The Lipstick Chronicles

What About My Right To Choose?

by Me, Margie

Okay, people, we all know TLC is not a political blog. So I'm not going to tell you who to vote for, even though I know the answer. Know why? Because unless you are one of the ONE PERCENT of citizens of these United States who happen to live in Iowa, New Hampshire or South Carolina, you are like me. That means WE DON'T GET TO CHOOSE.

That's right. I put it all in caps, because all caps means YELLING. And I am yelling. Because I am pissed off. And rightly so.

We spend an awful lot of time talking about protecting our right to choose. Yeah, I know that has to do with a different choice. But is there any choice more important than a vote in a democratic election? I didn't even major in Poli-Sci, but I am here to tell you that if we let the current system remain in place, we're all screwed, and not in a fun way, either.

Let's say for purposes of discussion that I am a democrat - as of today, I only get to choose from two candidates. What happened to everyone else? Biden? Dodd? Hell, where's crazy ol' Gravel? Or Richardson? I like him a lot.

And who doesn't love Dennis Kucinich? Everyone does. Not just because he's got that whole Frodo/Galadriel thing going with his knock-out wife. I mean, that doesn't hurt, but it's more than that. So - since it's no longer a live issue, be really, truly, honest with yourself - didn't you agree with most of what the guy said?

If you have crossed that line where you no longer believe that peace should be our first goal, you need to take a couple of big steps back and re-assess.

I'm not saying that peace is always the right approach, or that force is never necessary. Are you kidding me? My people will throw a punch and ask questions later, if it's called for. But in the big picture, if we're not shooting for peace, we need to re-sight our coordinates.

Okay, back to democratic choice. Today is the first of February, gang, and all my choices are gone except two. What the fuck? Yeah, I said fuck. I'd say worse if I thought I wouldn't get fired on the spot. I had a little incident with a broken table earlier in the week - I mean, you'd think those things would hold a couple of people, y'know? Any way, I'm sticking with fuck. I mean, as my baddest word. hah!

John Edwards was the last one out of the race. That was very troubling to me. It's only February! It's not even SuperDuper Tuesday or Terrific Tuesday, or whatever they're calling it these days.

Now, people will give you all kinds of intellectual explanations as to why this happened. Bullshit. It's about the money. These freaking elections cost so damn much money that if you don't have the right mojo, or momentum, or whatever, and you can't keep raising millions of dollars, you're out. That is well and truly corked. This is one messed up system, guys. If we're going to have a real democracy here, we need to stop making it about who has the most dough.

The same holds true on the Republican side. McCain, who is now the front-runner, was all but written off last summer. He's one of the few who chose to hang in there with no money. It's not as if he doesn't have a full-time job. The other front-runner? Romney, who is writing his own checks. He might have the potential to be the best President ever, but do we really want to limit our choices for POTUS to the richest guys who are willing to spend their own cash? I know I don't. A lot of rich people are total jagoffs.

By the by - I just have to say that I love the acronym 'POTUS' - learned it on The West Wing. But what about the poor Supremes? How would you like to be known as the SCOTUS? That is one unfortunate moniker. Okay, back to the topic.

The answer is obviously some kind of campaign finance reform. I don't know what the proposals are - trying to read that legislative crap is a total nightmare. No wonder no one reads the damn things. They're a mess. And it's not my job, so I'm not doing it. I have enough to take care of with this blog and this office and these authors - I mean, what I have to do around here... seriously, I don't know what they did before I got here, y'know?

So what do you think? Not that I think I'm wrong - because I'm not. But I do like to at least give the appearance that I care about other people's opinions. Not every day, but I am today. So go ahead - tell me what you think.

The Ski Hat

By Me, Margie

This is a true story about Me, Margie, skiing, and my pony tail hat. What is a pony tail hat? Glad you asked. It's a hat with a hole in the back for your pony tail to stick out. (Josh and William, it's a pony tail, not a "handle" so shaddup.) If you have a lot of hair, you can't just shove it under a regular knit hat. The hat won't stay on. And you can't just let your hair fly all over the place because then you cannot see. Skiing is risky enough without playing hide 'n' seek with your perspective. Just saying.

