. It gets pretty embarrasing having to run back and forth all day to the bathroom. And yes, I know this from firsthand experience.

Would you believe, though, that all of this talk about "cleansing" and "detoxing" and Healthy Choice and Lean Cuisine came as a result of someone talking about (gasp) GIRL SCOUT COOKIES.

Feel free to snicker while reading this. Hmm. Snicker. That reminds me of a Snickers candy bar, which reminds me of deep fried Snickers bars at the Mississippi State Fair, which reminds me of deep fried Twinkies and Oreos, which reminds me of Girl Scout Cookies, which reminds me of Famous Amos, and... Wow. Do I sound desperate?

Bringing Sexy Back--In a Few Months

Wow, I'm out of shape. I found this out this morning when I rolled out of bed and had trouble crawling from the bed to the bathroom. My shoulders hurt. My legs hurt. Parts of my body that I didn't even realize existed hurt.

All of this pain, I am sure, is a result of my workout regimen, which I shortened yesterday from one hour to half an hour, because, truthfully, I just couldn't take it anymore. I came upstairs sweaty, winded and defeated by my session of plyometrics; exercise training, according to Wikipedia, "designed to produce fast, powerful movements, and improve the functions of the nervous system, generally for the purpose of improving performance in sports."

Perhaps, though, conditioning myself as though I am or hope to be a professional athlete is my downfall? Not likely. I think my downfall is the fact that I haven't exercised for months and I'm only now getting back into the swing of things. I'm certainly not going to admit that publicly though. No. Publicly, I'm going to give everyone some excuse as to why I was unable to complete an hour of my P90X workout regimen. Yesterday, I told my husband I was sure I was unable to complete the one-hour workout because I'd only recently started eating right again. And in case you're looking for excuses not to exercise, too, here are a few that have worked for me.

• I just started my diet.
  
• I'm too tired to go on.
• I'm over the age of (your age here). (Note that this statement will not work properly if you are still in your teens.)
• My back hurts.
• My neck hurts.
• My pinky finger hurts.
• I have a cold.
• I have a stomach ache.
• My kids have to be at an event this afternoon/morning, and therefore I won't be able to work out today.
  

You get the idea.

So it is with much frustration and much pain that I must admit the sad truth: it may be a few months before I can bring sexy back. And that's a damn shame.

Careful, or You'll End Up in my Novel

In addition to trying to work off these last few (okay, 60) stubborn pounds over the past couple of days, I've also been trying to come up with a plot for my next novel.

"What?" you say. "Your next novel?"

Yes. That's right, ladies and gents. I have written novels before. The trick is not to write a novel; the trick is to actually finish one, which I've yet to do.

So I've been brainstorming trying to come up with ideas, and I gotta admit, for someone who's been schooled in journalism and has made a career out of it, writing fiction is no easy task.

You see, I've always written about real things happening. I could write all day about Marion Barry or Pete Rose or the state of the economy. But to write about something not based in reality is, in a word, difficult.

That said, my novel is going to have to be loosely based on reality. This should serve as a warning to those of you who know me: be careful, or you'll end up in my novel. Because the truth of the matter is that I don't plan to write about wizards or sorcerers or witches or any of that. No, I plan to write about something far more sinister. Trust me when I say that no one is safe.

Highway to Hell

"As Genghis Khan once said, 'The more, the merrier.'" This is a line spoken by Jon Voight in the blockbuster hit, Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2, which stars, unfortunately for them and for their acting careers, Jon Voight and Scott Baio. However, I can assure you that more is not always necessarily merrier.

If any of you reading this have had the great displeasure of watching this movie, which is nothing less than awful, I would like to offer my condolences. This movie was picked out by my now nine-year-old son, who, along with four other boys, watched it during a birthday slumber party last night at our house.

My weekend began simply enough yesterday morning with my daughter, who'd been cast as a model in a fashion show benefiting a local charity. We traveled from that fashion show, which began at 10:30 a.m. and lasted until about 2:30 p.m., to my son's Cub Scouts Blue and Gold celebration, which began at 3:30 and lasted until 5:30. My three-year-old daughter and I left that celebration early in order to make it to a 5:30 p.m. birthday party at Gymboree.

I have to admit, it tires me just to think about all of this, but I'm sure it cannot match the horrors that my husband endured as he tried to tame four boys who showed up at our house after the Blue and Gold in order to help celebrate my son's ninth birthday. My husband was to take them to Burger King for dinner (gag), followed by the movie theater to watch Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief, and then back to our house for cake and ice cream and (horror of all horrors) a slumber party, during which the boys viewed Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2. Eek!

