The Lipstick Chronicles

iVibes and Other Great American Inventions

by Me, Margie, who is here to keep you current on the important issues of the day

It's been a very interesting week here on TLC - lots of thought-provoking topics. So instead of some light-weight yet entertaining post, I decided to join the real authors and tackle an important subject too: the current state of vibrators.

That's right. Ahh, I remember my first vibrator. Blog. Vibrator Blog - it was called "Vibrators Gone Mainstream" and it got Me, Margie an offer from a glossy magazine to write for them. But can I be bought? Would I abandon you, my friends at TLC? Not for the chickenshit money they offered, that's for sure. Can you believe I've been blogging here for over a year already? Time flies, kids, and none of you are getting any younger.

But back to the topic. People say that we, in America, are lazy. They say we are losing ground, on an intellectual and industrial level to other countries, like China and places where they don't really care about lead in kids' toys and stuff. You know what I say to these doom and gloomers? One word: iVibe.

I am going to assume that at least a couple of you are not familiar with this amazing product. It starts with an iPod - one of our greatest exports, by the way, next to Halo 3. There are zillions of iPods out there. You can run, or work, or drive, and listen to your music. Now, combine that magic with another great pastime and you've got an attachment that allows you to fully appreciate the power of the music. The higher you turn up the volume, and the faster and harder the beat of the music, the better the vibe. Genius time.

Once that pinnacle had been reached, it was only a matter of time before an engineering or robotics type whiz kid added more options. Bullets, beads, butterflies, rabbits, you name it. They cannot keep the things in stock. It's a beautiful thing, this capitalism.

Which reminds me -- I just have to comment on this Rubber Rev thing. As you already know if you've been paying any attention at all, I do not care what people do in their own bedrooms (or cars, or motel stairwells or whateve). So if you want to get yourself all tied up in a wetsuit, by all means. But safety first, people. You don't go lifting free weights without a spotter, do you? No. And another thing. People made a big deal about the fact that this guy had in his - uh- personal possession - some contraband. Turns out there are states in this very country where it is illegal to sell phallic stuff. Seriously. I Googled it and everything.

Alabama and Texas are two of the states. Louisiana, Georgia and Tennessee too. Which totally cracks me up. So, in Texas, where everybody carries a gun who feels like it, and nobody pays attention to traffic lights, you can get in bigass trouble for selling a piece of plastic if it's shaped like a dick. I wonder if that applies to replicas of national monuments and stuff? In all of these states, you can sell 'personal massagers' but they can't be shaped like anything human. That's great. Healthy too. And people wonder why some poor guy who just happens to like latex has to keep it so secret that he ends up dead. Does anyone else see a problem here?

Okay. Back to vibrators. There is one new product that puzzled me: light-up bullets. Now, my understanding is that most people use them in places that are relatively closed-in areas, if you know what I mean. So how would you know if they are lit up or not? Are they, like a strobe light - so other people could dance? Are they like those laser pointers - you know, so you can point stuff out on the wall or whatever? Can you get them in blacklights so it makes your white stockings look really cool?

And how bright are these lights? Could you blind someone who happens to be in the area? Do they need to wear safety goggles or an arc-welder mask? I sent an e-mail asking these questions and I got back a response asking if they could use my questions in promotional materials. Uh, no. I'm trying to learn something here, not entertain the phone order staff, okay? Geez.

The other thing that occurred to me was - what a great idea for the holidays! You could string them up as decorations and no one would be the wiser. I'll bet they come in festive holiday colors and you can get ones that twinkle, or blink, or chase. And how much merrier could it be than to have the whole thing rigged up to holiday carols?

I am talking real reindeer games here, kids. And wait - talk about genius time -- sometimes I even surprise myself. This could be the new hit game show! Remember Name That Tune? Or Don't Forget the Lyrics? Well, talk about having to answer questions under pressure - this is a gold mine! Imagine the celebrity guests! If only Merv Griffin were still alive. That man knew a hit game show concept when he saw one. I'm calling MTV right away.

Is this a great country or what?

Dollywood and . . . What Else But Boobs?

by Nancy

We went to Dollywood last weekend--the place, as a devilish writer friend opined, where all the women are under-endowed, all the men are your cousin and teeth are optional. My friend was wrong.  It was lovely. Only one part of the whole weekend has me puzzled.

