The Lipstick Chronicles

Are You a Bubba or a Bobo ?  Take Our Culture Wars Quiz

by Michele

We're not going to talk about the actual election today.  Talking about the actual election could lead to unpleasantness.  The unpleasantness might go something like this.  I have a candidate.  You have a candidate.  If your candidate is not the same as my candidate, then you are wrong.

Luckily, we don't need to talk about the election, because we have people called pundits to talk about the election for us.  These days, especially on Fox News, most pundits are blonde and have 36-double Ds.  (Real?  I think not.) Some people think this is okay because pundits are so vacuous anyway that they might as well look the part.  Personally I prefer to get my news from somebody with a brain. Such as:

  If I want somebody with a brain who is also gorgeous, I pick:  . (And yes, I know he'll never love me back.)

Even though most pundits are brainless and annoying, for some strange reason it's hard to stop listening to them.  Maybe that's because wherever you go, there they are.  On the radio, on the t.v., in the newspaper, in your house and your car.  They're all saying the same thing.  They're saying that how you vote depends on who you are.  That it's all demographics.  Here's a relatively well-written piece from The Times that makes the demography-is-everything argument.  (Actually, the exit polling does support this.)

When we at TLC learned that voting is all demographics, we got worried that we might be supporting the wrong candidate.  What if we mistakenly voted for someone who is not cool to others in our age and education cohort?  That would be as upsetting as wearing the wrong shoes to an important event.  To address this critical problem, and to help others who might be facing it also, we devised a simple quiz. 

Step One: Answer the questions below to determine which side of the culture gap you fall on. 

A.  My beverage of choice is:

1. A nice cold Budweiser
2. Red Bull
3. A glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc
4. A Venti Skim Latte

B.  I prefer to tote:

1. An AK-47 and extra ammo
2. A gas can for when the tank runs out
3. An Hermes Kelly bag
4. A "green" grocery bag

c.  My idea of a good time is:

1. Hunting
2. NASCAR
3. gardening
4. windsurfing

D.  The degree that added the greatest number of zeros to my income is:

1. the GED
2. the B.A.
3. the M.D.
4. the MRS (Ladies, given recent statistics on backsliding in wage equality, you might want to think twice about this one).

E.  I prefer to cling to:

1. guns
2. my teddy bear
3. the ACLU
4. George Clooney

Now it's time for the moment of truth.  Add up the number of points and correlate your score to your candidate using the simple chart below. (Warning: Write-in votes or drafting nominees at the convention may be necessary.)

• 0-5 points -- Charlton Heston (so what if he's dead?)
• 5-10 points -- Ron Paul
• 10-15 points -- Al Gore
• 15-20 points -- Sean Penn

Voila!  Voting couldn't be easier. 

Dream, Dream, Dream

by Michele                          

Early on in Annie Hall, Woody Allen confesses to Diane Keaton that he's been in psychoanalysis for fifteen years.  "I'm gonna give him one more year," he says of his silent, disapproving Freudian shrink, "and then I'm going to Lourdes." 

What's funny about that line is the idea that after fifteen years, he wants to give his shrink more time.  Why did all those self-involved New Yorkers stay in analysis forever? Because they loved to talk about their dreams, that's why.

In college, I read The Interpretation of Dreams, where Freud spelled out his theory of the unconscious mind.  He believed that many of our most important thoughts aren't accessible on a conscious level but are buried deep below the surface.  The only way to get to them is through our dreams.  Dreams aren't just random moving pictures. They're coded messages from the unconscious, revealing our deepest wants and fears.  Every element of a dream is an important symbol that needs to be plumbed for its meaning.

Freud did all that plumbing and figured out what everyone's dreams mean.  We all know what he said, right?  Sex, sex, sex.  Objects symbolize genitalia and actions symbolize masturbation or sexual intercourse.  Period, end of sentence.  You might think you're dreaming about baking your Aunt Betty a chocolate cake for her birthday.  But really you're dreaming about throwing Aunt Betty down on the kitchen floor, covering her in chocolate body paint and having your way with her.   

Here's a dream dictionary that makes a little more sense.