As I listened to the one-, two-, three- and four-year-olds sing their goodbye song at Gymboree, and watched the birthday girl clutch Gymbo the clown tightly, I received a text message from my husband, who was by that time sitting in the movie theater watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief.

"They are going to Hades and the song playing is 'Highway to Hell.'"

I giggled, thinking to myself how appropriate that song would be if it were to have been playing in the hallway as one entered the Gymboree.

I found out yesterday that they charge 50 cents for socks at Gymboree, which you must wear if you are to enter the play area with the kids. (I was wearing knee-highs, which the lady at the front desk told me were not appropriate for the play area, and incidentally, one must go through the play area in order to enter the bathroom, which my daughter had to use twice, and I of course had to assist my daughter. One must also wear socks in the party room, where pizza and cake were served up, post-party.)

After the party ended, I drove my daughter to Party City to pick up a few items for my son's birthday party, and then drove back to my house. I walked across the street to the neighbors' house, dropped off my daughter (their son was participating in the birthday party, and she'd suggested that my daughter stay with their daughter that night), and then ran quickly back to my house to hang up the decorations I'd bought at Party City and put together goodie bags.

I worked quickly, and when I finished, I went back over to the neighbors' house, where I drank wine and played Rock Band, all the while feeling sorry for my husband of course, until I received an ominous phone call.

"We're at home and ready to blow out the candles on this cake," my husband told me. This was my cue to leave the neighbors' house.

I excused myself from Rock Band and walked slowly across the street, half afraid of what I might find. When I entered my house I found what reminded me of an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Hyenas laughed, while a herd of elephants raged upstairs. I became very, very tired.

We sang Happy Birthday to my son for the second time in a month (his actual birthday was on Feb. 6, but a snow storm prevented us from celebrating with his friends on that evening), he blew out the candles on his cake, and after cake was distributed and I ate a piece (I think I swallowed it whole) I excused myself again to leave "the boys" to their own devices, heading once again back across the street to finish my game of Rock Band.

I finally left the neighbors' house for the evening around midnight, and as I walked across the street I was sure I could hear a funeral dirge.

To my amazement, when I entered the house, what had been a safari had returned somewhat to normal. The children all laid motionless in their sleeping bags in the living room, save for an arm occasionally reaching into a bowl of popcorn, and I could hear Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2 playing in the background. I told the boys goodnight and retreated to my bedroom, feeling somewhat guilty about leaving my husband to fend for himself, until about 6:30 the following morning, when Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom began again, and Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2 blared from the television.

Around 10 o'clock, when all of the children had finally gone home and I retrieved my daughter from the neighbors' house, my husband told me, "I promised our son I would take him to the Lego store at the mall today."

You have got to be kidding me.

Wax On, Wax Off

I go to a salon near my house every couple of weeks to get my eyebrows waxed. Occasionally I'll stop in and get a manicure or pedicure, but generally I'm there, like clockwork, every couple of weeks just to get my eyebrows waxed.

The native language of 99 percent of the women who work in this particular salon, which specializes in manicures and pedicures, facial treatments and waxing, is not English, but in all the years I've gone there, I've never noticed a language barrier when it comes to the women there meeting and greeting, or when it comes to customers requesting whatever services they need to have done. This brings me to my question: is my lip really that hairy?

Yesterday afternoon, I walked into the salon and was greeted with smiles.

"I'm just here to get my eyebrows waxed," I said.

"You no want lip wax?" the lady at the counter asked.

This is pretty much the same scenario that plays out every two weeks when I go to that salon to get my eyebrows waxed. They always ask me if I need my lip waxed and I always tell them no. And when the esthetician waxing my eyebrows asks me why I don't want my lip waxed, I tell her that, when I've had my lip waxed on prior occasions (and I have), the skin above my lip breaks out about eight hours afterward. I've used the words "blemishes," "acne," and "breakouts" to describe what happens to the skin above my lip after it's waxed. And whoever is doing the waxing always nods--seemingly understanding what it is that I'm telling her. So, I don't know if these estheticians don't understand what I'm telling them, don't care, or just really need the money. (For the record I normally tip them $2 for the $8 eyebrow wax.)

Truth be told, though, I don't really care what their reasoning is for continually insinuating that I need to have my lip waxed. The truth is, when I walk into that salon and they ask me what I want done and I tell them "I just need my eyebrows waxed," that's what I mean. Whatever happened to "the customer is always right"? It does make me wonder, though, whether I should start braiding that hair above my lip.

Former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich Abandons "Hair Club for Men" Business

PARODY, CHICAGO – Former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich (D) announced this morning that he is abandoning his plan for a business he'd intended to call “Gone Today, Hair Tomorrow.”

