Nudity is Only Skin-Deep

The Close Shave

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .
So maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
"Warning" by Jenny Joseph

This poem is more or less how I live my life, but the words are still missing something. They are missing the hideousness incipient in many old women. I used to look at some scary old ladies with beards, moustaches, and big dangling wattles with enormous black hairs, and I'd shudder. Now I know that if I make it to that age, I'll probably end up resembling them. Rather than fear the thought, I delight in it. I can't wait to be a hideous old woman. I want to be able to scare small children with a single glance. I want the power to shrivel men's dicks with a mere glance at my hirsute visage. I plan on being the ancient Medusa of hairiness.

My earliest memory involves hair. I was very young--I couldn't walk yet--and my father was holding me in his arms. I was staring at his face, and then I started staring up his nose. That's
when I saw the nose hairs. I didn't have nose hairs at this point, at least, not lustrous black ones like he did, so I was pretty fascinated. I reached up to yank them out, and Dad pushed my
hand away saying, "No, no." It's a pretty silly first memory, but the depilatory characteristics of it seem to have set the stage for my life.

Sometimes I think my life can be encapsulated as a losing battle against hair. When I was a little girl, I used to have long, glorious dark blonde tresses. I was an active child, and my hair was very curly, so my frustrated mother finally had my locks chopped off after too many tangles with my malevolent tresses and too many combs losing teeth in my scalp. My hair remained relatively short until I was in grade five and I decided to grow it out again. Then it became almost non-existent. I went to the barber shop for a trim one day back in 1981, and the barber mistook my ten-year old androgynous form for that of a boy and gave me a serious military brush cut. I went home crying, but was somehow vindicated when I became the first punk skinhead in my school.

As my hair grew out, the old battles with the comb came back. My hair was an enormous ball of frizz: a Caucasian Afro of magnificent proportions. When I'd go to a beauty salon, hairdressers
would stare slack jawed with their shears dangling helplessly by their sides. They'd make a few tentative stabs at getting my unruly hair under control, but it would invariably go back into its
giant poof.

Even in the 1980s when big hair was de rigueur, my mane would not fit into even the largest of banana clips. People would stop and stare, and I was often referred to as "Hey! You with the hair!" I tried in vain to make my hair conform to the styles of the time. I had my hair hacked into a mullet, and I tried to tease my fringe up nice and high. This only made me look like a puffer fish with a perm. Besides, I couldn't get the back of my hair flat to my head. This was the style of the day: skyscraper tall in front, and flat as a flapjack in back. The style was very similar to those false-front shops so prevalent in old Western towns.

It's just as well. This hairstyle is as ugly and ridiculous as any mullet could ever hope to be.

At some point in my mid-20s, my hair decided it was too old to rebel, and settled down into an easily-coiffed wave. I don't know what good thing I did to deserve this boon, but I didn't dare
question it. However, I was now left with all sorts of spare hair time. I took notice of other hairy bits which had previously escaped my attention, such as my unibrow. In folklore, a singular eyebrow is symptomatic of lycanthropy. Maybe I was a werewolf. Or maybe I was a muppet. After all, Bert from Sesame Street sports the same sort of facial hair. My attempts at plucking were uneven and sometimes resulted in bizarre divots. I was in modelling school at this point, and my instructor suggested I get my brows done professionally. I trooped off to a beauty salon and was introduced to the horrors of waxing.

The aesthetician sat me back in a reclining chair, much like a dentist would use. The similarities between dentist and aesthetician did not end there. The pain was also similar. First of all, she gently washed and massaged my face, then applied hot strips of wax above my eyes. Then, with a mighty RRRIPP! she tore the wax (and half of my face from the feel of it) off. My eyebrows felt like they had fresh half-moon shaped brands. My eyes filled with tears, but the aesthetician didn't stop this horrid torture until the job was done.

After she rubbed cold cream on my throbbing eyebrows, I looked in the proffered mirror to survey the damage. My unibrow was gone, and if I ignored the fluorescent swollen pink bits, the brows looked pretty damned good. The swelling only went down a day later. Now, I keep my eyebrows carefully tweezed lest I go through the wax torture again.

Ironically enough, I have since begun getting what is colloquially known as my bikini area waxed. Apparently, I don't have enough pain in my life. However, I do loathe body hair, and sometimes believe the world would be a better place if it had never been invented. I mean, whose idea was this, anyway? Did some great creator decide, hey, wouldn't it be funny if men could have more hair on their backs than on their heads?