Here's what happened: For a family wedding, my city-raised husband and I--a woman who has seen my share of the world, you could say--packed our suitcases and accompanied our two rather cosmopolitan daughters (sans their significant others for reasons I'm still unclear about) through a series of smaller and smaller airports until we found ourselves together in a rental car with a much-appreciated GPS system.  (Only an extra $20, and I'm here to praise Garmin for their excellent cure for Family Navigation Feud.) At 9 pm, we began driving through the state of Tennessee, which is a lot more rural than I thought. I mean, serious mountains.  No streetlights. But 14 McDonald's restaurants between Knoxville and our motel. I'm telling you, there's a lot of wilderness left in Tennessee.  (Memphis, I must admit, the home of Elvis, is one of the 100 Places I Plan To Visit Before It's Over, but it was on the other end of the state.)  This was my first--and probably only--trip to Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg, where there are more RV parks than you can count and the churches are bigger than the Short Ridge shopping mall.

Mind you, it's beautiful there. And we enjoy country music and can appreciate clean living and the flag and all that, so it was nice. The people were delightful--a lot like the crowds at Disney World--well-dressed and well-behaved.  No cousins missing their teeth except for the motel's night clerk, who I will not describe out of kindness. The towns make a big effort to decorate all the streets and intersections with flowers and extensive amusement park-like beautification, and this weekend they were positively overflowing with picturesque displays of pumpkins, bales of hay and cute scarecrows.

But for some reason, many of the displays featured a decorative item that I found . . hardly decorative: An outhouse.

Now, lest you think I'm some kind of effete sophisticate who doesn't know what the half moon means on a door, let me assure you I've camped aplenty and lived in summer lake cottages, so I've used my share of outhouses. And I know outhouses featured prominently in every household in America during a certain time period, but why the people of rural Tennessee feel the need to--well, exalt the outhouse is a mystery to me. Any thoughts?

It's a cultural difference, you could say.

Here's another cultural difference:  http://www.myfreeimplants.com Yes, it's a website that helps women finance their breast augmentation by inviting men to contribute to the cause.

Don't tell me the purpose of this site is to help women feel better about themselves, because the poses, the XXX-like quality of the photos, the fact that men pay for the privilege ($1.25 per email) of communicating with the ladies is exactly the kind of thing you'd warn your daughters about, isn't it? Truly, our mission in life is surely to do right by the next generation, and this kind of behavior should be Discouraged with a capital "D" and I don't mean cupsize, you know? 

The founder of this site, upstanding citizen Jason Gunstra, says that he and his partner started MyFreeImplants.com as "a joke" after---you're going to be astonished to hear this---a bachelor party. Here's how it works: Men look at pictures and send money.  After each woman "raises" $4000, the site will pay her surgeon for the breast augmentation. Meanwhile, the site's pimps---er, owners--are making 25 cents for every $1 that passes between the johns---er--men and the implant seekers. So a venture that started as a joke has turned into a--forgive me--cash cow that's win-win for everyone except maybe civilization.

At this point, I could insert a rant about women learning to feel good about themselves no matter what their size, shape or IQ, but I hesitate for two reasons.

The first reason is an article in Oprah's magazine (hey, what do you read on airplanes--The Wall Street Journal?) ghost-written for Celine Dion in which she describes how she was entirely focused on her career until her husband developed cancer and she was forced to take care of him and manage their home and family, while also continuing her job, which is, I'll agree, very challenging.  Her conclusion: Even though you love your work, you should make your life about more than your career because It's Better That Way.

I could insert another diatribe here about women struggling to be beautiful, have brilliant careers along with loving, healthy families and full intellectual and social lives not to mention big boobs, but I don't have to tell anyone reading this that that state of perfection isn't easy to achieve. We're making ourselves crazy by trying to have it all.  I know I've got eye twitches and heart palpitations and the occasional chocolate binge to show for how hard I've been trying to juggle everything, how about you? So maybe we ought to stop judging each other for acting like idiots now and then. (Unless, dear reader, you are my own daughter, in which case, if I hear you're contemplating implants, I will come over there and---well, never mind, but call me later.)

The second reason I'm not going to rant about women who will do just about anything--including a form of prostitution--to make themselves attractive is that by the time you read this today I'll be flat on my back at the dermatologist's office having my 6th laser treatment on my face. Ostensibly, the laser reduces my rosacea--a tendency for enlarged red veins to develop blisters and therefore acne and sometimes infection. But one of the really nice side effects is that the laser also tightens skin and smooths the surface and--okay, dammit--makes me look younger.

So . . . uhm . . . today I won't bash anybody who's going above and beyond to look good, I guess, not even people who put outhouses among the flowers.