Gone Today, Hair Tomorrow, in December 2008, drew sharp criticism from federal investigators, who, at that time, said that the business was simply a distraction from charges filed against Blagojevich, which included conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud and solicitation of bribery.

Blagojevich told reporters that his hair was more of a distraction than his 2008 arrest, and while he'd hoped to rake in $250,000-$300,000 a year with his new business (coincidentally the same amount he would have supposedly raised through the alleged sale of then President-Elect Barack Obama’s vacated U.S. Senate seat), he's decided to instead tour the U.S. giving speeches on ethics. His first speech, according to the Daily Northwestern, will take place at Northwestern University during an event titled, "Ethics in Politics: An Evening with Former Governor Rod Blagojevich."

Rumors are now circulating that Scott Lee Cohen, the former nominee for Illinois Democratic Lieutenant Governor, will join Blagojevich in this new "ethics speech" circuit, though that could not be confirmed.

Facebook Games: The Gateway to Harder Drugs

Look, I'll admit I've tried my hand at such Facebook games as YoVille, Mafia Wars and Island Paradise, and--although it pains me to say it--I do still play Sorority Life. But I'll never post on my Facebook wall the words, "Oh no! On the way back from the Rent Beach House event, Elizabeth found this guy wandering around looking lost. He sure is cute, maybe you can help him out?"

I mean, couldn't posting something like this on a Facebook wall send the wrong message to young girls? After all, Ted Bundy wasn't bad looking, but he was a serial killer.

Okay, you say. But what's the harm in John posting that he could really use some help fertilizing his crops in FarmVille? Well, fertilizer in the wrong hands could lead to real trouble.

Then there are the more obvious issues with such Mafia Wars statements as "Paula is close to completing a Chop Shop, but still needs a few more Shipping Containers."

But of course, you say, there can't possibly be anything wrong with "Cindy picked out a Jelly Bean Seed for Annette in SuperPoke! Pets!"

Au contraire, mon frère. Where is the ASPCA when you need them?

Aside from these issues, the other issues with Facebook games and with allowing such posts to infiltrate the walls of your Facebook profile are: 1) doing so may signal to others that you have no life, and/or 2) you are addicted to Facebook and to Facebook games.

This is not to say that you will be cast as a World of Warcraft-type gamer who plays endlessly, ignoring all contact with the outside world while letting trash pile up in your house as cheese curls dangle from your greasy, unkempt hair. No, no. But Facebook games, well, they're the gateway to harder drugs, if you will.

And so, before you allow that Mafia Wars game you're playing to post something obnoxious on your Facebook wall (for example, "Elizabeth is close to completing a Chop Shop, but still needs a few more Acetylene Torches"), ask yourself, "Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to pick cheese curls out of my armpit hair someday?"

And, oh my, look at the time! I'd better go water my FarmVille crops before they die!

Adding Insult to Injury

During morning rush hour, I normally listen to the local radio station that plays news, traffic and weather, probably because of my background as a journalist. I like to know what's going on in the world. For example, today the hosts of my favorite news, traffic and weather station were talking about how President Obama has invited Republicans to meet on Thursday, Feb. 25, to discuss the issue of health care live in front of the American public. The Feb. 25 meeting is being called, by many, a "bipartisan health care summit." Bipartisan? Really? We're going to work together? Nah, that feeling we all think we're getting about this upcoming summit is probably just gas; that, or nausea. God, I hope I'm not coming down with something...

Anyway, while I normally listen to news, traffic, and weather in the morning, this morning, after spending more than an hour in the commute from hell--a 15-mile swath of interstate that this morning was so ridiculously jammed with traffic that I actually sat completely motionless in my car for more than a few minutes--I decided to try something different. I gently pressed the preset button on my radio to listen to the station that I normally reserve for my afternoon drive home.

The radio show host and his lackeys were talking about snowboarder Shaun White's $1 million halfpipe in Silverton, Colo., on which he trained for the 2010 Olympics. Frankly, I had almost tuned out the banter until they started discussing whether or not skier Lindsey Vonn had faked her shin injury. This is the same Lindsey Vonn who is the most successful female skier in World Cup History, with 31 World Cup wins under her belt.

"I don’t know Lindsey Vonn and certainly don’t have anything against her," writes Michael Rizzo in Rizzo Sports Weekly. "I’m also not a professional sports writer. "I will say sports writers are hardly known for their ahead of the curve investigative journalism, (see Steroids/HGH in Baseball/Football), however I do work in the PR / marketing world.

"This Lindsey Vonn injury on paper looks like a classic example of down playing out of control hype. As I mentioned in this commentary no American is as appealing or has received half as much pre-Olympic hype as Vonn. She is the Michael Phelps of the Winter Games, and as the hype is only growing."