The first time I had the timber line clear-cut off Mount Venus was early in the summer of 2001. I was really sick of my groin looking like a scalded and freshly-plucked chicken every time I went swimming. With a certain amount of trepidation, I made an appointment to see an aesthetician up at a mall. It was all rather seedy and tawdry, actually. I paid a woman to flip up my skirt and maul my crotch, and I didn't even get a half second's enjoyment out of the experience. I could hear mall muzak playing in the hallways, loud hip hop music in the trendy clothing shop next door, and the top 40 pabulum playing on the radio in the salon.

I don't think the aesthetician relished the experience any more than I did. Yanking the hair out of strange women's crotches just doesn't seem like a very rewarding job. Once again, I was plunked down on an inclined chair/bench. This time, my skirt was hauled up around my waist. The woman gave me a tissue. "Wrap this around the edge of your panties so I don't get gunk on 'em."

I did as she requested.

She dipped a spatula into a tub of warm wax and smeared it onto my upper thigh. She laid a strip of gauze over top, patted it down, then yanked it off. My eyes teared slightly at the sting, but it wasn't that bad. "That didn't hurt too much," I said.

She smiled grimly. "Good."

Then she moved in a bit closer to my grotto of love. Once again, the waxy spatula smeared itself onto my hirsute bits. The cloth was patted on, and then my leg and crotch were torn asunder. At least, that's what it felt like, to put it mildly. It was as if the top eight layers had been ripped off me. If Shakespeare had only known about waxing, he would have written it into The Merchant of Venice as a good way to obtain the pound of flesh.

Somehow, I managed not to scream or recoil. Perhaps I am a closeted masochist. I hope not.

Yet I stayed in position as this Torquemama repeated the process even closer to my holiest of holies. This time, my eyes teared up in anticipation. This was really going to hurt, I thought.

I was right.

The process was repeated on the other side. When the waxing was over, I felt both relieved and sore. Unfortunately, she wasn't yet finished. She reached for a pair of tweezers and began methodically tearing out all the survivors of the molten wax blitzkrieg. I'm sure she was pinching me in the process. Although the tweezing didn't have the all-over style of searing pain that the waxing did, it felt like she was grasping below the surface of my skin (catching skin in the process) before yanking.

When it was all through, she said, "How does that look?"

"Great," I said. The Black Forest could have flourished in my lap and I would have told her it looked dandy. The truth is, I once again looked like a freshly scalded and plucked chicken. The skin was red, and bumps showed where all my hairs had been pulled out. My skin was suffering from follicular dry heaves. Later, when I got home, I discovered she had missed several patches, but there was no way I was going back to see her.

Believe it or not, about a month and a half later, I went and did it again at a different salon. This time, the experience was much better. The hair no longer looked like a brillo pad, to begin with, and the yanker-outer-woman was much more experienced. The pain was nowhere near as intense. In fact, it was quite bearable, and although my skin was once again red and swollen afterwards, it looked fine by the evening. Also, she didn't leave any hirsute patches.

The experience was vastly superior to the time I decided to do my own depilation in a place I couldn't actually see. If you ever get the sudden urge to shave your butt cleavage, do not give in to it. It can only lead to a literal pain in the arse. Trust me on this.

Hair has also been a big part of my life as a dancer, and plays an important role in Zar trance rituals.


(To be continued....)

I'm not pointing fingers at anyone in particular, because this is an issue I've been encountering over and over again for decades. But, I am intrigued by how it's more culturally acceptable for a man to show progress photos of physique development than it is for a woman. Why is this the case? Discuss!

(I wrote this seven years ago, and thought I'd share it again. Enjoy my pain, motherfuckers!)

Herein lies a story which contains too much information to relate, yet that has not stopped me from sharing. Be warned....

It all started late last week. At first I thought it was just a shaving disorder--that I'd clipped the lawn too short, so to speak. However, after a day or two of discomfort and itching, I realized it was my old nemesis: Candidiasis. When I was in my second year of university, I was at war with my crotch. It seemed I was forever embroiled in some battle or another. My crotch had quite the arsenal, too. Its weapon stores were filled with urinary tract problems, ingrown hairs, and yeast infections.

At long last, and with great jubilation, I had won the battle. My crotch was a happy place.

But last week, the resistance showed up. There was no time for me to go to the medical clinic for reinforcements, so I went to a drug store and bought some do-it-yourself meds. These included an anti-fungal salve, an applicator stick, and three little eggs. According to the instructions, I was to balance an egg on the applicator stick, shove it up one of the places where the sun don't shine, and push the plunger. With the egg firmly nested in my cervix, I would then apply the salve and have a good night's sleep.

