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1. If you really are worried about men not taking you seriously, maybe you ought to reconsider the micro-mini, fishnet stockings, see-through blouse and come-fuck-me-pumps.

2. In addition to #1, you also ought to re-think hooking up with the Dirty Man-Whores who like to kiss-whathaveyou-and tell.

3. Failing #1 and #3, Dirty Man-Whores are best engaged only on the very last day of a long conference trip and only then as a last resort.

4. If employing #3, do also employ the necessary armor and while we’re on subject, you might want to double bag it…and use Lysol…and make sure your shots are up to date.

5. Walking three miles in uncomfortable heels does you no favors.

6. Neither does taking off said heels to expose your stank-ass feet.

7. Prodigious amounts of giggling and saying the word “like” incorrectly and frequently does not help with #1.

7a. Especially after you invited a general horde of conventioners up to your hotel room for Kahlua shots. 

7b. And while we’re on topic, Kahlua shots? Seriously

8. And if all of the preceeding is just too much for you to handle, maybe you ought to consider staying home next year.

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I don’t care for much of the music that is played on the radio these days. Occasionally, when I can pick it up, the Canadian station across the lake plays some good stuff, and Gannon U, when I’m desperate, can play some decent tunes as well.

00299-daily-cartoons-baseball-batI basically stopped listening to popular radio a few years ago in the middle of the national edict thus proclaiming that “Umbrella” by Rhianna, must be played at all hours of the day on all stations including country stations, classic rock, and christian music. There was simply no escape. I turned the radio off.

I hate the song, I hate the voice, and now I have reason to intensely dislike the person. What a trifecta.

We’ve all pretty much heard the love story that is Chris Brown and Rhianna: Boy Meets Girl, Boy Beats Girl, Girl Hides Out, Girl Returns To Boy (until Boy is charged by the LA District Attorney…hopefully).

It’s her life, it’s her physical safety, but really, what a waste. The story of a famous woman who is physically terrorized by a famous man opened up a national dialogue about domestic abuse. Said Famous Woman had an opportunity to emerge stronger, in control, and inspire women in similar relationships to leave them.

Instead Famous Woman now comes across as pathetic and weak and Famous Thug is likely to get off scot-free, again.

Instead the cycle is likely to continue. And young women who look up to Rhianna are more likely to stick it out because, really, if Chris and Rhianna can work it out…

My mother once told me that if I felt I was trapped in a relationship with a man who beat me, that I should wait for him to go to bed and then go find a crow bar. Not a baseball bat, she was specific, but a crowbar, better swinging action apparently. This certainly isn’t the right advice for young woman either, but the intent is clear: you don’t have to take it and if he’s stronger than you, bide your time and plan your attack.

Have I mentioned my mother is a five-foot tall Mick?

Anyways, if Rhianna, misguided young woman that she is, is determined to try and work it out with this ass-hat who belongs in prison, then I hope she has a titanium umbrella ready. She’s going to need it.

As I was dressing for school today, I pulled on a thermal long sleeve shirt followed by a sweater, scarf, sock liners under my wool socks, jeans, my winter coat and hat. Since it is expected to only reach the mid-teens termperature wise, and since I would be walking all over campus today, I am wearing glove liners under my winter gloves.

I was raised in Detroit, lived in Northern Michigan for a numbers of years, headed south for while, back up north to the great state of Maine and now I’m back in the Great Lakes region. Basically this means is that I know how to dress for winter.

alexander-mcqueen-jet-crystal-bootie-styleI try not to look like a schlub in the process. I have a cute hat and a decent coat. But really, at my age, style can be damned when it comes to keeping warm and dry. This point has been particularly driven home with the severity of this winter.

So I’m sitting in my Math class next a fellow student, one who hails from the Erie area, and we’re dicsussing our future plans. I am unsure of mine as of yet, but my classmate is bound and determined to head south.

“I can’t handle the cold anymore.” Is what she tells me.

I consider this for a moment as I take in her attire: skinny jeans that barely reach her ankles, ballet slipper-shoes with no socks, a rather flimsy looking jacket that only just reaches her waist and really doesn’t stretch the length of her arms. Lastly, a filmy scarf with no evidence of mittens or hat.

Her hair and make-up is perfect. Her coat probably costs a couple hundred dollars, as does her jeans and probably her shoes. She looks polished. She looks fantastic. She also looks like she’s freezing her butt off. And it’s not as if she is new to winter. She grew up here for Dog sake.

