Summer is here. Can't you tell?

Now I realize that I may be whiter than Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, and in the sunny summer months I change colors like most people. Only difference is I turn from translucent to just pale - with a bit of pink.

And the media likes to tell people that a bit of sun, a bit of color is good for you. And I agree. They say it makes you look healthy. Again, I agree. But then there are some who take it a little too far.

Apparently they can't wait for the sun's UV rays to react with the melanin in their skin, so they do in themselves with tan in a can. And yet, with so many advances in the self tan industry, one would think that this (see pic above) could be avoided.

Unfortunately for these poor souls, this is a pic that will stay with them for the rest of their orange lives.

Yes, spend some time in the sun, use sunblock/sun screen, get some color. But for the love of God Almighty, don't let that color be orange.

I'm off to the tanning beds.

You know, you try help a friend out and ...

So I tried to help out this friend of mine recently. She mentioned she had just come back from the hairdresser where she had the greys disappear, like magic. But in order to do that, she needed to have her head painted. A bit of scratching during the night left her with black shit under her nails which I am imagining looked much the underneath of the nails of someone trying to claw their way out of a sealed coffin.

But I digress.

A bit of scratching is fine. But a lot of scratching can lead to little bumps on the scalp. So I hopped online and found her a remedy. It went a little something like this:

A good old-fashioned homemade treatment for this problem is vinegar. After you have washed your hair, take a cup of warm water and stir in three tablespoons of vinegar. Apply this to your hair, making sure the solution reaches your itchy scalp, and let is set for a few minutes. Then, rinse your hair as normal.

The vinegar will help remove residue that's left on your scalp from shampoo, conditioners and hair products. It will also cleanse your scalp and help heal any scratches you've made with your fingernails. This homemade treatment will also restore the natural pH balance to your hair and scalp.

She replies via email.

"Thank you Martha!"

Hence, the pic at the top of this post.

Now I don't care if you're a Pontiac mechanic is Brownsville, Virginia, or a housewife in Knob Hill, San Francisco. everyone knows Martha. Martha is the MacGyver of the kitchen. She'll whip up an ommelette out of dining room curtains, almost-used soaps, an old chewing gum wrapper and left overs from yesterday's lunch faster than Bill Clinton can say, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman!".

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure Martha is a whizz with shit lying around the house, and I'm pretty damn sure her prison cell decor would have made my own mother weep, but I am no Martha Stewart. Nor do I aspire to be anything like her. But by offering some helpful advice to a friend who's scalp may now well resemble a leper's arm (I do not know because I have seen neither), I was typecast as this kitchen wonder/ex-con.

WRM, no more helpful tips for you. You and your scalp are on your own. I wash my hands (with a Martha Stewart concoction that not only cleanses and moisturizes, but keeps Christmas decorations bright for next year) of the whole thing.

Addendum: Okay, sincerest apologies to WRM. I got it all wrong. Apparently her reply was meant as a compliment. My bad. Sorry.

My Dad is dating again

Now before you squint your eyes and ask, "Is your mother okay with that?", let me tell you: my parents divorced 23 years ago.

And up until now, any date my father has gone on has been in secret. As in, no one has had any idea that he has been dating. That is, until now. He finally came out and told us. He had a date! And apparently it went really well. Not bad for a guy who was very vocal about letting folks know that he was "once bitten, twice shy".

So now I hear that date #2 is being planned and he is as excited as a 12-year old boy at Christmas.

I just wonder if her father has laid down the dating rules to MY father. In case he hasn't, Dad, take heed. I'm sure remember these from when your daughter started dating.

Top Ten Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter- and Living.

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter’s body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilizing a “barrier method” of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five: It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is “early.”

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka — zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which features chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless God of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy near Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car — there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

I'm going to be rich!

My prayers have been answered! Finally, I will be able to swat this lice-infested debt monkey from my shoulder.

Today, I checked my email - as I do daily - and just out of the blue, I received a message from Mrs. Selma Ward. And she addressed me as "Friend", so surely I must know her. This kind Mrs. Ward even went on to ask about my family. Now if that is not kind and genuine and sincere, then I am at a loss for what is. I don't even know this person but she wants to transfer $500,000 into my bank account. Now seriously, who looks a gift horse in the mouth?

(please note the bitter sarcasm in the aforementioned lead-up)

From The Desk Of Mrs. Selma Ward

Dear Friend,

How are you doing today? Hope all is well with you and your family? I am using this opportunity to thank you for your great understanding and contributions made at the process of our unfinished transfer of fund. Due to your effort, sincerity, courage and trustworthiness showed at the point of need where no one could help. Sorry not to contact you in a long while,because I misplaced the contact information in my address book. I just came across your email address two days ago, with this, i am using this opportunity to compensate and show my gratitude to you with the sum of $550,000 USD. I have authorized my Regional Secretary in Africa to transfer this fund to you. So I want you to get in touch with him to make arrangement on how to transfer the money to you successfully. I would also want you to know that the transfer went well and I am truly sorry I did not get feedback to you; it is well for me to seek your willingness considering the fact that your participation made it presence.