It all seemed pretty straight forward, and preferable to the methods I had to use back in 1992. Back then, I was given what looked like a giant hypodermic needle and a bunch of icky paste. I then injected the paste and tried to sleep while the insides of me basted with foul-smelling medicine. Of course, any time I had to move, it would squirt or ooze out of me in a most horrific manner.

The eggs seemed rather innocuous. The applicator seemed straight forward for anyone who understands how tampons work.

It was bedtime, so it was time for my medicine.

After making sure everything was squeaky clean, I got out the medicine. The eggs were nested in a little blister pack. I pushed on one of the eggs, expecting it to burst through the foil the way any other pill would. The egg smooshed a little bit, but didn't emerge. I used a fingernail to break the foil, then tried to push the egg out again. It wasn't happening, though. It seemed to be stuck to the plastic. After a long struggle where I did my best not to break the egg, I finally got it out.

I next assembled the egg-launching device and balanced the egg on the end. I then looked at the contraption warily. The edges beneath the egg looked less than silky smooth. My poor crotch was already raw and irritated from the candidiasis. I didn't much want to shove this sharpish thing up my wazoo.

I tried, anyway. After a bit of coaxing, up went the applicator and the egg. I pushed the plunger slowly, then cautiously removed the launching apparatus. There, on the top, sat the egg. The darned thing had stayed put! Then, while I stared at the egg in anguish, it Humpty Dumptied off the applicator and onto the floor.

I picked it up, rinsed it off, and went for the second take.

By this point, the egg felt slimy. I think the eggshell is supposed to gradually dissolve, so the rinsing I gave it probably didn't help with its structural integrity. However, I didn't want to put a dirty egg up my snatch.

Once more, I put the egg on the launcher. Once more, I sent it spelunking. Once more, it stayed put on its little launch pad.

Frustrated, I pushed it back up and tried to get my cervix to get a good grab on the egg, but to no avail. It came back out with the applicator. I pumped the applicator up and down a good half dozen times, and the egg stayed firmly planted.

I decided to forego the useless applicator. Unfortunately, the egg was now stuck on the plastic device like a head on a pike. I had to pick at it to get it off. Then the darned thing fell onto the floor again. I washed it again, and once more, into the breech, my little egg went, this time forced along by my index finger.

A funny thing happened on the way up there.

Weakened by all its misadventures, the egg broke.

The egg shot up toward my centre and white goop rolled down my finger. I clamped my knees firmly together and waddled over to the sink to wash off the offensive fluids. Then, knees and thighs still mashed together, I Morticia-walked to bed. "Turn out the light," I growled to f00.

"Do it yourself," he answered.

"No. If I do, then I'll have to navigate the path to bed in the dark while egg whites roll down my legs."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

I explained what just happened, and he broke into laughter.

"Fuck off," I said, and got into bed.

I think he fell asleep still giggling.

There was no sleep to be had by me. The egg white was making its way inexorably toward my exterior, and it itched like a sonuvabitch. I tried everything to forget the itching down there. I thought about funny movies. I thought about scary movies. I pretended my leg was itchy, and scratched that, instead. I bit my tongue and concentrated on the pain of that. None of these things worked.

After a couple of hours of torturous itchiness, I decided to hell with it all, and went back to the bathroom. I no longer cared if I was wiping the medication off. I didn't want it on me anymore. I couldn't bear it.

So I had myself a tinkle, and like a good girl, wiped from front to back, and then I came back to bed.

Apparently, my wiping habits, normally so hygienically-correct, are not a good idea when there is an itchsome fluid to be dealt with. All of a sudden, the unbearable itchiness was no longer affecting just my most holy of holies, but my arsehole as well.

Don't ask me how, but I did manage to get some sleep, eventually. Perhaps the unbearable itchiness made me pass out.

For the next two nights, I skipped the applicator and used my trusty finger. The loathsome eggs appear to have done their jobs. I believe I've been cured.

I just told Amelia that from the inside, DVDA looks like a porcupine.

Am I the only one who thinks Neil Gaiman and Moammar Khadafi look a lot alike?

I think I'm in love with my fan.

It is no-pants day! Celebrate with me by taking off your pants! DO IT NOW!

All you have to do is announce it. And peopel willl celbarerata. Celbera. Oh fuck. Celebrate. There.

This is a progressive post. I shall continue to add to it as I celebrate no-pants day.

When I was about seven years old, I had a crush on an older man. His name was Quentin, and he was 9, which when you are 7, is a major age difference.