And she is clone of dozens of other girls I see on campus every day.

My classmate goes to say how much she loves the area. She loves the spring, summer, and fall in Erie. She is close to her family. She has a tight circle of friends. She has been dating a boy for a few years (he’s from just over the New York border) and they are discussing marriage. In addition, this girl and her boyfriend have the option of working for family businesses upon graduation.

It sounds like a good life, but she really can’t stand the cold, and hence, must leave.

This puzzles me to no end. Sure, Sailor and I’ve moved around..a lot…but merely because we have been seeking community. Find a community where we belong and a reasonable job and we’ll stay put. I know myself enough to say that I’ll never live down south. I hate the heat. I know myself enough that I’ll not settle down in Erie because this just isn’t my kind of town. I know we will probably head back east eventually, not because we particularly love the harsh winters, we don’t, but because it has what Sailor and I want: a nice life around great people and reasonable employment. As far as the winter goes, well, we own good boots and thick winter coat. Plus, I rock at making a fire.

So I wonder about this classmate of mine. Out of a dozen mentioned criteria for a place to settle down, Erie has 11 things going for it and one against. The winter. 3 months out of 12. Given that, isn’t it simply much easier to, oh, I don’t know, dress appropriately for the damn cold than remove yourself entirely from a place you clearly want to be?

Where’s the sacrifice in buying a sturdy pair of boats and a wool coat when you can have everything else you really want, and let’s be honest, really need in life?

An oldie but exceptional goodie from the brilliant mind at Indexed

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Sailor has a Work Spouse. And I’m glad for it. I don’t speak “boat” very well and often glaze over when Sailor, for the umpteenth time, talks about boat things I clearly do not understand. Work Spouse speaks this bizarre jargon and fills a void. It’s actually pretty fun to watch when they get together and go all “tallship” on each other. They are like evil twin siblings. They amuse me.

I have a type of work spouse only only we’re more like Androgynous Life-Partners. Where Sailor’s spouse share the thing of boats, my Work Spouse and I share the love of all things sick, twisted, and animated. And World War II. And drinking. And blowing things up. And making fun of the world at large….

Anyhoo-I am visiting Sailor this weekend and his Work Spouse is coming with me. There’s boat festival in a town we used to live in and frankly, this spouse (not the work one) needs to get laid. And Work Spouse is travelling with me for the unrelated purpose of a potential job opportunity down there.

But we’re going to be in a car together for eight hours and that will be strange. She is also going to be in the next cabin on the boat (yeah, I’m roughing it on the boat) and that just feels weird. Like “Little Darlings” summer camp weird. Sailor and my relationship with Work Spouse are kept pretty separate for no other reason than she is in town when Sailor is not. So this group thing will be unusual.

The problem, however, really is that Sailor is failing to recognize my job function by attending this event. As Real Life Spouse, my job is to look good and shag him stupid. Neither of which can be achieved by staying on a boat that has no electrical outlets near mirrors and when boom-chicka-wow-wow can be heard through flimsy walls four cabins down.

Still, I’m looking forward to the trip. Even the car ride. I like Work Spouse, even though we couldn’t be more different, and the ride down should be fun. I’m hoping to impose upon one our friends in the town to provide us with a place to stay, so we’ll see how that turns out. Meanwhile, I’m loading up the iPod for the trip.

I hope Work Spouse like Tom Jones…

Since everyone seems to be trying to provoke me into commenting about Michelle Duggars, again, by emailing me the latest news on how this woman is pregnant, again, I will sum up my feelings as such and then this is it:

1. I think Michelle Duggars has a compulsive illness and continues to have children the way some old people collect cats, by the dozens. She very clearly needs psychiatric help.

2. And seriously, she has to be running out of “J” names by now.

Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: I went and saw the “Sex and the City” movie. I really wanted to hold off and give all the whack-jobs a chance to lose interest so the viewing would be bearable, but what can I say? The heat of the last weekend drove me to the theater.

I was a viewer of the show-and I say viewer because I was never one of the fanatical-cosmo-swilling-raucous-crazies who just latched onto the show and could think of nothing better to do with their lives. If I saw it, I saw it, if there was a rugby game to go watch, then I’d just as soon be outside.