So instead, let's make this blog about the 100 Places You Will Visit Before You Die, okay? Let's start a list. (And you should include Gatlinburg, by the way. It's lovely and quite pleasant, if a little . . .  boring.  It's an enormous honkytonk in the middle of a beautiful wilderness. Where else can you visit a wax museum and shoot the white water rapids between shopping at at least 50 fudge shops? And not too many Dixie flags flying. It's extraordinary! A true American experience.)

How about you? Where would you like to go before your implants deflate and your face sags to your collarbones?

Help! She’s after my Soul

Elaine Viets

Early one Sunday, I snuck into the condo gym for a workout.

I like the off-peak hours – the gym is quiet, the machines are free, and I watch "Cops" on Court TV. I love Court TV. I tell myself it’s because the actual dialogue helps me write books. I know "Freeze! Get down on the ground!" isn’t original, but it’s authentic.

Secretly, I’m relieved that none of the people hauled off in handcuffs are members of my large, unruly family.

But this particular morning, my usual routine was interrupted. A skinny blonde was sweating on one treadmill and her obnoxious eight-year-old daughter was on the second treadmill twirling a freaking baton. Both were wearing big smiles and lots of pink. Worse, they were watching the Disney Channel.

"I hope you don’t mind," the blonde said. "I love Christian entertainment. I don’t believe in sex or violence."

Actually, I like a little of both in my entertainment. But I didn’t say so. I know it’s not my personal gym. If I have to, I can share.

I managed an insincere smile, plopped down my gear and started working out with free weights on the bench. While I was hoisting a pair of fifteen-pounders over my head, the kid was in my face.

"Do you accept Jesus as your personal savior?" the child asked.

I waited for her mother to tell the girl not to bother people. Instead, Mom said, "She’s my little evangelist," as if the kid had done something wonderful.

I was appalled. We have Christians, Jewish people, atheists, agnostics and an occasional Buddhist in our condo. We don’t interfere with one another’s beliefs. South Florida is a live and let live place.

My bad angel was saying, "Tell the little creep to beat it. Your religion is none of her business. Tell her that freedom of religion made America great, and a true patriot would never ask that intrusive question."

My good angel said, "It’s not her fault. She has a Barbie doll for a mother."

My good angel didn’t exactly win, but while I was struggling to hoist the weights, I must have made a frightening face. The kid ran back to her baton and left me alone.

When did we become a nation of religious meddlers?

While I was in the hospital, I had many roommates. One kept trying to get me to accept Jesus as my personal savior. "Jesus gave you that stroke," she said. "You’ll be much happier if you accept that."

"Jesus has better things to do than smite a minor mystery writer," I said.

Why blame God for the bad things? I am lucky to have a good husband, a career I enjoy, and a condo overlooking the ocean. Nobody tries to convert me by telling me Jesus gave me those.

Instead, Jesus doles out awful punishments. So far, he’s spared me baton-twirling children.

What? Let Some Stranger Look After My Kid....

By Sarah

Last summer, Charlie and I had to leave Anna alone twice overnight so we could drop off and pick up Sam from camp in Canada. The second time, a horrible triple murder/home invasion had just happened in Connecticut and I had to convince Anna that in my professional opinion the father had been in on it (lied through my teeth) so she wouldn't be hysterical when we left. As it was, she did not sleep either night even though a friend stayed with her. A friend I didn't quite trust. It was one of those Bill Cosby situations: "What? Let some stranger look after my kid? I just as soon let her stay by herself."

Which raises an interesting question - how do you hire a babysitter for...a babysitter?

This was the dilemma my parents faced when I was seven and my oldest brother was seventeen. They didn't trust my brothers to take care of me (for good reason) and yet my brothers were too old to be babysat. The solution? Mrs. Wolf.

Mrs. Wolf was deep Pennsylvania Dutch. Never smiled. Never saw the positive. Hated commies and held to a convoluted belief system inspired by those two intellectual stimuli - ignorance and religion. Though she did let me sleep in bed with her (don't ask) and, best of all, watch TV after dinner. As much TV as I wanted. The great thing about her was that she believed the Earth was flat and nothing could change her mind.

How did I know ? Because the year was 1969 and men were walking on the Moon. Only, it wasn't the Moon in Mrs. Wolf's opinion. It was a stage on a television set in Hollywood created by NASA, a wing of the CIA. Note, she pointed out as we lay together in my parents double bed, how no dust rises up when Neil Armstrong walks. Aha!