Recently, I happened to see Fellini's 8 1/2 again for the first time in years, and if you've seen that film you'll remember that it opens with the all-time greatest dream sequence ever filmed, starring this man -- .  Mmmmm.  Eat your heart out, George Clooney.

But the real reason I've been thinking about dreams is that my recurring anxiety dream has suddenly changed. I've always been partial to the test dream.  You know that one.  You show up for class, and not only is it the day of the final exam and you didn't know it, but you forgot to do any of the reading, ever.  Or maybe you were never even registered for that class in the first place, but you still have to take the test.  Or maybe all of that, plus you're naked.  Those are the anxiety dreams I know and love. 

But now I have a completely different anxiety dream, and it's very upsetting. In the new one, I'm in an airport far, far away, and I urgently need to get back home.  I look at my ticket and see that my flight is leaving in a few minutes, but it's leaving from a gate in another terminal that I can't possibly get to in time.  Sometimes it's even leaving from a different airport altogether.  And sometimes I get to the gate, but I forgot my ticket and they won't let me board.  Bottom line, I can't get home.

What does this dream mean?  Simple.  I want to do it with Aunt Betty.

by Michele

                                   

Welcome to Our Virtual 1000th Anniversary Party!

There's too much crappy news in the world, folks, but here's an antidote.  Today marks our 1000th blog here at The Lipstick Chronicles, and we're celebrating!  Can you believe it-- we've been sharing laughs, sorrows, joys, sexual predilections and pet peeves with you for ONE THOUSAND BLOGS!  Me being a great party planner, and my blog day falling on the one thousandth blog anniversary, the other Tarts put me in charge of throwing the party.  What was I aiming for?  Glamour and excess, natch!

My first task was to pick a virtual location. I had to plan for one to two thousand guests, since that's how many unique visitors we get each day here at TLC, and naturally, everyone is invited.  (Although loyalty has its rewards.  Regular posters, you know who you are.  Stop at the concierge desk in the lobby to pick up your wristbands for admission to VIP entertainment suites and swag rooms!) 

Today's party is taking place at the Bellagio on the Las Vagas strip. Plenty of fountains to jump into! 

    The Bellagio not in your backyard?  No worries! My brother Michael and his pilot buddies are running virtual private jet shuttles. Just give a holler and wave a colorful scarf or interesting hat when you're ready to get picked up.  Once on board, the champagne starts flowing and doesn't stop!

The food is to-die-for, because there's a branch of Le Cirque at the Bellagio.  They'll be passing exquisite virtual hors d'ouevres all day long, and providing mind-boggling buffets for lunch and dinner.  No boring banquet-style sit-down meals at this party!  We all need to be free to mix and mingle and take advantage of the fantastic entertainment, not to mention the swag suites and free hotel rooms (to spend some private moments with those we meet along the way.  Just do the secret TLC hand signal and the concierge will give you a key.)  The bar is open all day, and if you don't feel like waiting in line, just flag down one of the many waiters circulating with trays of mojitos.

           

As for virtual entertainment, Jerry Seinfeld and Chris Rock are doing stand-up throughout the day.  And if you stay for the big midnight send-off -- when our fireworks are timed to dance along with the Bellagio's fabulous fountains -- the Stones will be performing.  (Hey, if they're good enough for Bill Clinton . . . .)  But there's more!  If you're lucky enough to qualify for a VIP wristband, your entertainment options are even more lavish.  Stop by any of our ten (count 'em!) super-top secret entertainment suites, where famous music personalities and movie stars will perform for you in more intimate settings.  Don't see the star of your dreams on our marquee?  Never fear! B.Y.O.C. (bring your own celebrity) -- just let us know who you want and we'll get 'em in here. 

Now, what's your role in all this?  To have fun, of course, and then to tell us about it.  Come in, enjoy, and post below about what you saw, what you wore, who you met, what you ate, what swag you nabbed, what entertainment made your heart sing, and who did what to whom. Delicious gossip and lurid tales are much encouraged, because here at TLC, the party never ends!