I was ecstatic when he knocked on my door and asked me if I'd like to go fishing with him. Oh yes! Fishing with the man of my dreams! And so I grabbed my fishing rod and off we went to the creek at the bottom of the hill.

I chatted with him the whole time. He was the wittiest and most charming 9-year-old, ever. I was smitten. And so we started fishing, and we fished for hours, until the sun started to go down, and I felt a horrendous pressure building in my bladder.

But still I stayed, listening to his bon mots. I didn't want to step away and miss even a single moment with him.

And so it came to pass that I pissed myself. I let myself believe he wouldn't know. It was dark, so he couldn't see my shame spreading dark across the crotch of my pants. And I stayed downwind, so he wouldn't smell it, either.

But when I finally and reluctantly left to go home, my Mom took one look at me and started yelling. "What were you thinking?" she screamed.

"I like him! I didn't want to go away to pee!"

"Oh, I'm sure THAT impressed him," she said.

And I realized she was right. Since that fateful day, I have decided that no man is worth pissing myself for. I try to retain at least a little bit of dignity.

Now that I think about it, Quentin never did hang out with me again, after that. I guess I pissed him off.

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Link time.

Japanese man releases hundreds of worms in train: Because that's sexy.

Shewee: I could have used one of these, that fateful day (thanks, tailchaser).

Physicist Stephen Hawking accepts post at Waterloo institute: So maybe I'll bump into him, some day (thanks, elanya).

This past LARP weekend was a huge change from previous events. Instead of playing Di'ikh the emo Drow, I chose to play the part of a hugely-pregnant female Orc by the name of Marrow. Much hilarity ensued. Amazing things were happening beneath my dress. I held up to twenty spell packets (little cloth bags filled with bird seed) in my bra. These represented rocks which I used to throw at my enemies.

In order to get the pregnant look, I wore a hideous yellow full-length dress, green nylon leggings on my legs, green nylon leggings on my arms and chest (with a hole cut in the crotch so my head could get through), an over-sized bra stuffed with J-cloths. My pregnant belly was a semi-inflated beach ball, and I also wore a self-inflating whoopie cushion against my arse. These plastic devices were held in place by a pair of queen-sized pantyhose with the legs cut off. The whoopie cushion would go off every time I leaned on something, sat down, or shifted position. For the first day and a half,I think a third of the people at the game thought it was real, and they were averting their eyes so as not to cause me embarrassment.

On the day the babies were due, I wore a leather belt cinched tightly around my waist. Dolls, with cords tied to them and to my belt, were tucked by the legs into my belt and under the beach ball.

The birthing scene was hysterical (and yes, I mean that in terms of the Greek origin of the word, too). The way the dolls were attached, they would fall out at randomly and drag on the ground behind me. The baby fell out as I walked through the centre of town, setting off a chorus of screams from the townsfolk. Someone kept screaming "Pick it up! Pick it up!" to me, so I grabbed the umbilical cord and walked around that way for a while. Someone puked (Serai, maybe?). Then they screamed, "Put it down! Put it down!" so I shrugged, spun the baby around once or twice for momentum, and plopped it down onto the shield of a fighter by the name of Wolfgar.

The bold warrior began screaming like a little girl. When the placenta came out (I used the whoopie cushion, as I didn't have the foresight to bring a raw liver), I plopped that down onto the shield, too, and he screamed even more.

After the townsfolk cleaned up the baby and cossetted them in a way I just couldn't fathom (do they know nothing about baby Orcs?), they attempted to make me breastfeed it. Baby Orcs bite, of course, and it's not a good idea to let a baby's mouth that close to a sensitive piece of anatomy. But having never given birth before, I was convinced to let the baby latch on. It bit me and naturally I sent it flying, then walked off to do something more useful, like go off to battle.

As I wandered off, the other baby fell out and dragged behind me, and the screaming resumed. I didn't want the babies as I thought their father was no good, so after someone cut this one free, I abandoned both children in town and went off to fight monsters.

Later that day, after I killed a demonic wall and got myself all corrupted by something or another, I returned to my camp. An Orcish scouting party from another tribe had been wandering away downwind and caught my scent, and followed their noses to my camp.

They gave me tribute (a severed human leg and a set of imp wings), and then that's when the Orcgy took place. I never did catch their names. I hope my brother Ubiquitous did. In any case, what happened from there on was lost in much roaring, much pounding, several instances of fists of fury, and a mist of green spunk. I'm not entirely sure of all the details, but one of the Orcs lost consciousness, and I broke the tibia using the severed leg on him. When he came to, he was very pleased and left walking funny.