But I was always a viewer and I had always planned on seeing the movie in the theater because I believe Hollywood needs to understand that movies about 40 year-old-plus women can make money if you actually produce a movie women want to watch. This means NOT relegating women to just being the “Supportive Mom”, the “Girlfriend in Peril”, the “Gratuitous Slut” or the “Nutball Assassin”.

Which is why SATC disappointed me so much. But let me explain why:

1. To quote the movie: “Women move to New York for two reasons: L&L. Labels and love.” This my dear, is what I call a load of bullshit. Women move for a variety of reasons and not just because they are clothes whores or husband hunting and I was rather surprised and insulted that statement made it into the film.

2. The HIGHLY gratuitous nudity. As many people could attest to, I am not a prude, so imagine my surprise when even I reacted to the amount of flesh exposure with a big ole whopping “Whoa! Hey! Put that away!”

3. Ho.Le.Crap, was it just me or was that film long? Maybe it is because we’re all used to the half-hour format, but it really felt like a disjointed narrative that would have been better as an extra season.

4. Someone explain to me the purpose of the assistant. I love Jennifer Hudson, she rocked in “Dream Girls”, but this? Damn what a waste. The character could have never existed and I would have been completely fine with that.

But there are some things I did like, for instance, Samantha deciding to go it alone at the end of the film and Carrie and Big opting for the city hall wedding instead of the ridiculous side show. Two good social commentaries in my opinion.

Hey, I wasn’t expecting advance feministic social discourse here, I was hoping for a couple hours of semi-frivolous entertainment with a coupe of really keen insights. In short, I went in wanting to like the movie-which I did-to a certain extent.

Overall though, the move didn’t have a lot of good things to say about women. I’m willing to allow that in a half-hour format, maybe the show worked better that way because I often thought it had some terrific insight on the gal-clan. So maybe the stretch into cinematic format doesn’t translate. Or maybe I’m just kvetching. Or maybe I really didn’t think the film was all I thought it could have been. Either way, I just didn’t like what it had to say.

But then, since no one is really saying anything much about women in the movies anyway, does it really matter?

I admit it. I’ve been a bad blogger. Finals kicked my ass and I got sucked into a project that, is too, kicking my ass and the blog has been put to the wayside. HOWEVER, I’ve been tagged by Turkish Prawn over at Fox and Maus and I must confess, I was intrigued by the challenge.

In short, Esquire published a list of 75 things a man should be able to do. Yes, I’m a chick, and Turkish Prawn knows this, so things are about to get interesting. The Rules: You highlight the things you can do and you leave in normal type the things you can’t. And it’s a freakin’ free-for-all on snarky comments. Assign 2 other poor bastards to the task and the electronic equivalent of chain letters is complete. The only thing to do is to sit back and wait for my millions to be mailed to me.

1. Give advice that matters in one sentence. (to quote my mom: always use real butter)
2. Tell if someone is lying.

3. Take a photo.
4. Score a baseball game.
5. Name a book that matters. (ooooo, this changes by day, by weather, by my mood…but I’m going to go with A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. I read it about once a year)
6. Know at least one musical group as well as is possible. (Queen! seriously, ask me anything, I dare you)
7. Cook meat somewhere other than the grill.
(don’t ask why, but I can trap, dress and cook a squirrel)
8. Not monopolize the conversation.
9. Write a letter.
10. Buy a suit. (simple, have it custom made)
11. Swim three different strokes.
(fly, back, and breast stroke)
12. Show respect without being a suck-up.
(it’s called civil indifference)
13. Throw a punch.
(I’m really good at this, my mom taught me)
14. Chop down a tree.
15. Calculate square footage.

16. Tie a bow tie.
17. Make one drink, in large batches, very well. (Egg Nog!!)
18. Speak a foreign language.
(does swearing in multiples count?)
19. Approach a woman out of his league.
(I’ve played wing-man for male friends so I’ve actually done this. As far as men? Done that too. Rejection is overrated)
20. Sew a button.
21. Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer.
(trust me, that multi-lingual swearing comes in handy)
22. Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn’t have to ask after it.
(hmmmm, should I shatter the illusion here ladies? )
23. Be loyal.
24. Know his poison, without standing there, pondering like a dope.
(Jameson, 18 year reserve, neat)
25. Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it.
(built a deck by myself on my first house)
26. Cast a fishing rod without shrieking or sighing or otherwise admitting defeat.