This made for some rather amusing conversations when my brothers rolled in - stoned, natch- itching for a good discussion. I can still see Mark obsessively trying to explain gravity with a hinged picture frame of our family. "Why does it open when I hold it like this?" he asked as the bottom half swung downward. "Because of gravity."

"No," Mrs. Wolf countered. "Because it's falling down."

(Ironically, Mrs. Wolf believed there actually was a big stage above the Earth, the flat Earth, on which sat God and Jesus and Mary in thrones, waiting and looking down, bored to bits. But this was not to be confused with the same stage Neil Armstrong was running across not kicking up moon dust.)

Here's my question: did my parents truly think that leaving me in the hands of Mrs. Wolf was better than letting me stay with my brothers?

Mrs. Wolf wasn't the only nut case entrusted with my well being. There was also Mrs. Sandt, mother of thirteen and a certified witch. I'm talking herbalist who could lay out a great smorgasbord as long as you  liked dandelion wine and onion sandwiches. Every Friday night she fed her thirteen kids onion sandwiches and they never had a cold. Never! She wore all black and a little black cap and she lived with a gazillion black cats in a stone spring house near the mill that later became a hippie hang out and the site of several police raids. Rumor was, pot plants grew in abundance behind her house. Some said, planted by her. I had no doubt.

Maybe my parents were tired of kids or maybe they just didn't like me, but after my brothers went to college I was left alone a lot with these kooks. Often, weeks at a time. Mrs. Wolf, Mrs. Sandt and Mrs. Mutter whose legs swish swished together.

I found them oddly comforting. Unlike my parents, they did not insist on a boring cocktail hour every night or dinners fraught with heated (did someone say drunken?) debate about current events. With them, I ate dinner at 4:30 and by five was on the couch perched for a night of non-stop television watching. They liked Richard Nixon and mistrusted the press. They really liked Hee Haw and game shows and bingo. If it hadn't been for them, there wouldn't have been a Mama and Genevieve in my Bubbles books.

It was while Mrs. Mutter was taking care of me that I wrote Harper and Row to confess my love of Laura Ingalls Wilder and my vow to be a writer. My parents, both writers and editors, would never have let me send the letter off filled, as it was, with grammatical errors and misspellings. They would have insisted on me writing a rough draft and then correcting it and retyping it to perfection. It would have taken ages. But Mrs. Mutter, about as literate as toast, didn't know the difference. She gave me a stamp and wondered aloud how the little ball in the IBM Selectric knew when to turn.

An editorial assistant at Harper and Row actually wrote back a few days later, enclosed a packet of  information and wished me luck in my writing career. "Maybe someday we'll be reading a book by you!" her note said. I took that note to heart, like an omen. Yes, I would be a writer like Laura Ingalls Wilder because (editorial assistant whose name I forget) told me so.

This entire miraculous process- letter to reply - occurred while my parents were in Mexico. I remember my mother returning with a rug she'd been given by the mayor of Mexico City. It was a gorgeous white oriental with a huge yellow stain in the middle from where his pet tiger had pissed. My mother rolled it out and asked me what I thought about someone owning a pet tiger. I handed her the letter from Harper and Row and said, "This is what I did when you were away." I was ten and in the two week she'd been gone, my life had changed forever.

The thing is, I don't think they make babysitters like those dames anymore. There just aren't enough reliable Pennsylvania Dutch grannies in this world, not enough women who are willing to spend two weeks away from their own families to take care of someone else's kid.

So what do Charlie and I do from hereon out? We can't let Anna stay by herself - she needs sleep! Nor does she want someone to stay with her. For the time being, I think we're trapped.

That is, unless Mrs. Wolf can come down from the celestial stage and lend a helping hand.

 

Irate Mom Airport Death

by Michele

As a former New Yorker, former prosecutor, and frequent flier, I can't help but pay attention to the very upsetting story of the death of Carol Ann Gotbaum at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.  According to news reports, the mother of three from a prominent New York family was transiting through Phoenix to get to an in-patient alcohol treatment facility in Tucson when the incident occurred.  The family reports she had a serious problem with alcohol dependency and had attempted suicide. 

She was reportedly sober when leaving New York, but began drinking during the layover in Phoenix.  She arrived at the gate after the cabin door had been closed on her flight and was denied boarding, and then she lost it.  She threw her Blackberry at somebody and it shattered into pieces.  Airline personnel were unable to calm her down.  She started running around the terminal screaming, and the police quickly surrounded and handcuffed her.  She was reported to be screaming profanities as well as shouting that she was a "sick mom," not a terrorist. 