                                           

Death to Pantyhose

by Michele

Recently I was thinking about head gear.  The heroine of my favorite series of time travel books, a thoroughly modern Twentieth Century woman, found herself in the Eighteenth Century and absolutely refused to wear a kerch.  What the hell is a kerch? I wondered, and why would she rather piss people off than wear one?  I'd just had a similar experience trying to visualize the racy "French hood" made popular by Anne Boleyn -- until the movie poster for "The Other Boleyn Girl" came out and I saw Natalie Portman wearing a kind of saucer thing on her head.  Wouldn't you know, my kerch question got answered in the same way.  Last weekend I watched the premiere of "John Adams" on HBO, and there was the admirable Laura Linney wearing a stupid little scrap of lace that I wouldn't be caught dead in either.  Aha, kerch!, I thought, no wonder.  Even worse were the men in their ridiculous wigs. I'm sure everyone's happy we dispensed with that nonsense centuries ago. 

                                                

Kerches and French hoods naturally set me thinking about JFK's inaugural address and its great unintended consequence -- the death of the modern millinery trade.  One guy takes off his hat to give a speech, and suddenly sartorial history is cut into two parts.  The part where you wouldn't any more leave the house without your hat than without your shoes or your pants, and the part where wearing a hat marks you as a weirdo.   Think about it, who just wears a hat any more?  Monica Lewinsky in her black beret? Proves my point; Miss Fashion Savvy she ain't.  The fedora and the pillbox have gone the way of the French hood and the kerch.  People reading about them in the 22nd Century won't even be able to imagine them without visual aids.

I'd been ruminating about head gear for a while when I had a sudden revelation.  Hats aren't the last thing to fall into the fashion black hole, and they're not the most important either.  A week or so ago, I was admiring the pedicure of Kelley from the Lee County Library System at an event in Fort Myers.  (There's your shout-out, Kelley.  Now you'd better post!)  Kelley had elaborate designs painted on her toes, flowers in black, white and silver.  Fancy pedicures were de rigeur in Florida, she explained, since women no longer wear panty hose.

She was right.  We've been liberated!  I was born and raised in the era of pantyhose, and I have lived to witness its death.  This, to me, is a much greater historical moment than the fall of the powdered wig.

I'd sort of realized this a number of years earlier, based on my experiences as a woman lawyer wearing  -- or not wearing --pants to work.  The year I started in the U.S. Attorney's Office, Bill Clinton was President and Janet Reno was Attorney General.  My boss in General Crimes was a tough woman, a liberal and a feminist.  My first week on the job, she called me into her office.  "You're pantsuit is beautiful," she said, "but you can't wear it to the office.  Pants are not appropriate for a woman in the courtroom."  I was pissed, but I listened, especially since she told me that certain male judges might refuse to let me appear in their courtrooms if I was wearing pants.  Who wants to risk humiliation like that, even at the hands of some crotchety old geezer whose days on the bench are numbered? 

For the eight years that I served, I heeded her advice and wore skirts to work without fail.  Then one day toward the end of my tenure, I made a bunch of arrests on a big case and spent some time doing bail hearings in magistrate's court, a place that as a senior prosecutor, I rarely visited.  All the baby prosecutors were hanging out there, stuck with bail duty.  I didn't recognize them or know their names, but one thing I couldn't miss.  The young female prosecutors all wore pants.

I looked down at my outfit -- skirt suit, with the skirt hitting above the knee, and heels.  I look like a slut, I thought.  They look like professionals. It was obvious.  Women in pants are taken more seriously.  Women in pants are de-sexed.  Nobody's looking at your legs while you're arguing legal precedent.  And moreover -- no more pantyhose!!! No more huge runs just when you have to stand up to deliver your summation.  No more feeling like your nether regions are tied up in a strait jacket.  No more wading through the pile of ratty old hose, none of which are presentable to wear.  No more freezing legs in winter time.                                                

   Hallelujah!

Fabulous news, Tart fans!  Our very own Elaine Viets just won the Lefty for Most Humorous Mystery for her book Murder With Reservations.  We're so proud.  Congratulations, Elaine! 