27. Play gin with an old guy.
28. Play go fish with a kid.
29. Understand quantum physics well enough that he can accept that a quarter might, at some point, pass straight through the table when dropped.
(if you read this blog regularly, you know this is not an issue)
30. Feign interest.
(hmmm. sorry? wha?)
31. Make a bed.

32. Describe a glass of wine in one sentence without using the terms nutty, fruity, oaky, finish, or kick. (hey, bartender! these smooshed grapes taste like ass!)
33. Hit a jump shot in pool.
34. Dress a wound. (married to a sailor, I can perform minor surgery if necessary)
35. Jump-start a car (without any drama). Change a flat tire (safely). Change the oil (once)
(dad made me take auto shop before I could take drivers ed)
36. Make three different bets at a craps table.
37. Shuffle a deck of cards.
38. Tell a joke.
39. Know when to split his cards in blackjack.
40. Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear.

41. Speak to a waiter so he will hear.
42. Talk to a dog so it will hear.
43. Install: a disposal, an electronic thermostat, or a lighting fixture without asking for help.
44. Ask for help.
45. Break another man’s grip on his wrist.
(easy, heel of the hand to the bridge of the nose-fast and hard)
46. Tell a woman’s dress size.
47. Recite one poem from memory.
48. Remove a stain.
49. Say no.
50. Fry an egg sunny-side up.
51. Build a campfire.
(used to heat my house in Maine with wood, this I can do)
52. Step into a job no one wants to do.
(glutton for punishment)
53. Sometimes, kick some ass.
(no, you always kick ass, it goes with being a facist at heart)
54. Break up a fight.
(I was a Detroit bartender so it’s either employ a Galliano bottle or pick the biggest guy and give him a swift kick to the side of the knee to bring him down. Women? Let ’em fight. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved)
55. Point to the north at any time.
56. Create a play-list in which ten seemingly random songs provide a secret message to one person.
57. Explain what a light-year is.
(again, refer to #29)
58. Avoid boredom.
59. Write a thank-you note.
60. Be brand loyal to at least one product.
(Jameson’s Irish Whiskey!)
61. Cook bacon.
62. Hold a baby.
63. Deliver a eulogy. (done it. it sucks)
64. Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. Your understanding of your heroes must evolve.
(yeah, Margaret Sanger is infinitely more important)
65. Throw a baseball over-hand with some snap.

66. Throw a football with a tight spiral.
67. Shoot a 12-foot jump shot reliably. (okay, I used to be able to do #66 and #67. Haven’t tried in a long time. Does that count?)
68. Find his way out of the woods if lost.
69. Tie a knot.
(yup, still married to that Sailor)
70. Shake hands.
(strong and firm, like I like my men)
71. Iron a shirt.
72. Stock an emergency bag for the car.
73. Caress a woman’s neck.
(puh-leeeze! although I’m thankful it’s recognized as a manly thing to know)
74. Know some birds.
(dude, I lived in Northern Michigan, the Chesapeake Bay and a freakin’ island off the coast of Maine. I know some birds!)
75. Negotiate a better price.

Hmmmm, not sure what to make of this. I know, it’s meant to be cheeky and totally arbitrary, but damn, a lot of things on my list of a what a man should be able to do seem to be missing. Like, #36 on my list: Know when to advise and when to just shut the hell up. Or my #5: Know when and how to say thank you according to the ocassion. It’s harder than you think. However, scoring 86% on a list of guy-skills ain’t too bad if I say so myself.

So, to pass along the task, I am tagging Emma and Girlgriot. I choose Emma because as a sassy, short, Italian, Jewish gal, this should be a hoot. And Girlgriot because she has a tough-ass job, is from New Yawk, and is just a general, all-around, kick-ass kinda broad.

All right, ladies, it’s all yours. Let’s see what kind of man you are.


It hasn’t happened for awhile so I was a little taken aback when I got the call.

“You have to talk my friend’s little sister! She’s dating this guy and everyone knows he’s gay except her!”

You have no idea how many times I’ve received a call like this. And no, I am not Dr. Ruth, I am your average schmo who has managed, no less than four times in her single life, to date a gay man. To my friends, this makes me an expert on the subject, hence the phone calls. And since I have yet to meet another person who has beaten my record, I tend to agree with them.

And it’s not just that I dated a guy who later then came out of the closet, it was that I was the last woman they dated before coming out of the closet. So after years of reflection, jokes, and analysis-with said men as they are the only men I have remained friends with after the demise of a relationship, I feel uniquely qualified to list some “indicators” that you might be dating a gay man.