She was placed under arrest for disorderly conduct and brought to a holding cell with her hands cuffed behind her.  The handcuffs were attached to a bench by a long chain.  She was left alone, seated on the bench, still screaming and cursing.  After about eight minutes, the officers went to check on her and found her dead.  The chain was wrapped around her neck, and the police believe that she may have strangled herself accidentally while trying to move the handcuffs from behind to in front of her.

There was no camera in the holding cell, but an airport security camera caught the arrest on tape:

   Click here to see an unedited version of the tape without audio, and here to view it with a voiceover, music and an excerpt of a briefing by the Phoenix Police Department (amazing what's out there on Youtube).  Because there's no sound on the tape, and because it begins only seconds before the police approach her, it's hard to get a sense of what her conduct was really like.  It's pretty clear that she was out of control.  It's also clear that the police approached and spoke with her, and that she continued to make a scene, at which point they handcuffed her.  Footage of her being dragged away suggests that she was resisting arrest.  In any event, the tape doesn't reveal that the police violated any policy or used any unreasonable force in arresting her.  Unless you believe that it was unreasonable to arrest her at all, in which case you probably blame the police for her death.

                                                                

To me, this case is the perfect Rorschach test for our prejudices.  It gets at how we feel about gender and race, about class and motherhood, about civil liberties and the war on terror, about New Yorkers and cops. 

Let's face it: a lot people think that women, especially mothers, and especially wealthy women, don't have alcohol problems and don't do anything bad enough to get arrested for.  I saw this prejudice in action when I was a prosecutor.  The vast majority of people arrested for crimes of violence and drug crimes are men.  On the rare occasion when a woman was charged, I found it virtually impossible to get a judge to order her held without bail for the same crimes men get sent up for, and extremely difficult to convict her at trial, no matter how strong the evidence.  The younger and more attractive the woman, especially if she was or looked white, the more difficult it was.

I know I hold some of these prejudices myself.  I confronted them on an early-morning flight from New York to St. Maarten earlier this year, when I sat across the aisle from a petite, attractive, beautifully dressed mother traveling with her husband and children.  This woman drank straight gin non-stop from a stash of tiny bottles she had in a diaper bag at her feet.  I was profoundly shocked.  More shocked than I should have been.  I have to admit, I'm pretty sure I would've been a lot less shocked if the woman had been any of these things -- older, less attractive, not a mother, of a different race or not female.  I think we focus on the conduct of the police in the Gotbaum case because we just can't believe a woman fitting Carol Ann Gotbaum's profile behaved the way she did.  If a threatening-looking man became irate at the gate and ran through the airport screaming profanities, we'd be much less troubled by this case.

But what did the police do wrong exactly?  And where was this woman's family?  They've now hired what USA Today calls a "blue-chip team" to handle the aftermath of her death, including not only a high-powered lawyer and forensic pathologist to conduct an independent investigation (can we say lawsuit?) but also Howard Rubenstein, one of the most feared (and expensive) public relations men in New York to spin the story.  If some of that money had been spent on a companion ticket for a loved one or trusted friend to make sure she got to rehab safely, it's hard to believe this tragedy ever would have occurred. 

Acts of Random Kindness

By Rebecca the Bookseller

We just watched Evan Almighty - a great family movie with Steve Carell, who is a very funny man. He plays a guy elected to Congress on the campaign slogan of: "Change the World".

In perfect casting, Morgan Freeman plays God - who appears to tell the new Congressman to build an Ark.

You can imagine how well that goes over with everyone in DC, including his family.

Great soundtrack and a happy ending, of course, where the bad guys are revealed and everyone learns a simple lesson: How do you change the world? One Act of Random Kindness at a time.

So, do one today. If someone ahead of you at the grocery store is short and you've got an extra buck, hand it up. Let someone older or sicker take your prime parking spot. Listen to someone who needs to talk. Hold traffic so someone who walks slowly can cross the street. Stick a white pin in a voodoo doll (and if that makes no sense to you, you need to catch up on Ramona's great blog yesterday.)

Call or visit someone sick or lonely. Or - here's an easy one - share an act with the rest of us on TLC, and maybe inspire someone else.

Happy Sunday!

Who Would You Voodoo?

By Friend o'the Tarts and Louisiana native, Ramona Long

I went home to Louisiana and came back with six new voodoo dolls.