Climate Change

by Michele

No, this isn't a blog about global warming.  If I were experiencing a little more warming at the moment, I might be capable of writing about something other than the weather.  This is a blog about moving from a moderate climate to an extreme one, from a climate I could handle to one I can't.  It's about knowing your own weather personality profile, and choosing to flout it anyway, and what happens to you when you do something that self-destructive.  Take this blog as a cautionary tale.

After a day (yesterday) in which I was thrilled to see fourteen straight hours of driving rain because hey, at least it wasn't more snow, today we're back to normal -- meaning frigid temperatures and snow flurries.  I woke up to find that the rain hadn't washed away the thigh-deep snow in my backyard.  Of course not!  That snow is too resilient and durable to bow down before something as wimpy as biblical flooding.  The snow here is supernatural.  You can't kill it.  If I go out there and attack it with my blow dryer or pots of boiling water, it comes back deeper and stronger and more determined to defeat me.  (I now understand Jack Nicholson's meltdown in The Shining much more deeply than I used to.  All snow and no sun makes Jack a dull boy.)  I haven't seen the ground since November, and I don't expect to see it until late April.  Which means that I somehow allowed myself to move to a place where there is snow on the ground for fully six months of the year.

There are people who like this weather.  Two of those people are my husband and my older son.  They go outside without coats when it's twenty degrees.  They see a forecast of more snow and instead of curling into a ball, sobbing, and reaching for another bottle of red wine, they get out their skis.  I can't be like that, and it's not my fault.  One's tolerance for cold is hereditary.  I have this weird allergy.  I am allergic to the cold.  This is not a joke!  If my skin is exposed to the cold for an extended period of time, I break out in hives.  This means it is my weather destiny to live in a warm climate, yet here I am.

Everyone wants to live in a  warm climate, right?  Millions of people retire to Florida.  Millions more pay good money to vacation to tropical islands.  All for love of sunshine and warmth, and for hatred of cold.  But I've recently learned that not everybody shares these views.  I know.  Shocking, right?  There are people who prefer, if not truly cold climates like the one I now live in, at least places with a real winter.  My own father, who was born in Puerto Rico into a climate I would kill to live in, spent some of his happiest times in Alaska, and loved the seasons.  He had no interest in the tropics.  Why is this?  I can't understand.  Can someone explain why cold is attractive?  Doesn't it hurt you the way it does me?  People?  Don't you know you can die from it?  The cold is your enemy!

How much did weather figure in where you decided to live?  For me, three of my happiest years were spent in California, in Palo Alto.  Why?  To paraphrase Bill Clinton, it's the weather, stupid.  (I don't count the fourth year I spent in San Francisco, which has one of the suckiest climates in the world.)  Palo Alto had the perfect Mediterranean climate.  Yes, we had earthquakes.  Yes, we had the occasional wildfire in dry season.  But these earthquakes and fires were manageable and they didn't last for six months out of the year.  Bring on earthquakes.  Bring on fires.  Tornadoes?  Yes.  Hurricanes?  Hell, yeah.  I can handle it all.  Just get this damn snow out of my back yard.

There is nothing I can do.  I'm here for another decade at least.  Vacations -- well, you can't vacation for six months out of each year (although, believe me, sometimes I think I ought to I try that).  I need a more creative solution.  But so far, all I've come up with is taking over the garage, filling it with sand, planting a few palm trees, buying a hammock, installing sun lamps, and pretending I actually live in Puerto Rico. 

Nah, that won't work.  I somehow need to reprogram my weather personality profile.  I need to change my weather destiny.  I need some sort of behavior modification or aversion therapy.  Or at least I need another bottle of red wine.   

    

Just a reminder!  Michele's new Melanie Vargas thriller, Notorious, is in bookstores now.  You can read the first two chapters here.  Once you've read them, you'll have all the information you need to enter Michele's exciting new contest and win copies of her books.  And check out this cool podcast at Tony Burton's excellent Crime and Suspense e-zine where Tony interviews Michele about the constant party that is TLC, Notorious and much more.

In other Tart news, because let's face it, we're an awe-inspiring group --

Nancy's latest -- the utterly delicious Murder Melts in Your Mouth -- hits bookstores this week.  Read all about it on Nancy's website, and stay tuned to TLC this week for more info!