That's odd. I was thinking White and speed skater Apolo Ohno had more pre-Olympic hype than Vonn.

I guess the long and short of my opinion on whether or not Vonn faked her shin injury is this: 1) Even if she was faking, what difference would it make, with the exception of perhaps lessening the public's expectations of her, thereby lessening the pressure on her to medal in an event? and 2) Who cares?

The radio show host droned on. "A lot of people think she faked it so she could get more attention," he said.

Look, Vonn's won a bronze in super-G and she took the gold in the downhill. Why can't those of us who are cheering on the U.S. just be happy for her and for Team U.S.A.'s overall Olympic achievements and go on about our business?

Back to the Wagon

A year ago today, I weighed approximately 30 pounds less than I do now. Normally I tell people I've gained 15 pounds since last year. This is true. I have also, though, gained 15 pounds in addition to those 15 pounds that I tell people I have gained. Why lie? Well, for starters, it's embarrassing. I mean really, unless you're pregnant, who the hell gains 30 pounds in such a short period of time? Apparently, I do.

My husband says my weight gain is attributable to the fact that I'm not exercising as much as I used to, but, like anyone, the real problem is a matter of simple math: I'm taking in more calories than I'm burning.

I used to enjoy going to L.A. Boxing, where you can burn as many as 1,000 calories in an hour (so they say) but, in order to save money, I didn't renew my membership this year. Instead, my husband bought the P90X fitness training system for me for Christmas. It's a "revolutionary system of 12 sweat-inducing, muscle-pumping workouts, designed to transform your body from regular to ripped in just 90 days," proclaims www.beachbody.com. My husband even cleared a space in our basement, and we put some padding down on the floor so I could use the space to work out. I even went so far as to buy a pull-up bar so I could do all of the recommended exercises.

So what's the hangup, you ask? Well, I definitely don't have a glandular problem. The only real "gland" that's causing me trouble is my mouth. The other issue is that, regardless of how great your fitness equipment is, it's not going to work unless you use it. And as for the P90X stuff, it's still in the basement collecting dust.

I should be clear that I haven't entered Bonnie Grape (as in Gilbert's mother) status, yet. In fact, few people have noticed that I'm up 30 pounds since last year--either that or they're just being nice by 1) not saying anything or 2) ignoring the obvious. But when you put on a shirt that fit comfortably just a year ago and feel as though it's fitting more like a sausage casing now than a shirt, well, you see my dilemma.

I'm probably like a lot of women in that, when it comes to wanting to lose weight, I want to get instant results using minimal effort. Why else does virtually every single magazine on the rack next to grocery store checkout lines scream such headlines as, "Lose 10 Pounds in 10 Days," or "Get Your Body Beach Ready in 30 Minutes a Day." Hell, there's even a local medspa that offers a service called "WeightNot," which is, according to their Web site, "a revolutionary medically supervised weight loss program that combines human chorionic gonadotropin (HCG) injections with a low-calorie diet to stimulate rapid weight loss. Average weight loss is 1 pound or more per day, for a total of 30-40 pounds lost during the 40-day diet!" And I'll admit, the WeightNot program was tempting, even though I'm sure that somewhere under "possible side effects" is the word "CANCER."

I figure, though, that I need to go about this whole weight loss thing (again) the old fashioned way--by crawling back to the proverbial wagon, hoisting myself up, and trying to stay put this time around.

And if I should fall off the wagon again? Well, at least I'll be in good company.

Everyone Sounds Like Neil Diamond!

As I sat yesterday afternoon at my friend's house, listening to her daughter's shrieks of delight as she unwrapped birthday present after birthday present, most of us ladies sat in the kitchen, munching on vegetables and drinking margaritas as we discussed our plans for the evening. We decided a celebration was in order for our friend, given that she, after losing her job in December, had finally landed a new one, which she'll start on March 1. What better way to celebrate a friend gaining employment in a down economy, I thought, than by going to a local watering hole and singing karaoke?

And so, at eight o'clock yesterday evening, four of us ladies met up at our friend's house to caravan to that local watering hole.

We arrived at the bar around 8:30 p.m., knowing that the party wouldn't really get started for a couple of hours, which would give us plenty of time to warm up our voices. We signed up for some songs and I bought my friend a margarita, congratulating her again on the new job.

As the minutes ticked by and the bar began to fill up, we all, with the exception of our very sober designated driver, became relatively tipsy.

"Hey Elizabeth, I left my phone in my car," my friend told me. "Will you come with me to get it?" I donned my jacket and excused myself from the table. The guy on stage was singing Don McLean's "American Pie."

It took a while for her to find it, but she finally did, and when we reentered the bar, she was surprised.

