Hypochondriac's Haiku

I wake with chest pain
I hurry to the doctor
Woohoo! It's just gas

I wait an hour
if I haven't keeled over
I think I'm okay

Now my arm is numb
I try hard not to panic
oops - I slept on it

Tiger Haiku

You apologized
for screwing lots of women
I'm supposed to care?

Olympics Haiku

I watch men's skating
thinking of how amazing
they look in those tights

Winning that medal
Must be the ultimate high
Next - ads for toothpaste

You ski with sprained limbs
Trying to ignore the pain
You can scream later

Hitchcock Haiku

Birds flock in a bush
a Tippi Hedren moment
on my way to work

Boston Winter Haiku

We freeze our balls off
lawn chair saves a parking space
winter's a cold bitch

Slip on the black ice
maybe no one saw me fall
I try to look cool

Bare trees black and sharp
Snow floating down from gray skies
covering dog turds

Morning after haiku

He snores next to me
Not sure how I feel today
Should I sneak out now?

His body's so warm
I rest my hand on his heart
Wake up for Round 5

I wake and he's gone
jumbled thoughts swirl in my head
then - toilet flushes

Valentine Haiku

Valentine's coming
Candy companies rejoice
Chocolate overdose

a day for couples
the rest of us grit our teeth
and try not to puke

Cupid shoots arrows
oops - he misses his target
latte springs a leak

A Thong for Grandma

I saw a commercial recently for a nursing home that claims to provide "successful aging." As opposed to unsuccessful aging? What would unsuccessful aging consist of? I suppose if you keel over and die before you get too far into the aging process, that could be considered unsuccessful aging. Or being brain-dead would probably qualify as well.

Maybe unsuccessful aging is not actually managing to age at all, which doesn't really seem like a bad thing, unless you're a vampire or have had so much Botox you can't move any of the muscles in your face. It could also refer to pretending you're not aging, like if you continue to wear a thong and attempt to seduce 25-year-olds even after your boobs have dropped into your shoes.

Or maybe unsuccessful aging is when you start wearing kneehose with miniskirts and plastic rain bonnets. When you start walking around under an umbrella when it's not raining, and wearing a coat when it's eighty degrees, you know you're in big trouble.

Obama, have you reached a verdict?

So Obama was called for jury duty in his former home city of Chicago. Oops. Guess what? He moved.

We can only hope that generating and sending out these notices is automated, and no actual humans are involved. Otherwise, I think we're all in trouble. Next they'll be calling Georgie B. to help decide the fate of some poor shmuck on trial for trying to rob a convenience store with a toy gun. After all, he did so well making important decisions before, didn't he?! How scary would it be to look over at the jurors and see Bushie sitting there with his finger in his ear?

You never hear of A-list actors doing jury duty. I guess if you have to be charged with a crime, there are worse things than staring at George Clooney in the jury box all day. Plus you could pretend you were actually in a movie and not on trial with the possibility of going to a real prison and having to go to the bathroom in public. Not to mention having to eat really bad food. I don't know from experience, but I wouldn't imagine prisons get their supplies from Whole Foods.

Through a Scanner Nudely

In 9 short years, plane travel has become an exercise in patience and the ability to withstand discomfort and humiliation. Not only do we have to take off our shoes with the fervent hope that the smell of our feet doesn't offend our fellow passengers, but now we will have our bodies scanned, electronically stripped, and studied by a guy in a room. Supposedly our faces will be pixelized, thereby encouraging Scanner Guy to leer or jeer at our naked bodies without actually being able to determine who we are when he leaves his post to use the men's room.

What I wonder is, who will be watching him? And how popular will this job be? At first glance, it would seem like a voyeur's wet dream job. But seriously, if you picked 100 people at random, how many would we actually want to see naked? Will the occasional hottie be worth the more common not-so-physically-appealing bodies Scanner Guy will be forced to look at? Will it be worth having to peer at the body of the 85-year-old guy on his way to visit his great-grandchildren, to make sure Great-Grandpa isn't packing explosives in his Depends?

Of course, there may be female scanners too, but will they actually be in different rooms? Chances are, passengers will just have the illusion of gender privacy, but in reality they'll both be looking, in addition to having someone else to make fun of the passengers with. "Hey Bob, look at THAT one! Bet THOSE tits aren't real!"

