The "D" stands for "dating."

Here's the most fascinating piece of info I've run across today. And believe me, I've been running across pieces of things all morning.

"As of December, however, Boston-based ScientificMatch is using DNA to assess personal chemistry for dating purposes....The immune system is what has been found to affect sexual compatibility, with people tending to prefer those whose immune systems are different from their own."

Tuesday Morning's Scribute to 10am:



(I'm scanning it already. Be back shortly.)

a.) Starting out a Monday morning with decaf only.
b.) Paying $3,997.56 for a new car transmission.
c.) Realizing you left your cake out in the rain. Again.
d.) All of the above.


Yes. If you happen to find a tooth on the floor, it's mine.

"Walkin' 'Round in Women's Underweaarrrrrr...."

It's not a Winter Wonderland yet, but it's cold here, y'all. I'm not kidding. Sleeting all around, stuff like that. Good. Stay inside with Grant Lawrence today -- it's Friday anyway, new podcast day. Because if you're not listening to ground-breaking Canadian indie music, then you don't know what cool is.

Thank me later. Just watch the volume on that page, and enjoy.

Always up for a challenge, I had a dream about Britney Spears last night.

I was part of a group organized to help her rework her image. Eventually, everybody at the table gave up on it but me. I'm not sure what that says about my psyche. But I think it definitely says a lot about my optimism and diligence. Or something like that.

Tuesday Morning's Scribute to 10am:

Happy Flight of the Conchords Day.

It seems obvious enough without saying, but
don't hold the dog's leash
with the same hand as your hot cup of coffee.

At the risk of making my boyfriend Stephen Merchant jealous,
I have to announce my love for Zach Galifianakis. And Michael Cera.
And ferns.

I don't know which to be:

"big up gunny" or "well nang"...

Somehow, that just made me hungry for pho ga, so I suppose I am neither.

My shoes are a bit shabby today, though.

Tuesday Morning's Scribute to 10am:

Okay, so it's not a scribble on paper.
It's a Sculpey scribble instead, photographed and tinted.

And from the looks of it,
it's also next year's Christmas card.
Try to act surprised.

Peyton is a very good boy.

Not that I'm complaining, but I think the new downstairs' neighbors are letting their two dogs play an all-night, rousing game of ping-pong. Coincidentally, I was going to teach my cat to pogo-stick anyway, so this is not a problem.

Let's see...
"How...to make a Friday...even better..."

Oh, that's easy,
it's clarkandmichael.com for you all.

Hey. You're welcome.

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Sounds of laughter shades of earth are ringing
Through my open views inviting and inciting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
Million suns, it calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

~ The Beatles

Walking dogs today, back tomorrow.

But if you need any edible googly eyes, glow-in-the-dark piglets, or 16th century spaceman carvings, please visit neatorama.com.

Plus, bonus material: My new (right, I wish) cool tattoo and Celine's so xxx amazing, she's the one who originally let the dogs out. Who knew! (Thank you, neatorama!)

Tuesday Morning's Scribute to 10am:

This is Winston.
Winston is a good boy but a bad dog.

Blame it on Chris Hansen or maybe it's just truth defined, but webcam self-portraits just scream "internet predator" to me. Or "internet prey". The end.

Sure, by now I should be used to webcam photos, right? I should. With teleconferencing and other work things like that, I should be mature enough by now to realize that webcams are a good thing initially developed to be a new and better technological innovation -- a great solution, y'know -- it's the Jetson's telephone. And over the last few years, I've tried to reprogram my senses to accept this digital medium and format, without hesitation. But when I run across those dimly-lit or over-exposed arm-length stills of someone basking in the glow of a big, boxy, out-dated computer monitor, innocent or not, I just can't just handle it.

It's that feeling you get when you realize a bug just crawled across your bare foot. In the dark. Like a big part of me inside just shrinks away like a slug recoiling from that burn of everyday table salt. Just about all webcam photos make my teeth hurt. Sure, I'm weird. I snicker in embarrassment every time I hear the word "pickle" or the dreaded "d-word" that I won't, I can't even type here. But webcams just freak me out on another level.

So then, why am I getting a webcam? Besides the obvious reason of making extra cash while sitting around online in my underwear?

Wait. That's not true. One more try...

Besides the obvious reason of making extra cash while sitting around online in somebody else's underwear?

Again, this one goes out to my aunt -- "I promise I am just joking."

For one reason, to talk to a friend in Florida. Actually, besides the fun of a positive behavior modification experiment, that's probably the only reason. Which translates into "because some days, I'm just too lazy to type instead." On the bright side and in the end, this will benefit everyone involved since the Sicilian in me uses her hands to talk too fast, and she's mostly talking the sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Pickle. The D-word. Webcam.

