Bikini bottom as toe ornament

The mail arrives… and I feel a great disturbance in the Force.

I hesitate in front of the mailbox. It seems to bulge with significance… with portent… with… with… well, it’s certainly bulging, that’s for damn sure.

Wah! There it is, between the gas and electric bill and the supermarket circular! The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue!

Elsa Benitez, Veronica Varekova, Elle Macpherson, Rebecca Romjin, Rachel Hunter, Daniela Pestova, Yamila Diaz-Rahl, and Carolyn Murphy
Elsa Benitez, Veronica Varekova, Elle Macpherson, Rebecca Romjin, Rachel Hunter, Daniela Pestova, Yamila Diaz-Rahl, and Carolyn Murphy

Omigosh, look at those breasts! I guess the price is reasonable enough for what you get—and Hubby sure does love the big ones—I’ll have to think about getting some later.

Well, that’s enough of the chicken sale in the supermarket circular. It’s time to pore over the Swimsuit Issue!

Perhaps it is really the “Half-a-Swimsuit Issue,” as many of the ladies are topless, save for a floral lei or a string of beads, or artfully placed arms and hands. The structural engineering involved is mind-boggling.

And oh, my! One gal took off her swimsuit bottom, too. Rather than stretching across her lovely bum, it dangles seductively from her big toe. Another model wears nothing more than a few hibiscus blossoms and a dusting of sand. At least she looks warmer than the one wearing the diamond and platinum”$30 Million Bikini.”

Ah, so THAT’S what a Brazilian wax is all about. I wondered…

The Heidi Klum Body Paint is well done, very pretty; a spread inspired by “the glamour girls of old Hollywood.” Artistic and tasteful and…

Holy cow! Did Heidi Klum really give birth three months before these photos were taken? To her SECOND CHILD?

And look! There’s Elle, for crying out loud, looking just like she did in the 80s. I always suspected she was really a gorgeous space alien who left her mother ship for a lucrative modeling contract. I’ll finally be proven right, too, when she’s featured in the 2046 Swimsuit Issue.

Cough, cough, HACK! What is THIS advertisement selling? A “vibrating ring”? With a “small battery in a soft casing”?


I looked through the magazine twice, but no athlete’s wives. Bummer! I always liked those. And only one representative of a real female athlete: Maria Sharapova. She looks better than any of these supermodels.

Picture of Maria Sharapova
The best figure in the whole magazine: Maria Sharapova. Why doesn’t Sports Illustrated show us more than one female sports figures per swimsuit issue?

The articles are all so-so. Carla Campbell feels her lips “are very sensual.” Petra Nemcova has recovered from her life-threatening injuries during the Christmas 2004 tsunami—and she looks stunning in that Beach Bunny bikini. Bahamas tree frogs prefer toilets to trees… Yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m done. Back to the supermarket circular.

When Hubby comes home I discreetly give him his mail. Do I feel insecure? Tubby? Unattractive in comparison to the beauties in those pages?

You bet.

I later find Hubby in bed, reading the regular Sports Illustrated with “Flying Tomato” Shaun White on the cover.

“Where’s the Swimsuit Issue?” I ask.

“Eh, those gals need to work out a bit. Too skinny. No muscle tone.”

Is it any wonder why I love this man?

, , , ,

How to search the Prescient Miss Snark

Miss Snark needs an index. Today she recommended that new users search her site with Google for answers to their questions.

Google can help. Enter “miss Snark” and the topic, like “writers conferences” and you’ll be surprised what pops up. Miss Snark

The only problem with this method is that it brings up all the pages on the internet containing the words “Miss,” “Snark,” “writers” and “conferences.”

This is a slightly better way to search: type the search term, like “telling lies” into the Google search box. Make a space and follow with “”.

It should look like this:

Now the only thing that’ll come up are Miss Snark’s pages, including her July 6, 2005 post, “Telling Lies for Fun and Profit.”

But, there are other books categorized as non fiction
and published by major publishers that have wild ass claims
as well.

Edward Klein’s diatribe about Hillary Clinton leaps to mind.
And James Frey’s Million Little Pieces.

I haven’t read Klein, and don’t intend to.
I did read James Frey’s book and found myself wondering-
did anyone check up on this?
It’s a memoir, and truth is stranger than fiction, and maybe
I’m too much a cynic but there are some parts of that
book that made me wish he’d published it in the New Yorker.
The New Yorker has a fact checking department that is
pretty much legendary.

Miss Snark, July 6, 2005, Telling Lies for Fun and Profit,” posted three months before Oprah announced A Million Little Pieces as her latest book club selection, and five months before the Smoking Gun exposed the real story behind Frey’s “memoir.”

Agnes Diggs

Picture of Agnes Diggs
Agnes Diggs
April 25, 1949 – Nov. 27, 2005

I loved her column and her imagination (which I felt was just as overactive as my own) and now she is gone.

Here’s to you, Agnes. I feel like I’ve lost a good neighbor.

So, there I was, being swept along in this herd of heifers who had dressed themselves to attract attention of any and all kinds. I have never seen so many Women wearing white dresses and no underwear in my life —- and I have lived in Los Angeles.

The issue of undress must be addressed,” July 27, 2003

One consolation for me is that my routine is so basic and uneventful that by now, if something is watching, it is grinding its teeth with boredom.

Inside that cash register, someone is watching,” Aug. 3, 2003

What is the deal on having food-scented soaps and candles in the bathroom? Chocolate-brownie-scented candles in the bathroom. How is your digestive system supposed to act when you’re signaling it on both ends?