Sarah and Harley just finished writing their latest and fab-est books ever.

And Elaine was nominated for an Agatha!

As for Rebecca, well, folks, she's gorgeous and brilliant and keeps the rest of us in line.

Happy Sunday and go Tarts!

We interrupt this blog to bring you an important announcement from our sponsor: Michele's new book, Notorious, hits bookstores tomorrow!  Read the first two chapters here.  Once you've read them, you'll have all the info you need to enter this contest to win autographed copies of Michele's first two Melanie Vargas books.

About to bring a famous rap star to trial for murder, prosecutor Melanie Vargas becomes the sole witness when a car bomb kills the rapper's lawyer.  Her career and her safety are on the line, but so is her heart: Melanie's relationship with the charismatic defense lawyer was more than strictly professional. Publisher's Weekly calls Notorious "exciting" and "engaging," and Romantic Times says "Martinez is at the top of her game. Her writing sparkles in this exceptionally well-written suspense novel."  Read more about Notorious in these great pieces posted at FreshFiction.com and Shades of Romance.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.

The Oscars Suck and I Don't Care

by Michele

As I'm writing this, it's Sunday afternoon and I don't know yet who won the Oscars.  As you're reading this, it's Monday, and I may still not know.  Why?  Because I'm not planning on watching the Oscars tonight.  The first Indiana Jones movie just came in the mail from Netflix.  Raiders of the Lost Ark -- remember that one?  1981!  Nearly thirty years ago now.  Now that was a good movie.  And Harrison Ford, man, he was a real movie star.  Tonight, I'm going to introduce my kids to Indiana Jones, and when I'm done with that, I'm going to do some laundry or get a little extra sleep.  Because I just can't care about the Oscars this year.

No, I'm not one of those people who refuses to see artsy or violent films.  I generally really like both artsy and violent films, and I've seen every single one of the movies nominated for Best Picture (Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood) because I see a lot of movies. But did I like them?  Three of them, no, I was bored out of my mind.  What I'm sick and tired of is this pose that films have taken on in recent times.  You see it a lot in books, too.  The idea is, people are rotten at heart, life is bleak and evil, institutions are corrupt, and violence is the only truth.  Awards judges seem to think this attitude is necessary to render a movie worthy of praise, or at least, nominations.  Yeah, maybe the first five hundred times you see it.  It worked in The Graduate, and Serpico and The Godfather and Scarface.  It worked, for me, as late as Unforgiven, which was made in 1992.  But aren't we done yet?  Can't we come up with something new?

(Two of the movies weren't like that.  Juno and No Country for Old Men both had wicked senses of humor, and likeable characters, and ultimately believed human beings have some intrinsic worth.  For that reason, they seemed fresh and original.  I loved both of those movies, but will either one of them win?  I'd bet against it.  They aren't bleak enough.) 

So I'm casting my protest vote by opting out.  I need movies to have a sense of humor and some redeeming feeling that human beings have value.  I need books to have those qualities, too.  (I'd say I'd like to see women in roles other than that of victim or sex toy, but c'mon, let's be real.)  Not only because films and books are too depressing otherwise, but because they're just boring and pretentious and done-to-death.  And not credible.  How many times can we watch the cliche of the divorced cop with the drinking problem who plants evidence or lies about important matters on the job?  The people writing those characters have never even met a cop.  They've just seen a lot of movies about divorced, drunken, lying cops, and they think that's what they're supposed to write.  But cops aren't like that.  Most cops are funny and decent and possessed of a moral code.  Married, certainly.  A good number are even nice.

So the Oscars suck this year, but here's where we get to the second part of the title of today's blog.  I don't care. The Oscars have become irrelevant to me.  I don't need to care, because I can watch anything I want whenever I want from Netflix, or from the free movies that I DVR.  And probably sometime in the next five or ten years, all I'll have to do is Google a movie, click on the title and it'll play on my tv.  If not a movie, then a tv show.  In the past month, I've watched every single episode of The Office and 30 Rock, and you know what, that made me really happy. Those shows are funny, the writers seem to like people, and I don't want to shoot myself when they're over.  These days, that's saying a lot. 