Six? Six? Who, you are surely wondering, needs six voodoo dolls? What kind of person has half a dozen enemies in need of prodding?

Not me.  The truth is, I bought six because, duh, they were on sale. Six voodoo dolls for five bucks. Even in the world of spirituality and superstition, it's hard to pass up that kind of bargain.

I found this bargain at the newly renovated and recently reopened French Market flea market. For you uncultured heathens out there, the New Orleans French Market is America's oldest city market. It's just off the river, past the Moon Walk and Jackson Square, down the road from the huge statue honoring Sieur de Bienville (Father of New Orleans) and a rather garish gold one of Jeanne d'Arc, and well within sniffing distance of Cafe du Monde (cafe au lait and beignets) and Aunt Sally's (creole pralines) shop. If you get confused, as we did by construction trucks blocking the entrance, you just ask a local, and even if it's ten o'clock on a Sunday morning and he's still reeling drunk from the LSU-Tulane game held in the Superdome the morning before, he will gladly give directions. Our drunk told us just where to go, and we would have thanked him sincerely when we saw him later on, but he had finally passed out on a wrought iron bench outside The Voodoo Shop, and we didn't want to wake him up.

Anyway, in the French Market, you can find shops offering a dazzling array of unique clothes, antiques, art, jewelry, crafts, more food items than you can shake a palm frond at, and the fleur-de-lis emblazoned on hats, t-shirts, mugs, earrings, shot glasses, necklaces, pencils, stick-on tattoos, and oven mitts in the shape of alligators, crabs and crawfish. The fleur-de-lis has become the symbol of New Orleans' recovery. This was my first trip to Louisiana P-K (Post-Katrina) and I did my part by buying as many Katrinkets as I could fit into my allowable luggage.

Which is why I bought all six voodoo dolls. Yes, they were on sale, but I wanted to support the city financially.

But admittedly, there's more. These dolls are just about the cutest things you ever saw. The heads are made of the requisite stone painted black with scary red eyes, but the bodies are decked out in gold, green, pink, purple, blue and black fabrics with fun little metal doo-hickies sewn on. The heads and feet are straw, feathers stick out from the heads, and each is slung with a tiny gold bag for the herbs, spices and chicken parts needed for various spells.

However, though I may be a sucker for the fancy fabrics, that's not what counts. The only thing you really need to make the doll go, so to speak, are the pins. A black pin for evil, or a white one for good luck.

Surprised? Voodoo ain't just for hurting people, y'all. White magic works as well as black, and the doll swings both ways. You can bring bon fortune with a white pin in the heart, or you can bring mondo pain and suffering by sticking a black pin . . . wherever you want to stick it, which is usually somewhere south of the heart, if you get my drift.

Here are the instructions printed on the back of the dolls. And don't give me a hard time about the ex-wife part, because I'm quoting the little card:

HOW TO USE VOODOO DOLL

Step 1. Lie down the voodoo doll on table or hang on wall.

Step 2. Close your eyes and concentrate deeply on your victim or enemies (at office, school, ex-wife, etc) or friend (any person you intend to help.)

Step 3. White pin is for good luck.  Black pin is for evil!

Step 4. For extra power, call the Voodoo King in New Orleans to order your double pins for double power.

Sadly, there's no number listed for the Voodoo King, but that's as well, because I might be tempted to call the next time Michele says something disparaging about Blond Bond.

So, now I have six voodoo dolls. They're set out in a row across my desk, and I'm wondering where to start.

That black pin or the white?

Should I black-pin it right between the eyes while chanting the name of that agent who returned my stuff without so much as a Post-it note? Or should I gently prod the liver area with a white pin while thinking of that very helpful drunk? White for my son during his physics test? Black the next time I argue with that idiot at my insurance company? Which color for the ex-boyfriend who found me after twenty-plus years via this blog?

Wow. All of a sudden, the power feels profound. And I like it.  I really, really like it.

So tell me, mes amis. If you found a bargain like this one, who would you voodoo?

Cheating, Lying and Torture - WTF?

By Me, Margie, who is totally fucking fed up

Okay, this is not a political blog. Seriously. Doesn't have to be. Because when a society collectively decides that it's better to lie and cheat and act with cruelty than it is to be honorable, it shows up everywhere.