Assault on the scent-ses is food for thought,” Aug. 23, 2003

I guess men are entitled to equal time with women. After all, the gamboling guys are no worse than the ad showing a girl wrestling a dispenser for a tampon.

Or the woman who is apparently out on a romantic date in a rowboat on a lake when the craft begins to sink. She conveniently —- and, amazingly, to me —- whips a 24-pack box out of her purse and uses one to plug the leak and save the day.

Now there’s a romantic setting. You, a gorgeous date and a bloated feminine product squishing at your feet.

Erectile dysfunction ads elicit horror, humor,” Mar. 27, 2004

Once, while on assignment, I tossed my purse down on a chair and moved away. A lady asked me, “Aren’t you afraid someone might grab it and run?”

No worries. First, I seldom carry money in it, other than the aforementioned change. And second, I believe it would be easy enough to find the perpetrator. Go directly to the nearest hospital emergency room and ask for a man who recently arrived stooped over and complaining of a severe hernia, and voila, we have our guy.

At home with her purse: Always room for one more,” Sept. 25, 2004

Well, laugh all you want to. But remember this:

There are three kinds of people in this world:

People who believe in werewolves.

People who don’t believe in werewolves.

And werewolves.

When the going gets scary, there are rules to be followed,” Oct. 30, 2004

And then there was the time another sales associate, who was apparently more interested in associating than making sales, stood chatting on the phone until a customer —- other than myself —- walked up. The clerk rushed over and offered to help the newcomer. I turned to the recent arrival and said, “Excuse me, would you do me a favor, please? Would you look to your right and see if there’s a tall, queen-sized black woman standing next to you?”

The Invisible Woman,” Jan. 3, 2005

Lord have mercy.

The Girl Scout cookies have arrived.

Judging by the rapidly growing pile of boxes on my desk, I must have said yes to everyone who asked me.

Cute kids bearing cookies – who can resist?,” Mar. 2, 2005

“You know, mom,” I said. “Just because I’m on my own doesn’t mean you can’t give your opinion about the things I tell you.”

“You’re grown,” she said. “You don’t need me to tell you anything.”

“It’s like this,” I said. “My life is like a corporation. I’m CEO now, but you’re not fired. I’m kicking you upstairs. You can be the President of the Board of Advisors. I expect to consult you on all important decisions. I’m the major stockholder, but I’ll always at least listen to your opinion.”

She was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “When you get to Montreal, don’t share a room with (so-and-so,) and you stay with the group, you hear.”

I was tempted to laugh, wondering how she had held it in for so long.

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

Think twice before firing mom from your life,” May 4, 2005

Mindful that these concrete parking mazes are favorite hideouts for werewolves and vampires, I dug out my keys as soon as I got on the elevator.

As I walked toward the space where I had parked, the ceiling light over it promptly went off. Apparently, it was the kind that polices itself to conserve energy.

Or maybe that’s just what The Boogeyman wanted me to believe.

You say paranoia, I say vigilance,” May 16, 2005

Now remember, you’re talking to a person who firmly believes that camping out means staying in a hotel room with no coffee pot.

She decamps in the hunt for comfort,” June 4, 2005

Suddenly I was struck in the face with the equivalent of a horse’s tail.

I turned to my right in time to see a young blonde gathering her locks for another shot.

Running her fingers through her hair, she gathered strands in her fist, wound up her neck, flexed right and —– thwack. Pop goes the Agnes.

Public grooming’s a flipping nuisance,” July 23, 2005

I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to do.

It just looks funny, that’s all. And highly entertaining.

I can hardly wait for the trend of chest-bumping to gain popularity.

You can’t deep-six the high five,” Oct. 24, 2005

Suddenly this fool leaned into the open roof of the car and grabbed my purse. In front of a police station, no less.

Don’t ask me why, because I’m sure I don’t know —- I grabbed the front of his shirt and held on.

She powered through the gears and took off, with him flailing in the opening like a hooked trout. I was afraid to let go lest he fall and be killed by the oncoming traffic. I was angry, but not that angry.

She didn’t drive far. Just enough to have him hollering for his mama.

Darkness brings danger,” Nov. 7, 2005


Andrew Phelps
remembers Agnes.

Agnes’ LA Times obituary.

Is this a hug or am I being squashed like a bug? (a tribute by former coworker Scott Reeder)

Monday Morning Mojo No. 9

Last week in Monday Morning Mojo: our intrepid bulldog continued his quest for chewage. After exhausting his supply of those items found on the floor, he moved on to objects found hanging within shoe racks and resting on the sofa. This week he turns to those things residing in the lower shelves of our bookcases, namely, books.

Living Dead in Dallas

WHAT: Living Dead in Dallas, by Charlaine Harris, second in the Southern Vampire series in which ultra-cute barmaid Sookie Stackhouse meets the mysterious vampire Bill and a whole lot of exciting vampiric happenings ensue.

“Oh, ho!” You might say, “Mojo dislikes the occult: vampires, shape-shifters, witches, fairies and other demonic stuff, that’s all!”

You think?

Take a look at this: Continue reading “Monday Morning Mojo No. 9”

Snape: “Harry, I am your father.”

I’m kidding.

Rowling has set Snape up to be the biggest, most misunderstood hero in the history of literature. I imagine a final scene in Book 7 where Snape is at last vindicated, when Harry realizes all he has done to protect him despite everyone’s efforts to bring him down.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is a very good book, worth the wait, but a little lighter in detail than previous installments. I think my favorite books are still The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire.

Some observations:

Continue reading “Snape: “Harry, I am your father.””