Now, break out the popcorn and let me at Indiana Jones.

                                                                

Kid Food

by Michele

                                

At our Super Bowl party last weekend, half the guests were under the age of twelve.  The experienced hostess knows that the best way to make sure the grown-ups have fun is to provide the kids with fun of their own -- meaning in a different room, away from their parents, with kid-friendly food, so they don't try to horn in on our action.  The goal is for Mom and Dad to be able to watch the game, eat their BBQ ribs and Buffalo wings and enjoy their adult beverages in peace with no commercial interruptions from the little tykes.  That was my plan, and I thought it was foolproof.  I had the menu all figured out.  My friend Karen's famous pigs-in-blankets (mini hot dogs wrapped in crescent-roll dough and baked till golden).  A huge steaming vat of mac & cheese.  In case that wasn't enough starch, a big bowl of tortilla chips.  And my friend Robin's famous brownies for dessert, topped with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce.

It should have worked.  The parents and the kids should have stayed in their separate corners and had their own types of fun, right? But there was a problem I hadn't foreseen.  The darn parents couldn't keep their greedy paws off the kid food!

Forget re-experiencing childhood through your children's eyes. As far as I'm concerned, one of the best things about having kids is re-experiencing it through their taste buds.  I have never stopped loving grilled cheese sandwiches, mashed potatoes, chicken noodle soup, peanut butter and jelly, and so on.  But before I had kids in the house, I didn't have the excuse to indulge.  I was a foodie living in a foodie town, constrained to a life of frisee salad, sushi and monkfish. (I know -- poor me!)  I can honestly say I'd almost forgotten the joys of a chocolate chip pancake before the little ones came along.  Will that happen again, I wonder, once they're grown and gone?  And what is up with this division between kid food and grown-up food? 

I can understand it from the kid perspective. Young children just aren't ready for jalapeno-crusted swordfish or lamb vindaloo curry.  Their little mouths are sensitive, and I honestly believe that before a certain age, you're better off sticking to the standard kid diet and avoiding the conflict.  (Parenting styles may differ, of course.)

I didn't have truly picky eaters -- you know, the kind who insist on Captain Crunch at every meal and scream if you give them anything else.  But for a long time, my younger kid (who's now eight) wouldn't venture beyond the standard kid diet of chicken breast or chicken nuggets, hot dogs, french fries, mac & cheese, pizza, bagels with cream cheese and jelly, grilled cheese, broccoli, carrots and scrambled eggs -- all doused with ketchup. (Hmm, that actually sounds pretty good.)  If we wanted to so much as go to a Chinese restaurant -- a cuisine most kids love from an early age -- I had to bring along a bagel for him.  And so I did, because I didn't want to ruin my meal or that of the other restaurant patrons with a battle over the food. 

By indulging my kids' taste up to a certain age, we avoided conflict at mealtimes, and they learned to love to eat.  Then we picked an age where they were going to start trying new things -- around six or seven for both of them.  The idea was, part of becoming a big kid was getting more adventurous with your food.  I'll never forget how liberating it was to finally go to an ethnic restaurant and not have to bring special kid food.  Now, as a family, we eat pretty much everything -- Italian, French, Thai, Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, Indian, West African, you name it -- and happily.

But I would hate it if moving my kids toward a more grown-up menu meant losing the kid menu I've rediscovered for myself.  Here's a partial list of kid food items that I now realize I love too much to live without: Kraft mac & cheese, grilled cheese and grilled cheese with ham, tuna melts, plain spaghetti with butter, omelets with Kraft singles melted inside them, oatmeal with brown sugar, waffles, chicken nuggets with tons of ketchup, mozzarella sticks, pigs in blankets, meat loaf, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, graham crackers, s'mores, ice cream sandwiches, Cream of Wheat or Cream of Rice cereal with cinnamon and Oreos.  Oh, and mixing the veggies into the mashed potatoes so you don't taste them!