"He is still singing that song?" I giggled. There are several songs that should be outlawed to sing karaoke. American Pie, which has a runtime of eight minutes and 34 seconds, is one of them.

"Yep. Same song," one of the bouncers told her.

"Oh, thank God. I began to think someone had slipped something into my drink and that I was hallucinating," she said.

"He's going to mess up the whole rotation," I said, rolling my eyes. This was true. The only thing that could be worse than someone singing "American Pie," would be someone else jumping in the rotation to sing Frank Zappa's "Adventures of Greggery Peccary," which clocks in at 20:33.

We returned to our seats, still grumbling about the inconsideration of the man on stage. The next song would be sung by the karaoke jockey, who, after several beers, was beginning to sound--to me, anyway--like Neil Diamond.

I leaned over to one of my friends. "Do you realize that he sounds exactly like Neil Diamond?" I said. "Sweet Caroline would have been a much better choice for him," I told her as he continued to belt out an O.A.R. song.

After the song ended, a gentleman got up to sing a Pearl Jam tune, and I'll be damned if he didn't sound like Neil Diamond, too. I leaned over to my friend again to share my thoughts with her. She laughed, but I began to wonder if I'd been drugged. I hadn't had that much to drink, had I?

"I think I should stop drinking," I told my friend. "Everyone is starting to sound like Neil Diamond." I was beginning to think this was God's way of telling me that I should not have gone back on my word. I had, after all, just days earlier, proclaimed that I would give up alcohol for Lent, and here I was with my friends. In a bar. Drinking.

I am thankful, though, to be able to report that, throughout the rest of the evening, no one else sounded like Neil Diamond. Someone did, however, thrill us with Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love"--in the style of Bob Dylan. I'm not sure which is worse.

Giving Up Giving Up

I have relegated myself to the fact that I need to give up giving up alcohol for Lent--this year, anyway. I'm not going to say I'm weak; just human. And anyway, I've been approached by more than a few folks who've read this blog and who've reminded me that, "You know, you only have to give up one thing for Lent."

So, as I said, I'm now giving up giving up alcohol. I've still managed to keep candy, junk food and white bread off of my palette, so all things considered, I think I'm doing all right. Perhaps St. Peter will still let me enter those pearly gates someday...

I should say that I don't feel I have a need to drink, but I do feel I had reason to do so this weekend. Friday night I helped a friend celebrate her 40th birthday party, and Saturday night I helped a friend celebrate the fact that she'd landed a job after being unemployed since December.

I say all of this really to preface for my next blog post, since my next post does deal with the consumption of some alcohol; that, and Neil Diamond.

Wow, That IS Old!

I was leaving Blockbuster, where I'd taken the kids to pick out a few movies, when I heard, from the back seat, "Mom, when did Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory come out?" The question had come from my son, and I looked in my rearview mirror to see him examining the DVD case that contained the movie.

"I'm not sure, honey," I said. One of my nine-year-old's favorite authors is Roald Dahl, and so, not surprisingly, some of his favorite movies are those inspired by Roald Dahl books. Having loved Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, starring Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka, as a child, I'm grateful that my son enjoys that version of the Roald Dahl classic novel, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, more so than the more recent one starring Johnny Depp.

"Mom, it says that this movie came out in 1971," my son said.

"That sounds about right," I said, thinking back to my childhood and my memories of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The first time I'd seen that movie had probably been on a clunky now-extinct Betamax machine--the precursor of the nearly extinct VCR.

I made a left turn down the long road that led toward home, and then, from the back seat: "Mom, were you born when this came out?"

I hadn't even been a gleam in my mother's eye in 1971.

"No sweetheart; I wasn't born until 1977," I told him.

"Wow! This movie is old!"

I couldn't help but laugh. Immediately I thought of one of my good friends, who was born in 1971. I picked up the phone, and began to dial her number to share with her my son's revelation. She seemed less amused than did I.

What Smells Like Onions?

On the way to the bus stop this morning to drop off my son, I detected the odor of what I thought was onions.

"Sweetie, have you been into the chips?" I asked my daughter, while at the same time thinking to myself about whether or not we actually had any sour cream and onion chips in the pantry. I thought I'd been sure to get rid of all such temptations prior to the beginning of Lent. As I pondered this, my son continued on his way to school, blithely ignoring my conversation with his sister.

"Has your sister been into sour cream and onion chips?" I asked my son.

"No," he replied. "But she smells like onions."

I couldn't figure out for the life of me why this was so; she definitely smelled like onions. I began to wonder if she'd had an accident at some point, which I'd missed. Perhaps I'd mistaken the smell of urine for onions? Glancing around at the many parents who'd gathered with their children at the bus stop, I decided I would keep this thought to myself. I quietly inspected my daughter's hands and found what I thought to be the remnants of sour cream and onion chips. Better that than urine, I thought.

