Hooked on a Feeling

Don't you think we've become a tad too paranoid?  I ask because I've seen commercials on TV recently promoting background checks before dating someone.

Whatever happened to listening to your gut and female intuition?   I like to think it was Cleopatra's intuition that had her slipping into that Egyptian cotton negligee for Marc Antony.  Conqueror or not, she just knew a hot, hunky Roman when she saw one.  I somehow doubt that she asked the high priests to comb pages of parchment for background info before making her move.

Lest we forget the husband of all husbands -- Henry VIII.  Perhaps it's more difficult to listen to your gut when you're being pursued by royalty.  But let's face it, those women could have benefited from a quick Google search. Don't know that I'd date someone -- royalty or not -- with a beheading in his profile.

My other problem with background checks is that they'll put a dent in our "worst date ever" stories.  Yes, you'll know he's wanted in Ohio for a felony -- definitely red flag material.  But you'll never have a story to tell the girls about his quest for a competitive eating championship, his skinhead politics and his obsession with tapioca.

I refuse to concede that good old home-grown intuition has been trumped by technology.    When that little voice tells me this guy is a wacko, I listen.  Do I really need to confirm that with Interpol?

I've Hair On My Chinny Chin Chin

One of the positive things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that my body hair has stopped growing.  I no longer shave my legs or underarms and I'm in no danger of being mistaken for any type of simian.

One of the negative things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that that same body hair that was once growing on my legs and underarms has found a new home on my chin. 

I pluck it, I shave it and it just keeps coming back like some follicle possessed by a boomerang.  Remember the story of the three little pigs?  The wolf bangs on the door to be let in and the pigs defy him by taunting "not by the hair on my chinny chin chin".  As a kid I thought it was just a clever rhyme. I am no longer laughing.

Think of how illustrators and cartoonists portray crones, hags and wicked witches.  Of course there's the obligatory warts and perhaps a greenish skin tone. But what else do they have in common?  Yes, chin hair. A lovely image, is it not?

It's not like I'm sporting a goatee -- now that would have me in the electrologist's chair in a New York minute. Much like the teenager with a zit on prom night, I feel like all of mankind sees it --- and, left unplucked -- will soon have its own address on a social networking site.

Earworms For Your Listening Pleasure?

Note: I almost didn't write this entry for fear of experiencing that of which I write, but I'm going for it anyway and here's hoping.

It's a universal experience. It knows no economic or social barriers. No geographic boundaries.  The pan flute players in the Andes experience the same effect as a Montana cowboy. It's that pesky melody that sticks in your head for what seems like an endless period of time.  It's the earworm.

Did you know that mind numbing ditty had a name?  I've not researched this topic so I can't vouch for the scientific credibility of the name -- sounds a tad Urban Dictionary -- but it certainly is descriptive, even borderline yucky. 

Stay with me here.  This topic, like a yawn, is highly suggestive and contagious.  I know you're thinking of personal earworm incidents this very minute,  but don't go there or you'll fall down the rabbit hole. 

Earworms that enter our head from commercials are the worst.  I don't mind spinning a Gershwin classic or maybe something from the Beatles songbook in my mental jukebox, but I really hate being sucked in by  Madison Avenue jingles promoting booze and burgers. 

And why can we both listen to the same music and it becomes an earworm for you and not me?  Is it like the tornadoes that destroy one house on the block and others remain intact?  Is it yet another totally random thing in life -- don't know how many more of those I can take -- or just freakin' luck.  

The life cycle of an earworm varies from a few hours to the insanity creating few days. No cure is known for this malady but if some researcher comes up with one, he should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.

Competitive Eating -- for Charity

A European visitor asked how we celebrate Independence Day. My answer included barbecues, picnics, beach-going and fireworks.  My answer did not include the annual hot dog eating competition in New York.

Some might think competitive eating fun  -- a sport even.  I personally find it a humongous gross out.  The world already thinks Americans are fat and wasteful.  What better way to prove their point than by watching people cram hot dogs down their throats while the clock counts down.  For this the winner gets paid a few thou.

It's all American hot dogs on the 4th, but there are similar contests throughout the year -- same idea, different main course. The current champion earned six-figures last year. He presumably spends some of the prize money on antacid.

Competitive eating lionizes gluttony -- and violates all the table manners mom taught us. But there may be a way to make it less repulsive. Ready for a bright idea? Insert drum roll here.

There are so many people out of work and hungry. Why not make competitive eating a fund raiser?  We walk for breast cancer, Alzheimer's and any number of diseases.  Why not eat for food banks, soup kitchens and shelters? 

I might actually wear the t-shirt and cheer on a contestant if it was for a good cause. Don't know if I could actually watch the action though.  Charity or no charity, that part is still disgusting.

The Mother of All Mothers-in-Law

If you are or have ever been married, you know the power of the mother-in-law.  You are now in-charge of her baby and, in her mind, there's no possible way you are capable of doing a grand a job as she did. It doesn't matter if you've won the Nobel Prize, achieved sainthood or discovered a cure for cancer.

The first time my mother-in-law came to visit, I cleaned as though Jesus, Mary and Joseph were travelling with her.  I planned meals and tested so many recipes I made Martha Stewart look like a slacker.  I became obsessed with locating dust bunnies and their subsequent obliteration. I was sure she was intent on white-gloving my house and I desperately wanted to pass inspection.  Was it my mother-in-law coming or General Eisenhower?

But what happens if your mother-in-law was a fashion icon, internationally beloved, who died tragically at a young age?  The media will remind you of her every twelve seconds. They will show a myriad of photos of her and make endless comparisons -- how you have a similar sense of style, how affable you are, how you put one foot in front of the other and on and on until it borders on creepy and slightly Oedipal.  What with  the intense media coverage, I'm surprised  no one brought in Dr. Phil to discuss whether or not William was marrying a ringer for his mom. Poor taste? Probably.

Kate, the new duchess of somewhere, is on the cover of a news weekly out and about with a computer-aged Diana at 50. I feel for Kate. Whether digitally enhanced or hundreds of hours of archival footage, the newlywed has the mother of all mother-in-law issues -- living in the grandest of royal shadows.