After much searching, I found the perfect pony tail hat. It was a beautiful day, so a group of us headed up the chair lift for our first run. We went in different directions. I'd like to say I headed for the more advanced slopes, but that would be a boldfaced lie. And if you're looking for a liar, don't look at Me, Margie.

As I made a turn to take one of the runs, the wind caught me at just the right angle, and blew my new hat off my head. What follows is the probable communication in my brain.

Left Brain: Head is cold. Hat is gone.

Right Brain: My hat! My new pony tail hat! Find it!

Left Brain: We are moving at a high rate of speed. Focus on balance and avoid collisions.

Right Brain: It's the perfect color - periwinkle! Must find it!

Left Brain: Sigh. Locating hat.

Right Brain: There it is! There it is! Get it!

Left Brain: Awww shit. Changing course to follow hat. Could be ill advised.

Right Brain: Faster, faster - it's heading for the trees!

Left Brain: Trees bad. There are other hats.

Right Brain: No there are not. We looked. We are *getting* that hat!

Left Brain: Heavy sigh. Fine. There is no dealing with you when you get like this.

Right Brain: There it is - reach for it.

Left Brain: Don't drop the ...... pole.

Right Brain: Hurry - reach for it!

Left Brain: Stop- coming up too fast on the trees!

Right Brain: Hat!

Left Brain: Tree!

Right Brain: Get the hat!

Left Brain: Watch the branches - the face, the face -- protect the face!

Right Brain: Forget the face - we're smart, we don't need to look good.

Left Brain: Idiot. Okay - eyes - must protect the eyes!

Right Brain: Eyes. Right. Can't read without them. okay. We can do both!

Left Brain: WTF?! DUCK!

Right Brain: Got it!

Left Brain: Holy shit. Snow. Cold. Pain.

Right Brain: Thank heaven. Just in time.

Head: Shut up, both of you. I need to figure out if this bump is something we landed on or a potential aneurism.

Central Nervous System: I hope you geniuses up there are happy. You've got about ten more seconds of adrenaline before the pain sets in.

Feet: Pain? What pain? We've been numb since you put these damn boots on. Who the hell is running the show up there?

Bum: Good thing you ate all those pancakes; without all this padding, we'd all be looking at traction.

Skin: If you boneheads don't get up out of this friggin' snow, and I end up with frostbite, I'll give all you bitches a smackdown that will last for a week, yo.

Eyes: I'm not letting Skin watch The Wire any more.

Left Brain: I give up. We need a drink.

Right Brain: Isn't this the coolest hat?

The end.

Margie's Twelfth Night Story

By Me, Margie

Gather 'round - it's time for another installation of Margie's Story Time, wherein someone very smart, but who can speak in plain words, breaks it down so everyone can understand. Lucky for you, TLC readers, that person is Me, Margie.

First of all, twelfth night is not the twelfth of anything - it's twelve days after Christmas. The big Christmas (stay with me, you'll see), you know, where we celebrate Jesus' birthday by, among other things, exchanging gifts with people we'd really rather not spend time with, but we have to because we had the misfortune of being born related to them. Yeah, it's confusing. But not as confusing as what we do on Presidents' Day, which is buy mattresses and cars. Whateve.

Twelfth Night is also known as the Feast of the Epiphany, which is a celebration of the day the three wise guys came to visit the baby Jesus and bring useless gifts. If you missed my Christmas story, check the December 2007 archives - you'll have to catch up on your own time - we're busy here, okay?

It's also celebrated as Saturnalia - which is really "Do the Opposite Day". That's right, just like the Seinfeld episode. Up is down, right is left, blah blah. A real riot if you were the guy who had to clean up after a big fat drunken King - I guess for that one day, the King was supposed to pick up after you. Good luck with that- because lots of Kings are total jags and won't play by the rules if they don't like the game.

Twelfth Night even has it's own desert - round pastries, called King Cakes, shaped like a wreath that have a bean in one piece (yeah, I know - we have them for Mardi Gras too, but they started on twelfth night). Whoever gets the bean is the King of the Bean for the day. Right. Try putting that kind of thing in my cake and you'll be beaned - right upside your head.

In some places, Twelfth Night is also the beginning of Carnivale, which lasts until Fat Tuesday.