What's my point? What, should I get over being freaked out by webcams? Why not, fifteen years after the fact. But my disclaimer is: So shall it be written, so shall it be done*, henceforth from the day of installation, this is all Orlando Scott's fault.


This one is malignantly cute and benignly scary at the same time. So maybe that's what I'm going for. Or, maybe I should just knit something useful instead and forget this aversion-reversal experiment thought ever happened.

Nah, as usual, ease wins over action. Ordering something interesting, easier than not.

Don't worry, my radical new technological addition won't affect many of you. I won't post any excruciating green-glowing self-portraits unless they are funny, I promise. I do fall off my Pilates ball chair a lot. See, already the webcam and Pilates ball have just paid for themselves that self-deprecating image alone.

But sorry, I have no ferrets to show you. I'm not that kind of weird.



*No, I have not grown a long, strokey-beard to match my sage-like, elder wisdom. Yet. But if I do, at least I'll be able to show you.

My rare kind of favorite joke.
Found at talent6.com.

overheard at an estate sale

somewhere on Jefferson Street,

woman with thick Southern drawl, answering her cell phone:
"...hulllllllll-o?...yeahhhh, at an estate sale...aw, not much, just a whole lotta stuff that makes you wanna go home and cleeeeeean uuuuup..."

at that point, I put down the painted martini glasses and nodded her an Air Five over my shoulder.

man looking down at woman working the sale, writing receipts, minding her own business:
"...hey, Shorty!...I betcha get that one a lot, huh? Yeah? My wife's short, and I call 'er Smurf."

Then I came up a behind a man leaning over the jewelry table inspecting the goods. With no good segueway around his buttcrack which was showing a good five inches, all I could think to announce within earshot of anyone else around me was, "Man, look at that. You could park a bike in that thing." (-- which has become my standard quip these days when treated to these uncomfortable buttcrack moments. It used to be, "Wow, the moon certainly came out early tonight!"; but, resigning myself to the fact that one of the gypsy curses placed upon me at birth is that I will always be treated to these uncomfortable buttcrack moments, I've decided to shake up the monotony a bit with new quipping.)

They had an incredible amount of nice, heavy, woody antiques displayed well within another style of massive, intriguing decor more traditional than modern, and there were intricate collections upon collections of original artwork at this sale -- sculptures, carvings, prints, and paintings (complete with a period-painting of a family of monkeys that I wish I could have, actually) -- all very expensive, most quite unique if not rare, I'm sure. But like a lot of other estate sales, this one just reinforced my core belief that 1. no matter how much you paid for it, you can't take it with you, and my sub-belief that 2. if it's over $2.00, forget it -- $10.00, max.

I'm getting back to "Tuesday Morning Scributes",
but for today, I'd much rather post this as a "Get Well Wednesday"
to cheer up a friend of mine who's not feeling so hot today.

This is Ned. Ned is one of my favorite dogs at the dog daycare where I work part-time when I can. First of all, Ned...Ned? who names a dog Ned? Ned's not a good dog name, is it? Regardless, his owner (otherwise known as his driver) delivers him up most every morning from his long, black, shiny, immaculately detailed Mercedes. Yes, Ned is a very lucky dog. But deep down, Ned's not a happy puppy.

In dog years, Ned is about 47. Ned is part pit bull, part reincarnated businessman, and he's going grey around the edges. I worry about Ned's unnecessary stress-levels. You see, Ned doesn't really know how to do his job effectively. He's not the easy-going, firm-yet-respected manager that he wants to be. He feels that he's losing his edge. All he does is bark at the other dogs, all day long, like he's doing something productive for the company. "It's not personal, it's just business," he barks. "They call it work for a reason," is another favorite. He tries to command respect, and really, that just never works.

He's less than personable and motivational when he barks like this. He's obviously in over his head. None of the other dogs listen to him at all which just frustrates him even more than he is. He actually told me that he wanted the employees to give him more eye contact during his meetings. More eye contact? I think he's losing his grip after a lackluster annual review, five years in a row.

Being the mediator always, I try to make him feel better. I say, "Morning, Ned! How was your weekend? Didya get in a hole or two of golf? (And then I do that thing where I swing an imaginary golf club and make a sound effect to go along with it) ...Don't forget, you have a working lunch today with Johnson...Also, FYI, if you could resend that email about putting the covers on the TPS reports, that would be greaaaaaat..."

If that doesn't work to make him feel sufficient, then I bottom-line it and say, "Ned, I know, I know -- relax, buddy, the top dogs all know you're a highly-motivated businessman, and this company couldn't run without ya, boy. Sure. Look, I gotta run, but let's do lunch sometime next week and have a one-on-one, a brainstorming think tank session if you will, on how you can improve your game. Yes, I do have your cell number. Send my best to the wife and kids. Shake? Good boy, good boyyyy."

Poor guy. I hope he doesn't give himself an ulcer. Maybe I'll take him to a yoga class.