Mind you, this is in no way to disparage my gay male exes. The simple fact that I am still friends with all four of them (except maybe you, “S”, you talked me into chemically straightening my hair which resulted in a nuclear explosion I have yet to recover from, and don’t deny it, you know you did), should lend a certain amount of credibility. And my exes and I are all in agreement that while women should always be friends with gay men, it’s generally best not to date them.

I realize times have changed in the last 8 years since I was out swimming in the dating pool, but dating, as always, is still tricky stuff. Discovering who you are as a person looking for a life partner is trickier still. Coming out of the closet, well, that has to be the hardest damn thing ever. So I offer these little tidbits as lesson in efficient and economical dating for the single girl. Obviously, these rules aren’t hard and fast, just something to think about if you have other suspicions percolating:

Gay Boy Lesson #1:

I was a tender, teen-aged, tomboy and in my freshman year of high school I dated a guy from my neighborhood. “C” was this super cute soccer player who lived a few blocks over. I was awkward and just learning how to wear dresses, so the fact that he was interested in me was a shock. But we dated and everything was bliss except for the fact that he never seemed to want to kiss me. No braces at the time and I was meticulous about my dental care, so I wasn’t sure what the problem was.

Well, he eventually did make his move, in the darkest corner of my parents’ front porch, which is exactly where all the action stayed. If there was even the slightest sliver of light, then any chance of making out was a no-go. This of course leads me to:

Indicator #1 That You May Be Dating a Gay Man: What happens in the dark never strays from the dark. Unless you have some seriously devoted and honest friends who can tell you to your bean that you are one butt-ugly hag, if the guy you are dating has to be in complete and utter darkness to lock lips (like say, in a closet?), then you need to move one to greener pastures.

Gay Boy Lesson #2:

“D1” happened along a few years later. I was junior in high school at this point and I was introduced to “D” via some friends who attended another school. “D1” was tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious. He totally rocked out the tortured, teen-aged, artist persona and I fell for it faster than you can say “Morissey”. My first hint really should have been that he taught me how to apply liquid eyeliner in a perfect cat-eye swoop and how to straighten my hair with a curling iron, but hey, I admit it, I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake. But the second hint was that “D1” had a friend “K” that always seem to hang around. We go on a date and “K” was there. We go to the coffee shop (the thing to do in Detroit during the late 80’s when you are too young to go to bars) and hey! There’s “K”! Try to make out during the movie and my boyfriend is staring at “K” who is staring right back.

Indicator # 2 That You May Be Dating a Gay Man: He is waaaaaaay more into his “guy friends” than he could ever be into you. Now an adendum to this would also be that if your guy friend needs stimulus to kiss you, like say, the presence of another guy, then refer to the advice offered a the end of Indicator #1.

Gay Boy Lesson #3:

Oooooo, this brings us to “S”. “S” was a tricky case. I was in college and finally thinking that I had developed a sense of gaydar when “S” evolved onto the scene. I say “evolved” because I had known “S” for since junior high. He was baaaaad. He dated every female friend I had and with horrific results yet, they still loved him and wanted him back. It is no mean feat at the age of 22 to love ’em and leave ’em and have them begging for more, but “S” was that guy. He brought out the evil in women. All my female friends who had fallen for his line of crap would lie, cheat, and steal to get him back and thought nothing backstabbing any close female friend in the process.

I only remained friends with “S” for one simple reason: although he left, abruptly, every female he ever dated, the fact was, he really liked women. I mean, he treated them very well. He really and truly enjoyed their company. His only crime was that he was a man-whore and I could hardly fault him for that if I wasn’t dating him, now could I? That, and he was really fun to go shopping with which he would do, at a moment’s notice. 24/7.

So, of course, I make the mistake, eventually, of hooking with “S”. And it was all fun and games until the sex. That and the fact that he talked me into cutting off all my hair and really loved the fact that I was into body building at the time.

Indicator #3 That You May Be Dating a Gay Man: He has lots of relationships with women but finds no satisfaction in having sex with any of them. I’m invoking the “China Rule” on this one. If a billion Chinese say noodles are good to eat, then statistically speaking, it’s hard to argue otherwise. So, if “S” has had sex with over 20 females, and I’m convinced there’s more, and he hasn’t enjoyed a single instance…well…then…

Indicator #3 Adendum: If he also talks you into cutting off all your hair and really loves the fact that you are into body building, in short, if your boyfriend finds you more attractive when you look more like a dude and less like a girl (and I admit, I was heading down that road), then Ricki’s gots sum splainin’ to do…

Gay Boy Lesson #4.