I heard we might actually be able to choose our terrorist-detection method. If we don't want Scanner Guy to see us naked, we can decide to have someone pat us down and stick their hand in our pants instead. Or we can choose the crotch-sniffing dog method. Hmmm. I'd probably choose Pat-down-Guy if he's cute.

Unfortunately the ordeal isn't over once we make it onto the plane, either. Now we have to do what we can to control our bodily functions in the last hour of the flight, lest we be forced to rush into the bathroom before the flight attendant can strong-arm us, resulting in an international incident and a cover story in TIME. Not exactly how I'd like my 15 minutes of fame.

Post Office BMS

I went to the post office the other day to put the rent check in my landlord's P.O. box. When I got up to the counter, I asked the postal guy to put the letter in the box number indicated on the envelope. He replied, "I can do that for $17.50."

I stared at him. "Are you kidding?"

"No, that's the price for 'Express Mail.'"

I stared at him in disbelief. My mouth may have been hanging open. He grudgingly relented at my shock. "I'll do it, but I'm supposed to charge you," he grumbled, moving toward the back. I managed to say "thank you" with as minimal sarcasm as I could, fervently hoping he didn't toss the envelope in the trash. Of course, if he did he'd be fired and probably arrested, forced to spend New Year's in jail dodging the advances of a no-necked, tattooed guy named Big Leroy.

Now, I know Postal Services hasn't exactly been raking in the bucks in the last few years. Still, to actually charge someone seventeen dollars for walking a few yards and dropping an envelope into a box seems excessive. And calling it "Express Mail??" Express Mail is when you send something to somewhere that isn't in the same 10-feet radius you're standing in, and it goes through a somewhat elaborate process involving several parties to get to its destination the next day because you zoned out on your twin sister's birthday.

I couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't in fact a new regulation, but merely the brainchild of the asshole behind the counter, perhaps hoping to make some bucks. Maybe postal workers now work on commission. Or maybe this type of behavior is a symptom of Bureaucratic Maladjustment Syndrome, or BMS for short. At least it's better than bursting in the door brandishing an Uzi.

Another New Year Haiku

I'm making a list
of some things I'd like this year
George Clooney, you're first.

New Year Haiku

New Year's brings out guilt
People make resolutions
No more porn at work

Economy sucks
Maybe things will look up soon
Obama's trying

Healthcare bill a mess
Sarah Palin interferes
An ignorant skank

Cockle-warming

I recently came across the expression "warm the cockles of my heart." Of course, it's not exactly a new expression, nor am I the first to ponder its obvious implications.

However, I became curious as to what a "cockle" actually is, and looked it up. I learned that a "cockle" is a hairy plant with a purplish flower, commonly found in grain fields and on the side of the road. John Bobbit immediately came to mind at this discovery, though his anatomical mishap was not, of course, in any way connected to the word's origin. The cockle is also a type of sea creature (as in, "cockles and mussels"), which is, apparently, somewhat heart-shaped.

Invariably, this also led me to speculate on the origin of the word "cock," and found that its origin, not surprisingly, doesn't have anything to do with the heart (or the brain). The original meaning was "a male bird." The word was also used to represent aggression in connection to fighting birds. Apparently, because birds have upright posture, the word also came to mean "something that sticks up." Well, okay then.

My Online Dating Saga - "Horny yet Intellectual"

One guy described himself in his profile as "crazily oversexed...with the highest intellectual standards."

Most of us (women) understand that one of these two things does not necessarily preclude the other. I found it amusing that Horny Intellectual Guy was compelled to add the "intellectual standards" part to maximize the possibility that the women reading it would say to themselves, "Ah, he cares about my MIND, too - he's the perfect man!!" Or perhaps, taken literally, it means discussing existentialism between thrusts.

I suppose the "crazily oversexed" part is meant to pique our curiosity. How, one wonders, would "oversexed" actually be defined? If "oversexed" implies the desire (and, we'd have to assume, the ability) to do it more than, say, three times a day, then might "crazily oversexed" refer to three times an hour? Of course, it could refer to content, rather than quantity - maybe only once a day, but involving Saran Wrap, a Barbie doll and a toy giraffe. One can only speculate....