And - here is my favorite - Twelfth Night is also known as Little Christmas, because it was the actual Christmas before some church guy changed the calendar all around. In Ireland, Little Christmas is also known as Women's Christmas because on that day, the man of the house is supposed to do all the chores. Uh huh. You can bet that doesn't fly in America - thats NFL Playoff time, baby. (Go Pack!)

So how the hell did all this stuff end up on one day? Well, not many people know this, but I know the real story. How? Because people tell me things.

As usual, it all started, like, a thousand years ago, when some nutball got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Big surprise, except this whack was a King of Someplace Big. I can't tell you where, because the people who live there will freak out, and seriously, I'm just getting out of the trouble I got in with that thing with the threesome. I mean the alleged threesome. I heard. I mean, I wasn't even there.

So this King, who is supposed to be Mr. Macho, who claimed to have, uh, beaned every girl in town - turns out he liked to dress up in costumes and pretend he was a bunch of very non-macho things. Like a sheep. Or, you know, a girl. Which, in those days, weren't treated so differently, which is why those societies didn't last. Seriously. The other thing you need to know is that this king was rabid-jackal mean. Don't feel bad for him. He was a real shit.

So he's running around dressed up like Bo Peep, or whatever, and he makes his servants dress up like, you know, the big bad wolf, or a big stick or something (hey, nobody was worried about the details, okay?) and he got caught. By a woman. Like his Mom. And she would have covered it up, like always, except she was having bridge club or something, and all her friends were there, and some of them had really rich husbands, or were in tight with like a bishop or some other important guy, and so they couldn't just kill them all to keep them quiet, because that would have raised a bunch of questions. Royal types, in case you didn't know, do not like the questions.

So his Mom (the brains of the operation, as usual) tried to explain it by dreaming up this big story about a holiday where weird shit happens on purpose and it's all good. Right. At least half the women did not buy this crap at all, and the other half were just really mad that digital camera phones hadn't been invented, because that is major retirement money with that kind of photo proof, y'know?

So this bullshit holiday got more and more complex because Mom had to explain one dumbass move after another. Like "Yeah? Well what about the fact that the bread over there is shaped like, you know, a big stick?" And Mom says: Oh, that's just an early prototype of the King of the Bean Cake. We thought it would be cool to have it shaped like a big fat string bean, but that didn't work. The beta version is round with a hole in the middle." "Oh? You mean like the mouth on that doll over there in the corner?" "Uh, yeah. But, you know, without the rest of the doll parts."

They finally got the women calmed down, then got them all drunked up on some kind of fermented fruit skins or some damn thing, hoping like hell that no one actually had any real proof, then they sent them all home.

Then sonny boy said to the Queen Mother - "Geez, Mom, that was cool. Thanks. I'm going to bed now."

And she said: "Ya think? Sit yer ass down, boy, and get schooled. From now on, just so you remember not to get caught, every year on this day, you are going to let your servants be royalty and the royals be servants, AND all the men are going to do all the chores while the women sit around and do whatever and watch whatever movies they want, and they get to keep the remote." (She was a psychic, did I mention that?) "And you're going to have to eat cake with your least favorite veggies in it too. Plus, I'm going to leave a note only to be opened by a kid named Willy Shakes who is going to write a story about a girl dressed up as a boy, but SHE is going to get a happy ending. Unlike the rest of your massage appointments with Sven."

"You can't do that - I'M the KING!"

"You bet your ass I can do it, or you'll be playing sheep boy for real when your brothers find out about this, so can it, Jag." That was the King's nickname; his real name was King Mortemus Platapus Jagoff Preposterum, IV.

"But Mo---ooom", King Jagoff whined - "You can't do that - it's the same day as the Epiphany. That would be wrong - and confusing as hell. Plus, everyone will call me names."

His Mom was having none of it. She stomped out and yelled over her shoulder: "Shut up you twit. I can't believe you're my kid. You brought this on yourself."

And the King threw a big tantrum, jumping up and down, and getting all his footmen or whatever to jump up and down too. They looked idiotic, but it was very cool for the Court Minstral, who said to himself: "Finally! Some damn thing to come before the eleven pipers from yesterday's funeral. Now I'm almost done with this freaking song."