DR. PETER THOMPSON
PHONE: +234-806-257-9936
Email: regional_secretary@selmamartinward.uk.com

Okay that's enough. Take it out. Now!

So my sister is 27 weeks pregnant with her second offspring. And at 27 weeks, she has declared that enough is enough. She wants it out.

Never mind that she still has 13 weeks to go.

She has proclaimed that this baby - which incidentally is a boy - is just "too big" and taking up "too much space", so she has decided to evict him from his wet nest.

"But isn't this dangerous?" I ask innocently.

"Bloody hell, it's in position, it's safe. It must come out, NOW!!!" she bellowed back. And I cringed away in the corner to find some solace and safety.

"You don't understand, brother," she continued. "He is much bigger than my first offspring and I am not a big person. I cannot carry this young sleep-wrecker any longer."
And according to her doctor, they have passed the critical times and inducing would be quite safe. besides, the young lad is apparently very well padded with baby fat making him quite large already.

"I'm going to struggle to get him out as it is. Do you really think I want to wait another 13 weeks so he can get bigger??"
I am trying to realize that this is the hormones talking. My sister is never quite moody. Bossy, yes. But not really moody.

Olde English is now New English

Every year, English teachers from across the USA may submit their collections of actual analogies and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year's winners:

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of hose boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar Eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli, and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of thirty years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a
surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell twelve stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00pm instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36pm traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19pm at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-i n-law Frank. But unlike Frank, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Jump. Splat.

People constantly tell me how intelligent cats are, how they can jump from the 80th floor of a building and ALWAYS land on their feet (paws, whatever). Well, I doubt they have met my cat.

You see, I adopted him - nuts-free - from a Cat Hospital in Vegas when he was but a wee kitten. Full of fluff, loved to be cuddled. So I took him home and made him mine. Weeks turned into months, and months have well, almost turned into a year. And during that time, one would assume that a cat develops and grows. But don't be fooled by mystical appearances. My cat spends his day sleeping on my bed only getting up to eat and ... use the litter box. But when he jumps from the bed to the floor, he lands with a thump. Not an elegant cat-like pounce. Oh no, a loud thump as he falls into a crumpled mess of cat fur on the floor. Then he picks himself up and goes about his business.

I have a lazy cat. He stares up at the window but can't jump up to the sill. So I lifted him up. And there he sat, breathing in fresh air, alert as to the birds outside taunting him. But then enough was enough. He turned and jumped. Splat thud!

And there he lay. Eventtually he dragged himself to the carpet where he lay. I later discovered that poor thing had sprained his front right paw/leg. Not that I'm a vet - and I can't afford right now to take him to one - but nothing felt broken and he wasn't crying.

So now he hobbles a bit, but gets around. And does not jump from the bed. No. He sleeps 18 hours a day and has yet to use his litter box. Which reminds me, I need to get him off the bed. now.

The Middle Seat

I am on a mission. A mission to find the idiot who designed the middle seat on an airplane.

Some folks, like me, like the window seat. You get about an extra inch of space. You get to see stuff outside. You get to see the world tilt at an odd slant as the plane takes off. And you get to see all the houses around the airport slowly diminish until they look like little doll houses. Then there are the folks who prefer the aisle seat. Perhaps they have weak bladders and need to use the loo often. perhaps they just like that the cart carrying sodas and water and tasteless snacks knocks their foot or knee each time it passes.

Then there's the middle seat. No-one likes the middle seat.

But when you fly Southwest Airlines, there are no assigned seats. So you can't smile nicely at the woman behind the ticketing counter when you first check in and ask in an accent if you could please have a window (or an aisle) seat. It's first come, first served. Each man for himself. Pushing. Shoving. Humanity at its very finest.

So when you're in Group C, that means you're the last to board. And no matter what time of day or night it is, flights to Vegas are always full. So on you walk. And every single window and aisle seat is taken. You look around, scouring the seats, hoping someone has left one for you. And there you see it. Back there, in row 7439. A seat. A damn middle seat. The ONLY seat left on the plane.

So you smile at the woman in the aisle seat as she rolls her eyes. She has to unclip her belt, make the effort to get up, and wait all of 22 seconds while you shimmy into your middle seat.

You sit there. Tweedle Dee to your left. And Tweedle Dum to your right. And that's the way it's going to be for the next four freakin' hours. Enjoy!