This leads us to “D2”, whom I thought was gay from the start. A really successful musician who was only doing the music gigs until he could become and arts and drama teacher in Canada. He dressed like a prince and had more “product” than Liberace. We met after a performance at a charity event and after hours of revealing ourselves as movie fanatics, he asked me out to see a film. Since I was convinced from the start of his orientation, I felt no compulsion to refuse. I thought we’d go as friends. We had a fabulous evening of dinner, drinks, movie, and window shopping and it wasn’t until he walked me to my door and planted one on me that I had any inkling of anything being remiss.

Of course, when he kissed me, I thought: “WTF!? You’re gay!”. But this was also 1996 and the emergence of the Metrosexual Culture (although this is before the actual term “Metrosexual”), so I thought maybe I just read the situation wrong. But everything screamed that he was gay, so I dated him until I could find out what was really going on.

And what went on was Indicator #1, #2, and #3 (plus the adendum). So add to this #4:

Indicator #4 You May Be Dating a Gay Man: His apartment. Palatial with a water view, white walls, wall to wall white shag carpeting, and broken plaster reliefs of male anatomy everywhere. Seriously, it was Greecian shrine to the male body. That’s innocuous if you are Samantha on SATC, but not so much if you are a guy.

**Side Note: D2, who is contributing editor to this entry, denies that the carpet was white and wishes to point out that it was “ecru”. I would like to point out that he is only serving to further my initial argument.

It was after “D2” that I decided on an about face in my dating choices which led to a terrific series of a-hole, jock, jackasses. Luckily, after an intervention from both “C” and “D2”, who were dating I might add (seriously, only in my life could this have happened, and don’t either of you try to deny it! You know you were!!!), I was led back down the road of sane and normal dating.

Of course, this leads to Sailor Man and it’s been happily ever after…relatively speaking.

So there you have it. That’s my story. I’ve said it before, dating is tricky. If you have your doubts about your guy’s true intentions, then address them quickly so you can get on with being best pals. And they are. The exes that is. They are some of the best pals a girl could have and I love them all dearly.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get my weekly fix of Neil Patrick Harris in HIMYM. “C”, “D1”, and I are totally obsessed with him…of course.

The Miss America pageant occurred over the weekend, and thank Dog, failed to drum up the appropriate amount of business despite its “racier” proceedings this year. Pageant officials are still scratching their heads and wondering why.

Why? Maybe because women have wised up to the fact that despite a “platform issue”, when they see a woman perkily strutting a stage in a swimsuit and heels being judged for her dimensional closeness to that of a Barbie doll, she thinks to herself: “Wow, this is really demeaning”, that or they see young women who are really battle veterans of cosmetic warfare resulting in a dubious victory of image and soullessness that any women watching the pageant can’t or wouldn’t want to achieve in her lifetime.

Either way, women aren’t buying into it anymore. And men? Well, it puzzled me why they would be interested in such tripe to begin with and the only conclusion I can conjure is that the Victoria Secret cataloge is much more portable to the bathroom than the television set.

Isn’t it interesting that the decline of the Miss America Pageant coincides so nicely with women getting more involved in the political process? And if you can tolerate listening to my knuckle-dragging brothers, they find this yet another infringement on territory that is rightly the MALE DOMAIN.

So my suggestion to them would be this: we women will continue to vote out more men and vote in more women, and in return, we’ll let you men have the Miss America Pageant. And any male politician voted out of office or failing to claim an office from a broad gets an automatic ticket to the finals.

It’ll be fabulous! I would love nothing more than seeing Rudy Giuliani with a sprayed on tan and tape on his ass to hold his swimsuit in place. In lieu of hairspray, he’ll be provided with spray-on hair. John Edwards and Mitt Romney of the Impeccable Coifs, can duke it out over baton twirling. And any dude who takes on Susan Collins and/or Olympia Snowe in a general election will be excused from the opening dance number.

As you can tell, I have a rich and varied fantasy life.

Seriously ladies, isn’t it time as women to just call it a day on the Miss America Pageant and devote our talents towards more worthwhile endeavors?