And that is how all those different things ended up on the same day. And also how the term jagoff came to mean jerk of the highest order.

The end.

Joseph's Christmas Ups

By Me, Margie, who thinks Joseph deserves them. Seriously.

Last time, I told the Hanukkah story. I was going to tell the Christmas story, but everyone knows that one, and if you don't, all you have to do is listen to Linus Van Pelt: Peanuts Christmas

Instead, I am going to tell the story of Joseph, Mary's husband, who really does not get enough props. And he deserves 'em. Totally.

Can you imagine - here's a teenager, training to be a carpenter, and his girlfriend shows up one day and says 'Hey, uh, Giuseppe (yeah, I know, but it's my story) I'm uh, having a baby.' And Joseph, who has been, you know, respecting her wishes to wait until they are married to do it, says: 'Yeah. Good one, honey. Hand me that lathe, will ya?'

But then she convinces him that not only is she pregnant, but she's still a virgin. You know how many teenage girls have tried that? Millions. Nobody believed them either. And let's remember that Joseph didn't get any visits from angels or anything telling him how this was all supposed to come down. Because a message from an angel? Okay, I'd believe that, because angels are the total 'Holy shit!' experience, y'know?

So Joseph, God bless the guy, takes it all on faith. Even though she's having a baby that's not his, they get married, probably right away so it's not so totally obvious, y'know, that she's got - I mean, with child. And he settles in to his carpentry and she does whatever, and goes to visit her cousins and stuff, where they probably had a baby shower, except instead of little monogrammed bibs, they got a goat. Or in this case, probably a donkey.

Then she gets back and they find out that the whackjob dictator has decreed (which means he made them do it even though it was dumb as hell) that everybody had to go to their father's city - and I'll tell you, if some nutball told me to go to some other place just so I could pay taxes, I'd tell them where to stick it, but that's me and I didn't live back then, thank heaven, because they didn't have indoor plumbing, which is totally gross.

So they go on this long trip, and Mary is totally uncomfortale - because can you imagine being that pregnant AND having to ride on a donkey? We're talking major pain in the ass. heh. And then they finally get there and no room at the inn and so forth, and they end up in a barn. (P.S. Next time someone says: "Whatsa matter wit' you? Were ya born in a barn?" Consider your company. Just saying.)

So here's Joseph, having to help deliver a baby with no female relatives around. And you know, birthing babies is a big mess, which I'm sure he wasn't ready for either, because I'm sure his Mom didn't let him anywhere near his sisters when they had kids - women in olden times knew that if the men knew too much about labor and delivery, they'd run screaming into the night and the species would die out. I'm not making that part up, either. Everyone knows that. Duh.

Plus he had to have been really upset too because I know he was planning to make a kickass crib, but they had to use a trough or something.

And just when he gets everything cleaned up - as much as you can in a freaking stable - all these people start to show up. Shepherds and kids with percussion instruments, which are nice except when you just got the baby to sleep, which is why my brother Joe always gets the drum set for the oldest kid after the second one is born.

Then these wise guys (and they look nothing like Pacino, DeNiro, or even Paulie Walnuts) show up and deliver gifts - but not the good kind, like food or wood to build a house, or morphine or something, or even a camel, so it's easier to travel. No - they bring stuff that is shiny and smells good. Great. Plus, they say 'Uh, we hate to break it to you, seeing how you just had the baby and all, but some psycho is going to try to kill you, so you want to get the hell out of dodge.' Super.

And then they're off again, back into the desert. Do you know what kind of havoc the desert wreaks on a decent set of carpentry tools? Nightmare. By this point, Joseph, no matter how swell of a guy he is, has got to be wondering how in blazes he got into this mess. But does he bail? No way. He sticks, and he gets them out safely, and everything.

And that is why I think Joseph deserves the proper respect. Which he totally did not get. Until now. Capisce?

The end.

And Merry Christmas.

Happy Hanukkah!

By me, Margie, who celebrates everything

Hanukkah started this week - yeah, it's early this year - and lent starts February 5th, so who the hell knows what's up with all of that. So I thought, since Christmas gets most of the attention, that I would tell you the real story of Hanukkah. Which I know is true because my best friend Ruby is Jewish. And why she never comments on my blogs is a shanda, just saying. But her Mom, aleha ha sholem, taught me some Yiddish. We miss her. Okay, on with the story.