This week in sports, we had two developments that show you what I mean. Welcome back to the headlines, Michael Vick. Michael Vick, former NFL star, tortured and killed dogs for sport. Then he lied about it. Then his friends rolled on him, and he confessed. He will - hopefully - do time in the federal pen. Me, I think his pen ought to be about 5' by 5'. But nobody asked me. (Which is totally part of the problem. They should all be asking Me, Margie, what to do.) This week, Vick's former team got a ruling to recover about $20 million of what they paid him. And yeah - why people who play ball get that kind of money is whole 'nother problem.

And then we have Marion Jones. Even if you don't watch the Olympics (I do and I love them - LOVE them) you undoubtedly saw her back in 2000 when she won a bunch of medals. Turns out, she cheated. She was doping. Doping is the sports term for taking drugs - like steroids - that give athletes an unfair advantage. It's also dumb as hell, so I really think the word Doping is dead on. Any way, she was taking something called "The Clear" (Why do they call it that? Because, they thought they could bypass the tests with it - kind of like those clean catch kits you use when you have to provide a sample for a drug test.)

Not that I know anything about those tests. But my cousin Vincent, who works for a big corporation, he used one once because he had been on my cousin Gio's boat over the weekend, and you know, that's a small space in that cabin and you know he might have accidentally breathed some. Plus, we need to get the hell off the weed patrol. Who cares? You ever see anyone on weed go on a killing spree? No. You can distract them with a shiny object and some Cool Ranch Doritos. And it does *not* lead to like, snorting crack. I know people who have smoked for decades and they don't even abuse Niquil.

And speaking of snorting stuff - did you see those pictures of Prince Harry putting vodka up his nose? Those friends of his are kinda weird, god bless them. I can't even put eyedrops in, as you may already know. Forcing vodka up my nose? NFW. And get this - when you do that with booze, you can cause, like, brain damage because your liver and kidneys don't get a chance to filter the stuff. Or you can drown - no shit - your lungs can't tell the difference between liquids, squid-brain. I'll bet it makes your tears flammable too. I'm going to send that one in to Mythbusters, I think.

But back to Marion - she claims she thought she was putting flaxseed oil under her tongue. Who the hell knows. People will do anything to win. And she was totally adamant and PO'd in the press and under oath when they asked her about it. Years later (which would be now) she confessed that she lied. Big time lied. See, when you lie to your Mom about where you were last night, that's dumb because Moms always can tell. But when you lie under oath, that's idiotic. Because you can go to jail and other bad stuff. Jail is no place for most people. There is no privacy and bigger people expect you to do stuff you're not going to like.

So Marion could go to jail too. Plus, now she has to give back her medals, and the women on her relay team have been asked to give theirs back as well. It's a big mess and if I were her team mates, I'd give her something to cry about, I'll tell you.

Oh - and one last thing - The Margie Manifesto for the TLC Party clearly states our position on cheating, lying and torture. NO. Just NO. And HELL NO.

Hot Mama---Nancy Martin

You may have noticed that sometimes here at The Lipstick Chronicles we blog about material that we're test-driving for our books. At other times, we explore the mysteries of our own lives, and there are a few days when we boil with umbrage or feel the need to engender a discussion for the betterment of mankind.

Today is none of those days.

Today I'm thinking about spicy food.

And how much I miss it. Because now that my hot flashes are back, I don't dare order a burrito or dig into a dish of General Tso's chicken or even nibble a corner of a lime-flavored corn chip dipped in salsa for fear of turning purple and sweating as if I've run the Chicago marathon. Trust me, a hot flash is not a pretty picture.

When I was first dating the man who would become my husband, we spent an inordinate amount of time in the company of his college buddies. (He was the only one capable of making a meaningful connection with a female, so you can imagine the bunch of misfits--er--charmingly quirky guys he hung out with.) For the months of football season, I was the only girl in the group, and I marveled at a great many male phenomena. One of their favorite pastimes was the spicy food contest:  Which numbskull would be the first to break down and scream as hot peppers scalded the flesh off his tongue? Oh, the hours of delight as nearly grown men sprinkled increasing amounts of chili powder into their meals and merrily shoveled it into their mouths. The pink cheeks! The projectile perspiration! The tears bursting from bloodshot eyes. The massive quantities of beer required to put out the fire.

A few clever college bozos---er, business  majors--even found ways to turn such hobbies into profitable careers!

Me, I took a lot of naps in those days.  I mean, really, if searing pain is what that stuff can do to your mouth (insert your mother's voice here) what's it doing to the rest of your insides? If you've seen one man in a food-induced hysteria, you've seen 'em all.

Is this purely a male thing? Eating food spicy enough to peel paint off a Mazda? Maybe not, but I think primarily so.