"Mommy, I'm thirsty," she told me.

"No wonder. You ate chips! Where did you find chips?"

"I not eat chips," she said.

I began to think of the time she'd eaten sunblock and started to worry; what if she really hadn't gotten into chips? What if it she'd eaten something that might harm her and it just smelled like onions?

After my son boarded the bus, I walked my daughter back to the house and started to look around.

"Show me what you ate," I demanded. She pointed to ranch popcorn seasoning, which I'd left sitting on the end table the night before. I smiled to myself, walked over to the popcorn seasoning, and snatched it up.

"You can't eat this, sweetie. Not for breakfast, anyway."

The events reminded me of what had happened just a few days earlier, when my husband entered the kitchen to find the refrigerator door open and the deli drawer pulled out. He rounded the corner of the kitchen and entered the hallway, immediately spotting our daughter who was happily eating a slice of American cheese.

"I eat cheese," she said, grinning widely.

We allowed our daughter to retrieve another slice of cheese from the refrigerator before moving it to a higher shelf and told her that she wasn't allowed to eat any more slices of cheese unless she asked us first. It was, after all, only nine o'clock in the morning, and she'd already eaten a bowl of cereal.

Later that same morning, as I sat at the computer and checked e-mail for work, my daughter, unbeknownst to me, toddled up to my husband and whispered to him, "Can I have some cheese?" My husband would later describe the look she gave him as that of a crack addict looking for a fix. He, much to her chagrin, I'm sure, denied her request.

We still haven't put the cheese back in the deli drawer. And now, after the incident with the popcorn seasoning, I'm wondering if I need to consider moving anything else. Really, though, nothing is safe.

"I'm thirsty," my daughter repeated.

How on earth she was still hungry after eating four Pop-Tarts in a 30-minute time span, I'll never know. I'm hoping she's more on her way to growing another four inches and less on her way to becoming the pre-, and now post-Jenny Craig Kirstie Alley.

I Love My Phone

I love my phone. As I was sitting in the chair at the dentist's office yesterday afternoon, waiting for him to come over and repair a tooth I'd chipped, I was surfing the Internet, reading about J.K. Rowling and her latest plagiarism accusation--research for one of my recent blog posts.

My husband bought my phone for me for Christmas. He knows how much I love to be able to surf the Web and check Facebook, and with my little Verizon Droid phone, I can do these things from virtually anywhere!

This also poses a problem, though: anywhere I go, I can now easily ignore my family. I mentioned this to my dentist and his hygienist, who both giggled at the idea, but it's true. And while in some circumstances (e.g., Chuck E. Cheese) it might not be such a bad thing to ignore family, during our quiet family time watching a movie or while playing Rock Band at the neighbors' house, well, it becomes too much of a good thing, and a little embarrassing.

I used to make fun of my husband and his use of his Blackberry--or "Crackberry," as it's called by many. I now have no room to speak.

I'll admit it; I am addicted to my phone. It is absolutely wonderful to be able to converse with friends via Facebook while in the waiting room at the doctor's office, rather than reading germ-ridden seven-month-old magazines. And in addition to my phone, I'm addicted to technology in general. Hell, I can't even go for a run anymore without my iPod, and I recall being able to run just fine without it while in Cross Country many years ago. Back then, I enjoyed the scenery more than the Black Eyed Peas, Beck, Cake and MGMT.

You know, though, I've admitted that I have a problem, and from what I understand about addiction, that's the first of the 12-step recovery process. Who knows if I'll ever be able to call myself a "recovering technology addict," but quite frankly, I don't give a damn.

Old Spice

I was checking Facebook this morning when one of those oddball ads came up in the right column next to my page. This one was for Old Spice, and it read, "We're not saying Old Spice body wash will make your man smell like a romantic millionaire jet fighter pilot, but we are insinuating it."

Maybe I just don't fit in with Old Spice's 440,729 fans (at last count), but the smell of Old Spice has honestly never made me think of "a romantic millionaire jet fighter pilot." What it does remind me of is my grandfather and, more generally, the holiday season, since it was pretty much the only scent I could afford to buy my older male relatives.

The other flaw in this Old Spice marketing campaign, at least in my opinion, is the fact that they use the words "jet fighter pilot" next to the word "millionaire." According to ChaCha.com, the average salary for fighter pilot jobs is $53,000--a far cry from $1 million. That's not, of course, to say that the job of a jet fighter pilot isn't considered to be romantic. The proof that many women (and men, for that matter) think they are can be found in the movie Top Gun, in which a young pre-Katie Holmes Tom Cruise played the hunky Maverick character.