So you know that Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights. This is not to be confused with Light Up Night, which is celebrated in public (when they light up all the buildings downtown) and in private (when people light stuff up at home in the basement).

It all started in about 168 B.C. There were no dinosaurs then, by the way. We all know that from Bill Nye the science guy (who's wife tried to poison him - how dumb is that? He's the SCIENCE guy, bitch.)

Anyway, the bad guys (played in this episode by the Syrians who were following their Greek king - don't ask, just listen) seized the big Jewish temple in Jerusalem (which would be like, probably St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan) and claimed it for Zeus, who is the big Greek cheese. The soldiers demanded that all the Jews worship Zeus. Naturally, some of them refused and a bunch of them fought back. The soldiers did stuff like assembling people in small towns and making them bow to Zeus and eat pig. Yeah, in case you didn't know it, pork is a no-no. So really, it's one thing to pretend to bow to a fictional character and quite another to eat bacon. Oy, everyone knows that.

When the Greek army saw they were getting no where, they snatched a high priest named Mattathias and tried to shove some pork chops down his throat. Another Jewish guy stepped forward to take his place, and then Mattathias flipped out and started killing people left, right and center. Kinda like Chuck Norris, but with darker hair and probably robes. And then his five sons joined in, and then they told two friends, and so on, and pretty soon it was a big mosh pit and somehow the soldiers got good and dead, many with apples in their mouths. Okay, I put that last part in for color, because you know this movie was filmed in black and white.

And that started the big Jewish rebellion against the Syrian Greeks. About a year later, right before Mattathias died (and not from the trich, I'll bet) he put Judah Maccabee, his son, and a total mensch, in charge of what had become a bigass army. At this point the Greek army was looking at major tzuris, but they didn't know what that meant. Then Judah gave the army the 'one for the Gefilte Fish' speech and they went on a total rampage, finally wiping out the Greek army around 165 B.C. For the record, Zeus never so much as checked in, or even tossed down a lightening bolt or any thing. He was too busy with all the women in his life. The Greek gods were not big on fidelity or monogamy, honey, and we'll just leave it at that.

Then the Maccabee army went back to victoriously re-claim the temple in Jerusalem. But wait. The temple had been damn near destroyed. It was a huge mess and they had to clean it all up, which was a big pain in the tucchis, especially since they were all wiped out from the war, and just wanted to have some latkes and call it a day. But they cleaned up anyway, because their Mom's told them "Oh, don't worry, we'll do all the heavy lifting - with our bad backs that have never been the same since the five days of labor to give birth to you, but whatever, you don't trouble yourself. We'll just sit here in the dark with no temple and dressed in nothing but a schmatte. You go - have fun."

So naturally, that worked like a charm and they had the temple ready to go in no time. And they were very happy, getting ready for the big re-opening gala. But not so fast. There was only enough oil to burn for one day - and they needed a full eight days of light to re-dedicate the temple properly. And they even checked with the rabbis and the Oil Lamp Makers Union Local 185 who said fughedaboudit - it's eight days or bupkis, pally.

But lo and behold (that's what you say when a miracle is coming) the oil lasted for a whole eight days instead of one! And that's the miracle that we celebrate on Hanukkah. Because it's not just about the oil pulling a fishes and loaves (which came after, I know) it's about the Jews dedication to their beliefs, even in the face of battle and death. And that's what the word Hanukkah means: Dedication. In Hebrew. I don't speak Hebrew, but I checked on Google, and it's true.

So now people celebrate by lighting candles on eight consecutive nights. And they eat and drink and get presents too. They especially eat stuff that's fried in oil, like donuts and latkes and zucchini (okay, I eat that). But they don't eat pork rinds, even if they're Reformed, because pork rinds are disgusting.

Shalom. The end.

Safe Words

By Me, Margie

Warning - this is Me, Margie. So if you have some kind of hang up about four letter words (like safe, for example) or you think sex is bad, or you are batshit frigid suppressed, or you are a re-virginated prude head because you think anyone cares, or whatever, hit the bricks. This is reality, people, and there are much worse things to get freaked out about. Just be glad I didn't post any photos. Seriously.