Sometimes, especially during our long, dark northern winters, I think I'd be happier eating kid food at every meal and forgetting entirely about the frisee salad and sushi.  There's just one little problem, or one big problem, unfortunately, and it's a problem that most young children are thankfully too active to have.  Yeah, I'd weigh about four hundred pounds!  So the kid food needs to fit in there among the healthier and more grown up options.  I'll just have to remember not to pitch a fit when I can't have my chicken nuggets!

Girls' Guide to the Super Bowl

                                          

by Michele

The Tarts don't know any more about football than the average woman, but we are skilled at appreciating big men in tight pants.  When it's halftime at Puppy Bowl, we'll be flipping over to the Super Bowl to check out the wildlife there.  Naturally we want to look smooth while we do it; we like to look smooth at everything we do.  So to better prepare ourselves and as a public service to those of our readers who might be in similar straits, we've put together this handy Girls' Guide to the Super Bowl.

Before we begin, we need to test your football IQ.  Please take the following quiz:

A. Which of these is proper football terminology?

1. Forty-Ninth Parallel.
2. First and Goal.
3. "Those Bums."
4. Third Base.

B.  The sport with the hottest guys is:

1. Football.
2. Baseball.
3. Tennis.
4. Diving.
5. Other [write in].

C.  I would prefer my love child to be fathered and abandoned by:

1. Tom Brady.
2. Eli Manning.
3. Lance Armstrong.
4. Kenneth from 30 Rock.
5. Other [write in].

D.  If I were on a "ticket" with Barack Obama, I would want him to be:

1. On top.
2. On the bottom.
3. There is no wrong answer to this question.
4. Other [write in].

E.  The proper thing to serve at a Super Bowl party is:

1. Buffalo wings.
2. Nachos.
3. Ribs.
4. Beer.
5. Other [write in].
6. All of the above, and plenty of it.

We haven't written a score key, but we're pretty confident you passed that test.  Now you're ready to move on to the "Helpful Hints" section of the guide.

Step 1 -- Rooting  The Super Bowl involves two professional football teams playing a football game against each other.  This year, the teams are called the Giants (from New York) and the Patriots (from New England, a/k/a "the Pats.") People who watch the Super Bowl are expected to care which team wins.  They're expected to care so much that they may engage in any of the following behaviors: yelping, whooping, saying "Yessss!" while pumping fists in air, shouting obscenities at the screen, punching or throwing things.  Any of these are acceptable behaviors at a Super Bowl party, and in fact should be done if you want to fit in.

Step 2 -- Picking a team.  There are several ways to decide which team to root for.  We list them in order of popularity. 

A.  Root for the team your parents rooted for.  This method has a big advantage.  If your team turns out to be bums, losers or cheaters, or to have a dick for a quarterback (see Step 3 below), you just say, "Hey, this is how I was raised."  (Michele was raised to root for the Pats.)

B.  Root for the team that represents your geographical area.  This method has the advantage of not pissing off your neighbors or getting your kids beat up at school.  However, it can lead to rooting for teams you might not want to be associated with. (By the geographical method, Michele roots for the Pats.)

C.  (Applies if your team was previously eliminated in the playoffs).  Root against the team that delivered a humiliating loss to the team you previously selected using methods A or B above.  NOTE -- make sure to prepare snappy rejoinders in advance in case somebody shouts "sour grapes" at you during rooting.

Step 3 -- The players   Viewing the Super Bowl requires some passing familiarity with the players, at least, the ones who throw the passes (known as "quarterbacks.")  The following links will help you prepare for the game and appreciate the pulchritude of two men who, while not perfect, are very pleasant to look at.  Read what Dickipedia has to say about Tom Brady (courtesy of Rebecca the Bookseller) and check out this excellent article in New York Magazine on Eli Manning.

You are now fully prepared to watch the Super Bowl or even to attend a Super Bowl party.  One final word of advice -- remember, it's all about the guys.  And if that doesn't do it for you, there's always Puppy Bowl.

   

Two for One Sale at The Lipstick Chronicles Today!

                                                    

Click here to read Michele's blog on fashion and beauty in the frozen northland in today's Huffington Post.  Michele would love to hear from some Lipstick backbloggers over there!