Even considering all this, though--and I'm sorry, Old Spice, for bursting your bubble--I just can't picture myself buying Old Spice body wash for my husband. Ultimately, it will remind me more of my grandfather than of the Top Gun-era Tom Cruise.

Still, I guess you can't blame Old Spice for trying to attract younger consumers, given that their much older consumers are now passing on.

J.K. Rowling Stole My Idea, Too!

Generally speaking, I am not fond of plagiarism. But let's be honest with ourselves; if you're going to accuse one of the most successful authors in the world of stealing your ideas, that's tantamount to filing a frivolous lawsuit.

I'm speaking here, of course, about the lawsuit that was recently brought against J.K. Rowling, the celebrated author of the Harry Potter series, by the estate of English children's author Adrian Jacobs. Rowling's name was added as a defendant in a lawsuit against her publisher, Bloomsbury Publishing, and her her agent, Christopher Little, who, coincidentally, was also Jacobs' agent.

The suit alleges that Rowling stole concepts such as "wizard contests, wizard prisons, wizard hospitals, and wizard colleges--from his 1987 book The Adventures of Willy the Wizard: No. 1 Livid Land and used them in writing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire," writes Marjorie Kehe in her Feb. 18, 2010, Christian Science Monitor article, "J.K. Rowling faces another plagiarism suit."

Let me be the first to say that I have yet to read The Adventures of Willy the Wizard: No. 1 Livid Land. Rowling hasn't read it either, so she says. But even if she had read the book and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire did bear strikingly similar characteristics to it, does that warrant Jacobs' estate coming away from this lawsuit as a winner?

This lawsuit that was filed against Rowling got me to thinking, though, about clear-cut plagiarism cases in which offenders should definitely be punished. Take the case of New York Times reporter Zachary Kouwe, for example, who, according to a Feb. 17, 2010, FOXBusiness report, resigned after being outed for plagiarizing on more that one occasion. (The straw that broke the camel's back in that case was, apparently, a letter from the Wall Street Journal to the Times pointing out several similarities between a story that was posted on the Journal's Web site and one written by Kouwe that was published in the Times.)

Then there was 2008 Harvard graduate Kaavya Viswanathan, whose book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life, contains, among others, a 14-word passage that appears verbatim in Megan F. McCafferty’s book, Sloppy Firsts.

And of course who can forget Vice President Joe Biden's exit from the 1988 presidential election, which was due to (yep, you guessed it) PLAGIARISM. Biden lifted his then-stump speech from British Labor Party leader Neil Kinnock. At first, Biden attributed Kinnock when he quoted him, but he didn't continue to do so, and this ultimately led to him dropping out of the race.

I suppose I just don't understand why it is that people can't be more original with what they're writing or saying. Are we really all just less creative now than we used to be? Because I really don't think so. I think we're just far lazier. It's so much easier to copy and paste than to actually, dare I say, work to accomplish something.

But if you're the author of some book from which passages have been cut and pasted into another? Well then, sue the bastards, because you've got every right to do so.

And now I must return to my manuscript: Barry Crotcher and the Full Blood King.

The Continuing Trials and Tribulations of Marion Barry

I was listening to the news yesterday and heard that the former mayor of Washington D.C., D.C. Ward 8 Councilmember Marion Barry (D), is currently under investigation for allegedly receiving kickbacks from his former girlfriend, Donna Watts-Brighthaupt. Not hugely shocking. What I can't figure out, though, is why on earth this guy keeps getting reelected.

In case you all haven't been keeping up with Barry, this is the same guy who, in 1990, was arrested for crack cocaine use and possession. He was charged with three felony counts of perjury, 10 counts of misdemeanor drug possession, and one misdemeanor count of conspiracy to possess cocaine. The criminal trial ended in October 1990 with a conviction for only one possession incident, which had occurred in November 1989, and an acquittal on another. The jury hung on the remaining charges.

After his arrest and through his trial, Barry continued to serve as mayor of D.C., and even ran as an independent for an at-large seat on the Washington, D.C., City Council. He was sentenced to a six-month term in federal prison just before the November 1991 election, which he lost, but after his release from prison in 1992, he successfully bid for the Ward 8 city council seat, running under the slogan "He May Not Be Perfect, But He's Perfect for D.C."

He's held onto that city council seat ever since his election to it in 1992, too, through his failure to file tax returns (he plead guilty in 2005 for failing to pay federal and local taxes), continued drug use (mandatory drug testing for the 2005 hearing showed Barry to be positive for marijuana and cocaine), and in 2009 for when charges were filed against him for failing to file ANOTHER tax return (this time his 2007 return).