Okay, safe words. Everyone know what that means? It's just another kind of code, even though we may not think of it that way. In some contexts, it's a word that means "I'm home and everything is fine and there are no maniacs with a gun to my head." Parents and kids have these words. A code word can also mean "I am a friend of your parent(s), and it's okay for you to come with me, because your parents couldn't pick you up." Usually, these words are the name of a family pet or something that's easy for a kid to remember.

In other, more grown-up scenarios, a safe word is one that means "Stop." These kinds of safe words are used when the word 'No' is part of the fun, so you need another word for when No really means No. And do *not* confuse this with a regular sexual encounter where no really does mean no, okay Mr. Sex Machine? If you are talking about using a safe word, you left 'vanilla' several so far back, you totally need to look in your rear view mirror to see how far past it you are.

Speaking of vanilla, let's make sure we all know what we're talking about. Because I think part of the reason so many people have sexual hang-ups is that they don't know what the hell they are really condemning. Everyone has a different way of finding pleasure. Some people like the lights on. Some people like whipped cream. Some people like bondage. Some people like to be Dominant. Some people like to be submissive. (Some lucky people like both 'D' and 's' - they are known as a Switch). Some people like pain. Some people like it all at the same time. Hey - it's all consensual. Sometimes, those people who like B or D or S or M refer to people who don't like those things as vanilla. Nothing wrong with vanilla. Or, as I like to say, there's nothing wrong with vanilla that some chocolate sauce won't fix. But hey, that's just Me, Margie.

And before you get all jinky and judgmental, keep in mind that not everyone who enjoys this lifestyle is hard core. Most people do not have play rooms hidden behind a secret door and filled with all kinds of leather. You can try this stuff with a couple of scarves. Oh - and let me just tell you that people who are control freaks, or Type A's get a special thrill out of giving it up to someone they trust. Not that we have anyone like that who writes, reads or comments on TLC. No sir. None at all. Uh-huh.

All I'm saying is different, uh, strokes for different folks. Not everyone likes oysters. Or licorice. Or the color purple. That's cool. It's the people who want a constitutional amendment to ban oysters who make me crazed, especially when they've never even tried one.

Anyway, thinking about this all started when I was reading this article on Huffington Post (yeah, I get my news there, okay? I can't wade through all the crap in the newspaper, and most TV news gives me a rash. "Something you use every day can kill you on contact - details next week in a special report." I like Lehrer on PBS, but I'm hardly ever near a TV that early. I'm BUSY, I can't keep up with everything, and I have to save my brain for important stuff.) So news from a blog, that's what I do.

But back to safe words. The article was about how to fight fair, and it was written in the UK. I was kind of hoping for some tips on slapping someone with a glove, or how many paces before you turn and shoot, but no, this was for couples, not duels.

One of the suggestions was that you have a code word. A word that means - 'I need a time out or I am going to call you a name that is going to feel great to me at the time but could make you feel like shit and then you could throw it back in my face next time so let's just chill before that happens, okay'? Hmm, let's see - a word to keep someone from going too far? Sounds like a safe word to me.

So as part of my effort to get people to lighten up about other people's sexual preferences and save the energy for the real problems, I propose we put the term 'safe word' into the mainstream. Think one up. It can be your middle name, or a flower, or anything. The weirdest one I've ever heard was 'Lieberman' - which, I'm telling you, must have one kickass backstory. Pick a word, then tell your partner, or your friends, or your family that if you use the safe word, they need to back the fuck off. Encourage them to think up their own safe word. Then respect them.

Respect - we all remember that one, right?

P.S. I'm going to be out of the office all day, and will have spotty access to the Internet. So not to worry if you don't hear from me much. Talk amongst yourselves and never fear - just like Santa, I'll still be watching. And baby, I'll know if you've been bad or good.

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?

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.

The Margie Manifesto

by Me, Margie, who is making one

Hi. It's me, Margie.

In response to a certain 'let's get Margie, she'll do anything' movement, I think it's time we worked out a platform for the TLC Party. Our logo will obviously be the lipstick smack up there on the left. It's a good logo because you can interpret it in many different ways. I think you know what I mean.