That's how I got pregnant again. I killed more monsters later that night, and shouted out the town laws over and over again as a criminal taken into custody was gagged by my brother's filthy underpants.

I truly earned that shower I took when I got home.

And how was your weekend?



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Link time.

Women as Warriors in the 19th Century: This just seems appropriate, somehow.

Woman in India 'has twins at 70': Also somewhat appropriate.

Stripper Bears: SFW. Make sure you have your sound on.

Laser Tattoo: Don't do this at homes, kiddies.

L'enculeur de mouches: NSFW. WTF, mate (thanks, balthcat)?

Boonga Boonga: Classic Japanese weirdery.

I've been watching a lot of Oz. It's been corrupting me.

Yesterday, while lounging about the freezing cold pool, I came up with the Canadian version of a Colombian necktie: The Inuit Necktie.

Slash someone's throat, throw 'em in freezing cold water, and their balls will come out their neck.

My mind is a wonderful place....

Ask snowy_kathryn about how Oz has been manifesting for her.

From an unknown author comes this piece of giggly hysteria. Cringe and enjoy the schadenfreude!

All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal - The epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now...the wax

My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, and play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: "Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet." So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom.

It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out.

(YA THINK!?!)

So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax," yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works! OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.

With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting
championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I apply the one strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my *hoo-hoo* and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (Yes, it was a long strip) I inhale deeply and brace

myself.... RRRRIIIPPP!!!!

I'm blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!.... OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!! Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. OH NO!

What have I done???!!! Another deep breath and RRIIPP!! Everything is swirly and spotted. I think I may pass out...must stay conscious...Do I hear crashing drums??? Breathe, breathe...OK, back to normal.

I want to see my trophy - a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip! There's no hair on it. Where is the hair??? WHERE IS THE WAX???


Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. WHAT?! I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair.


Then I make the next BIG mistake...remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. My LIFE FLASHES BEFORE ME!!!!!! I hear the slamming of a cell door.


*Hoo-hoo*? Sealed shut! Butt?? Sealed shut!


I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself "Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!" What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!!!

I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right??? WRONG!!!!!!!

I get in the tub - the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment - I sit.

Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub...in scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.

So, now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain!!

God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!!

I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It's a very good conversation starter -

"So, my butt and who-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!"

There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or hoo- ha?"

She's laughing out loud by now...I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. YEAH!!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else's night.

While we go through various solutions. I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!!

By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.

My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace.... the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on and OH MY GOD!!!!!!!

The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I really don't care. "IT WORKS!! It works!!" I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up.

I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair.... THE HAIR IS STILL THERE...ALL OF IT!!!!!!!!!!

So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.

Next week I'm going to try hair color...

So I decide to take a bath and relax. I start the water, toss in some of my Lush goodies (a floating island and a honey bee bath bomb), and then I decide to arm myself against the phone calls which always come when I'm in the tub. So I stroll out of the bathroom, nekkid as a Sphinx cat, just in time to see the front door open and a strange man in a yellow coat stick his head in and say, "Hello?"

In a conversational tone, I say, "What the hell?", then dart for the bathroom to grab a towel. When I get back out of the bathroom, the man has left and rebolted the door. I look through the peephole and see him standing there for a moment, and then he takes off, frightened away by the naked woman.

I suspect it was the cable guy. They've been doing work on the building over the past couple of weeks. However, I didn't receive any notification that anyone would be coming by today. Although I'm amused, I'm also experiencing a bit of righteous indignation. I guess I should bitch out the landlord. And I guess simply bolting the door isn't enough to keep strangers out of my apartment. Apparently, I need to start using the dorky little chain thing, too.

And yes, the phone did ring while I was in the tub. Twice. One was for another dance teaching gig, and the other was a canned telemarketer.

Now it's link time.

Say Hello to My Leetle Friend: Not your everyday gun.

Beer for Dogs: Just what it sounds like.

By the way, yesterday was my Dad's sixtieth birthday. I hope Mom gets him some audio books to listen to while he's healing up. He still can't focus well enough to watch television.

So there I am, fast asleep in the middle of the night when I am jammed/shocked/brutalized into consciousness. f00dave claims he was reaching for the sheet, but who would look for a sheet up my butt? Yes, he jammed a finger up my wazoo in search of the errant sheet.

I was not amused, and he dared complain at my yelp of surprise. Apparently, my shout woke him up.

Riiiiight.

Nevertheless, someone ought to get onto this idea: anal probes as the ultimate alarm clocks. I can't say much has woken me up as quickly.