Now there's this issue of allegedly receiving kickbacks from his former girlfriend, Watts-Brighthaupt. That's the same girlfriend who claimed Barry was stalking her back in 2009 (all charges related to the stalking incident were dropped in July 2009).

So, will Barry be reelected to his position of Ward 8 councilmember the next time elections roll around? Probably so. Apparently, "He May Not Be Perfect, But He's Perfect for D.C." I feel sorry for D.C. if that's the case.

Fisher, Fisher, MEN, MEN, MEN!

I woke up this morning and opened my blog to find, lo and behold, that I now have TWO followers. I wonder if Jesus Christ felt this way when he opened his blog and saw Simon and Andrew were following him? And in case anyone is wondering about the title of this new post ("Fisher, Fisher, MEN, MEN, MEN"), well, it's because Matthew (as in The Book of Matthew) identified Jesus' first two apostles as fishermen.

And since we're on the subject of Jesus, I suppose I should update you all as to how Ash Wednesday went for me yesterday, and to inform you that I plan to give up one more thing in addition to the booze, white bread and junk food I announced yesterday that I would be giving up. As I expected, I ate a protein bar for breakfast and another for lunch. By the time I rolled into the daycare's parking lot after I got off of work, I was absolutely FAMISHED--as I expect Jesus probably was after the first of his 40 days with nothing but protein bars to sustain him, and... What's that, you say? Blasphemy? C'mon, people. I'm not trying to blaspheme anyone. Let's keep our wits and our sense of humor about us, eh?

As I was saying, I was starving by the time I rolled into the parking lot of the daycare yesterday afternoon. So as soon as I picked up the kids and got them home, I fixed myself a garden salad (because human beings who are extraordinarily hungry generally opt to eat shredded lettuce topped with light dressing, don't they?) and started to fix a dinner consisting of turnip greens, Mrs. Paul's breaded baked fish filets, and french fries. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? No, of course not! Things really didn't start to go downhill until AFTER supper, when I then devoured SIX Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Valentine Hearts. (Those are 90 calories a piece, people!) Anyway, those who follow Lent are supposed to do so in order to show reverence to what Jesus had to go through during his 40 days in the desert when he ate and drank absolutely NOTHING (except for protein bars, of course...). I think, though, that these days, people who give up stuff for Lent are more likely to do so in order to adhere to the diet they intended to start adhering to on January 1. (Unless you're my son, of course, who has chosen to give up playing on the computer during Lent. Good boy.)

So that's that. On top of the booze, white bread and junk food that I announced yesterday that I would give up for Lent, I will also be giving up candy. Man, this is going to be a difficult 40 days...

Ash Wednesday

I think I forgot to mention in my first blog that I am Catholic. (I'm also a Republican, which generally means double the guilt, and way less fun that Britney Spears' first video.) Anyway, being Catholic (although not necessarily a devout one), I do adhere to Lent. That said, I should mention that today is Ash Wednesday. And while White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel may be thinking about giving up calling people "fucking retarded"--at least during this 40-day period--I've chosen to give up booze, white bread, and junk food (i.e., potato chips, cheese curls, etc.). (God, help me.)

At any rate, my husband is also Catholic--a much more devout one than I. That said, when I sent him out last night to buy a couple of frozen dinners (He had to go to the store anyway in order to buy dog food; I would have gone but I had gone earlier to get some items to cook for supper, and... See, there's that guilt thing kicking in.) and I figured, since his family actually ESTABLISHED the Catholic church in the small Southern town from which he hails (no, I'm not kidding), that he'd come back with something I could actually EAT for lunch today. Did he? Nope. My choices were either chicken or beef. So I've relegated myself to the fact that I'll likely eat a protein bar for lunch this afternoon. (Oh, joy.)

I'm Number One

Really and truly, I'm not number one. But I am number one as far as this blog is concerned, because I can be, and since you just have to deal with that, we're just going to leave it at that. Yes, I have an opinion, and yes, I will use it (which will I'm sure at times be to my detriment). However, doing so will enable me to torture creatures big and small, thereby making me feel holier than thou (a.k.a., "Number One," a.k.a., "Numero Uno," a.k.a., "The Head Honcho").

Anyway, since this is my first attempt at "blogging," I guess I should go ahead and introduce myself and what this whole thing is about. I'm the editor and publisher of a magazine few know about (Ever heard of GQ? It's not that magazine...) and live in the 'burbs along with about 41,000 of my closest friends and neighbors. I enjoy living in the Mid-Atlantic, although I'm not originally from here.

I married young, by most peoples' standards, and I've got two kids. My husband hails from a small Southern town, and comes from a very close-knit family. So far, after 11+ years of marriage, things have gone, for the most part anyway, okay.

So that's that. I'll be back soon to share more, albeit possibly slightly less meaningful, banter soon.