A manifesto, in case you don't know (okay, I looked it up because I liked the alliteration but had to make sure it didn't mean I was a communist or something) is basically an outline of what you believe - in our political process, it's called a platform. And don't say ya never learned anything from me.

Now, what do we stand for? Well, we WON'T stand for any bullshit. We WON'T stand for any holier-than-thou judgmental crap. I could go on, but I'm going to try to be positive.

Oh - and we need to be careful about what we are "Pro". Like these rods who say they are Pro - oh, let's say - butter. "I'm Pro-Butter! The Anti-Butter vortex of evil-doers is out to ruin America!" So then someone says: "But I like cream cheese" and then the Pro-Butter people say: "Why do you hate America?" In the meantime, the Pro-Butter people are secretly paying some wingnut overseas to make fake butter and they are all buying it and selling in in some back alley because they really believe that butter is crap and will kill you. But they don't want to say that because the Butter People have a big PAC or lobby or some damn thing and they've convinced these wipes that if you don't support the Butter Movement, then you are un-American.

See, that was just like, an analogy, because I happen to love butter, and I get real PO'd if I go to a restaurant and all they have is the fake shit.

Moving on.

We support sex. Lots of it. However you happen to like it. Like eggs - some people like scrambled, some people like sunny-side up, some people like three-minute eggs. Whateve. Stay away from kids and other helpless creatures, and don't make anyone have any eggs if they don't like them. Otherwise, yes. Yes, yes, and oh, gawd YES! Because we all know that people who are having sex are happier, peaceful people. And they don't have to play 'my rocket is bigger than yours' because their rockets are happy and just want to go to sleep now, thankyouverymuch. (Rocco helped me write this paragraph. Just saying.)

We support the Freedoms in the Bill of Rights. Speech, assembly, religion, all of 'em. We don't like it when some wingers try to take those away, even if they think it's for a good reason. The founding padres knew WTF they were doing, people. They did the whole king thing and it sucked. So they gave us some pretty basic rules to follow to stay king-free. And we are not doing jack shit to make sure everybody follows the rules. It's time to put the general back in the attorney general's office. And that general has only one commander - the Constitution. Plus, there should be a cool uniform. With boots. Nice boots always help.

We support our troops. Period. Here's what that does NOT mean: it does not mean that we can't ask freaking questions about what in the hell they are fighting for - or when they are coming home, or any other damn thing. I have had it with that crap.

We support choices. All kinds. Like, y'know, what kind of underwear you want to wear. Or not. Whatever. Here's a newsflash. We've got bigass problems, kids. We need to stop worrying about stupid shit like underwear. If you don't like somebody's thong, tell 'em, but don't waste my time trying to make a federal frigging case out of it. Seriously.

We support chocolate. Hear me out on this one. I don't like the smell of cigarette smoke. It gets in my hair and stays. But cigarettes are legal in the USA. Except not. I get the whole second-hand smoke thing, so don't start. But the next thing you know, there is no GD Nat Sherman in Manhattan any more. Which is a total crying shame. I already mentioned the butter thing. And there is the low-fat thing. Here's a clue - if you don't want to eat fat, don't buy the cupcake, dunce. But if I want a whole cake, then do not try to tell me I have to have a fat-free, sugar-free, carb-free, butter-free mess of sawdust. You do not want to get between me and my real cake, pally, and I'm not the only one. So we need to keep an eye on this trend because when they come for my chocolate, there will be tanks in the street. Crank up Les Miz, baby. The revolution's comin'.

Now I've got myself all jazzed up and I need some, um, yeah, chocolate. Maybe some good red wine too. Or champagne. Oh, yeah, that's the other thing - our TLC Party is the Party Party. Wait - that's too much. How about the Pursuit of Happiness Party?

Now, the floor is open for suggestions. (That means it's your turn.)

Meet My Cousin, Rocco

By Me, Margie, who has lots of cousins but only one is guest blogging today

Hi. It’s me, Margie. Today, I have a special treat for you. My cousin Rocco is here and he’s helping me blog. I just love Rocco. Say hi, Rocco.