Here's one theory:

"One explanation for the love of spicy food comes from the psychologist Paul Rozin of the University of Pennsylvania. He refers to the love of things pungent as "benign masochism." His argument goes that eating spicy foods is a way for people to experience something moderately dangerous on a small scale. . . . . Furthermore, some scientists speculate that the eventual relief that comes after waiting for the burn to go away produces a general sense of well-being."

So I guess this means your average frat boy can now take a drive to the China Palace Buffet and skip the sky-diving lesson.  (And he can light up a post-prandial cigarette, too!)

Since my fondly remembered collegiate afternoons with the guys, I must admit I've come to appreciate a little zip in my snacks, although I'm not the girl who slathers that green sauce all over my quesadilla at Don Pablo's. And now that familiar Monday Night Football triggers an urge----to pass by the cool watermelon in the grocery store, the fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes and the icy vats of soft serve ice cream . . . in favor of hot barbecue sauces and jalapeno dip.

Yes, with the fall of autumn leaves comes the craving for food with a kick.

For me, there's nothing better than a white chicken chili. Here's a good recipe, except I like to use a can or two of cannellini beans (saves the overnight soaking) and my favorite winter meal ingredient--the grocery store rotisserie chicken.  (Hey, why go to the trouble of roasting a bird when the Piggly Wiggly does it for you for less than $10?) White chicken chili is ideal food for game day.

How about you? Have a hot 'n spicy recipe to share?  Because--look out!--I'm ready to trigger a few hot flashes.

Behind on a trend

Elaine Viets

Men pad, too. Not just their expense accounts. Guys can buy "butt enhancers" – padded underwear – to add "curves, comfort and assurance to your daily life."

I saw this in a magazine ad for gay men. "Get the butt that gets the stares!" the ad said, and showed a hunky guy with terrific buns.

"We’re the leader in padded briefs, so let’s pump up your posterior and get you noticed," the ad claimed. Padded underpants were "used by actors and models." There were butt enhancers for men and women at buttforyou.com.

I am proud to say I have never needed butt enhancement. Mother Nature has been generous in that region, though the miserable bitch skimped on the balcony when I was a teenager.

I corrected her oversight with socks. Yes, socks. I used six black dress socks lifted from my father’s handkerchief drawer. This was before women even considered breast enhancement surgery. We were lucky if we could get contact lenses.

Some girls would pad their bras with Kleenex, but I always thought those were unreliable. Kleenex rustled in a clinch, and besides we’d heard about the girl whose boyfriend finally asked her to marry him. She was so happy she started crying, and reached inside her cardigan for a Kleenex. Suddenly, she was half the woman she used to be.

He married her anyway.

Socks also had their disadvantages. My grandma told me about a New Year’s Eve party where she got tipsy on champagne. At midnight, when everyone else was throwing confetti, Grandma yelled "Whoopee," reached into her bodice and tossed my grandfather’s socks.

And now we’re back to the question I never had to face: What happens when you meet the man of your dreams and the padding comes off? Will he flat out love you?

When I was growing up in Florissant, Missouri, in 1966, it was really 1956. Young women were warned that their virginity was their only asset, and if they weren’t careful, they would be "used goods" and no nice man would marry them. This credo turned out to be the biggest pile of manure this side of the Gulfstream racing stables, but we believed it.

The nuns gave us dire warnings about girls who crossed the line. They told us all men were evil and would promise us anything, but would betray us in a heartbeat. From eavesdropping on my brothers, I knew this to be true. One sweet old nun told us we must always carry a phone book. That way, if we were riding home from a football game and had to sit on a guy’s lap in a crowded car, we could put a phone book between us and certain sin. This was pre-cellphone, so guys would get quite a wallop with a fat St. Louis phone book.

I never knew a young woman who carried a phone book for protection. And no young man ever saw my father’s socks, except on Dad’s feet.

Every Saturday night, my nervous date arrived and made chitchat with my parents in the family room. I knew I had to get down there quick, before the guy bolted in terror. I’d spray on the Chanel No. 5 I got for my birthday and come tripping down the stairs in my new dress.

My father, who had a wicked sense of humor, would see my suddenly Dolly Parton sized proportions and say, "Hey, Sis, have you seen my socks?"

My date would look clueless. My mother would fume.

I don’t know why parents made fun of socks. They were better than chastity belts. They kept young women practicing safe sex in the days before reliable birth control.

I would have fought to the death to make sure no man knew the object of his affections was six black executive length Gold Toes.