Rocco: Hi. It’s me, Rocco. lol. That’s Margie’s salutation. Mine is Ciao, Bella! Because everyone is beautiful, am I right?

Me, Margie: Yes, honey, everyone is beautiful. And you look stunning, by the way. Are those new glasses?

Rocco: No, doll, they’re new eyes. Well, new contacts. They’re bright blue and they are fabulous. You should try going blue.

Me, Margie: No sex talk, Rocco. Not your first blog.

Rocco: Right. Like your first blog wasn’t about sex. Face it, Margie, one way or another, everything is about sex. But whateve. Okay, you should go violet – like Elizabeth Taylor. The great beauty of her age, no?

Me, Margie: I don’t put things where they don’t belong, sweetie. You know that. I can’t even put in eye drops. The last time I was at the eye doctor, it took three of them to hold me still for the drops.

Rocco: Oh, Margie. You’re so silly. They weren’t holding you down for the drops.

Me, Margie: Rocco!

Rocco: Sorry. Can I talk now? Good. I am so delighted to be here on TLC – I’ve been a lurker forever, which is so totally not me. I’m usually on the other end of the view, y’know? It’s a Mancini family trait. But now I’m here and I am very excited about it. So, let’s get right to it. Today I want to talk about secrets. Skeletons and whatnot in the closet. We all have them, don’t we? Some people have so many secrets that their closets are bigger than their bedrooms. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, people. Don’t you think we’d all be better off if everyone was honest? I know what you’re thinking - then what would they talk about in all the gossip rags? Plenty, that’s what. Because people will always do something more stupid than you expect. So even if we just cover the reality, it’ll still be a hoot and a half. Take this whole Brittany thing at the VMAs. No secrets there, huh? It was all right out there front and center. And I don’t just mean her flashing at the after parties. She was right out there – no place to hide anything, really (and Britt, sweetheart, next time someone tells you to wear the corset, wear the corset, ‘kay?) and we still had a scadload of things to snip and snap about.

Me, Margie: Geez, Rocco – you told me you were going to blog about fall fashion.

Rocco: I lied. This is better. Fall fashion is a snoozer. Brown-black is the new pink. Feathers. Stark white all year ‘round. Ho-hum. And really, the crop pants? Spare me already. So few men have the calves to pull that off. So, we’re talking secrets. I am loving this plan - and what better place to do it than here on TLC, which is like a big party except you don't have to worry about getting anything on your white carpet. Some people are just pigs. Margie, you go first - tell a secret.

Me, Margie: Are you freaking kidding me with this Rocco? I have no secrets. Have you MET me?! Have you read the blog? I’d have to make up a secret to have a secret.

Rocco: Not so fast, there, Miss Transparent. I know a few things about you that I’ll bet your readers don’t know.

Me, Margie: Rocco, you really do not want to go down this road.

Rocco: Actually, I do. In fact, I just passed you in a hot rod on this road – see me waving? Bye-bye, Margie – remember that summer you used that hair dye in a bunch of places and you turned orange? You looked like a walking cure for scurvy until I fixed it.

Me, Margie: Good lord, Rocco, we were in junior high!

Rocco: Yes, and I remember it just like it was yesterday. Good times, cuz. Or how about the time you called me from that hotel bathroom in Vegas and asked me about the pearl necklace? Or the time when you were learning how to talk and one of your brothers taught you the word ‘dildo’ and you yelled it in the middle of Sunday dinner at Nana's? That is such a fabulous word, dildo. You know, we could…

Me, Margie: Okay, that’s enough sharing time, Rocco. Say goodbye.

Rocco: Ciao, Bella! Not to worry, I’ll be back.

Me, Margie: That remains to be seen, smartass. And if I show up for Sunday dinner and so much as one person makes a crack about citrus fruit, you are a dead man. Just saying.

Rocco: Wait! I didn’t tell my secret: I’m gay.

Me, Margie: Rocco, that hasn’t been a secret since you were ten years old and you wanted to change your name to Coco.

Rocco: I know that, and you know that, but the rest of the TLC party people don’t know it. See, even if some people know, it can still be a secret to other people. So now the rest of you can share something that most people don’t know, okay? It’ll be fun. Go ahead now, tell Rocco your secret. And you can call me Coco – we’re all friends now.