Like Toxic Tessie? Then Check out the art of Ryan Williamson at Pixel Hate Design.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Superman is a Bills Fan!

Last weekend I went to Stan Lee's Comickaze here in Los Angeles, and I met Superman.

Like for reals.

Dean and Me.
And yes, I was dressed as Bruce Campbell from Army of Darkness. 

You know how everyone has their favorite Doctor Who? Most Whovians are such fans that they even refer to their Doctor only by the number of Doctor they played. Many are huge fans 5, and some swear by 11, and others are like yeah, all of the Doctors are great, but come on, the 10 is THE Doctor. (Because he is.)  Well, the same could be said for Superman. All the Supermans are great, but everyone has their Superman. And my Superman will always be Dean Cain.

I am a huge fan of Lois and Clark, and during the run of the series I learned that Dean had gone into acting after a football injury while playing in the preseason for the Buffalo Bills. I grew up near Buffalo, and have been a Bills fan for as long as I can remember. Dean wrote several episodes of Lois and Clark, I noticed that he'd slip in the name of a Bills teammate every so often into the scripts. (To this day, I still get Larry Kinnebrew's name stuck in my head - I can see why that made one of the episodes!)

I had always hoped to meet Dean and ask him what year he was a Buffalo Bill, and what his jersey number was. I knew all the jersey numbers of the Bills for so many years - hell, I can't remember what 5 x 7 is in my multiplication tables, but I still remember Pete Metzelaars was #88.  What were the odds that the one year my family visited Bills Training Camp in Fredonia, NY was the year he happened to be there? Well last weekend at Comickaze I finally got to ask him that - and it turns out it was the same year!

I have pictures from that trip to Fredonia - six of them. The clearer ones are photos my dad took with his super-nice 35 mm camera, and the crappy ones are ones I took with my first camera ever - a Kodak 110 point and shoot. Most of mine were photos of wherever on the field Leonard Smith, Frank Reich or Bruce Smith happened to be, as they were my favorite players, and you can even see in these scans where I circled them in ballpoint pen on the prints. But I bet, somewhere in one of these photos, is Dean.

He asked me to tweet him the photos, but I'm tweeting him the link to this post instead, since there are six of them and I didn't want to over-tweet. I'm not very good at Twitter, really, though I try. I'm more of an Instagrammer.

It was so awesome to meet Dean, and fun to talk Buffalo Bills with him - I hope he enjoys these photos - if I can tweet it right.

So here you go, Dean!  Enjoy!  And thanks for being so awesome!!

Click on the photos individually to see them bigger.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

WWE's "Total Divas" is a Total Letdown

I finally got to sit down and watch an episode of WWE "Total Divas" last night on the DVR.

My hopes weren't terribly high, considering the show is on E! and the only thing I watch on E! is "The Soup" - a show that lampoons other shows that are on E!. But as a WWE fan - a female WWE fan, at that -  I was hoping for two things going into watching the show:

• Getting to see funny backstage hijinks,

But more importantly:

• An opportunity to see more about the highly talented but drastically underutilized women's division of the WWE.

I was hoping for something along the lines of Ruth Leitman's "Lipstick and Dynamite, Piss and Vinegar." Something that shows the hard work, dedication and guts it takes to be a professional wrestler, let alone a woman in such a testosterone-laced male-dominated profession.

What I got instead was a half hour of grown women obsessing about their boobies not being big enough, and worrying that they're fat.  Oh, but wait! At the end of the episode they say they have to love their bodies as they are, because they have to be role models, which isn't really an admission of liking yourself, really. It's like they're saying "it's ok, impressionable girls who might be watching this episode, just ignore everything we said up to that point."

I should clarify that not all of the Divas on the episode were doing this, and the three in question were probably doing it because it was scripted in some fashion for them. The problem I have with it is the WWE Marketing Machine which made them feel they had to do this in the first place.

As a rule, the WWE tends to completely ignore their female fan base. Go to the WWE Shopzone and search 'women's clothes' and you'll see what I mean. Their main demographic is young and adolescent males, and catering to their hormones makes the most business sense to them - Brie Bella said as much in this episode. But you know what? Those males have sisters, cousins, friends who are into WWE also, and the message you are sending them is that in order to be successful, you have to look and act a certain way. It's no different than fashion magazines airbrushing out skin realities or photoshopping a perfectly gorgeous size 10 down to a size 0. And it creates unrealistic expectations for the boys watching the shows about what women and girls should be like in reality.

The WWE will usually have one women's match per show on its two main weekly shows, Monday Night's "RAW" and  Friday Night's "Smackdown."  RAW is a three-hour show.  That's one match, in three hours, despite having 17 women on the roster. I think about an hour and a half of "RAW" is threats and yelling between the various male wrestlers. Frankly, I'd MUCH rather see Natalya vs Tamina than listen to Paul Heyman' fork-stuck-in-a-garbage-disposal-sounding voice yell any day. And the women's division championship belt? It was redesigned a few years ago from looking like a proper championship belt, like the men's division, to a pink, sparkly butterfly belt. Spare me.

Sometimes they don't even air the women's matches on the telecast. Rarely do you get to see them in action during the highly promoted Pay-Per-Views either, though the WWE is quick to use their images and boobs to promote the hell out of said Pay-Per-Views. Last year, while watching a Divas promo just before Wrestlemania 28 started, I tweeted this: "Nowhere in that @WWE Divas promo did they show or mention the Divas ACTUALLY wrestling." It was a 2 minute long promo, and not even one glimpse of actual wrestling.

The thing is, all the Divas in the women's division are very good athletes, and rarely get more than 2 minutes in the ring to show it. I love the Funkadactyls - I see they are starting to get a push, and with Natalya no less, who is hugely talented herself. Tamina Snuka is fantastic, and Layla is too. The WWE has a great bank of talent in its women's roster - they should use that roster to show that these women can put on a great match as well as any of the male wrestlers do. Calling them "Divas" in itself is obnoxious - why not call both the men and the women "Superstars?" Why divide them in the first place?

The fact is, the WWE has a great opportunity with "Total Divas" to promote the fact that these women are tough, talented and work really hard. To spend the episode obsessing over their bodies was a sad waste of an hour. Instead of Nikki Bella reading a tweet that said she was fat and responding with "That made me sad," she could have said, "Who cares what you think? I love me!"  I like that she has dessert or a glass of wine with her meals, and that she is curvy. Because you know what? Most of us are. And that's fantastic. Her sister, Brie, obsessing over losing three more pounds (from where?!) is a perfect example of the BS we are fed as women about what it means to "look beautiful." The only voice of reason on that episode was Trinity, who tried to talk sense into Cameron, telling her she didn't need a boob job, and and that the boob job would get in the way of her actual work performance.

So how about it, Vince? How about stepping into this century and letting your women's division do what they're supposed to do? Let them kick some more butt, let them promote healthier body image, and let them inspire other girls to be tough and strong, and proud. Because right now, you're not providing programming for your female audience; you're lampooning it.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Writing, but elsewhere

Greetings, Hazmat Fans!

I have been MIA from Hazmat of late, but I have been writing. No, really! See that ticker off in the right hand column there? I completed NaNoWriMo this year and have a finished (if very rough) draft of a novel. Big WOO HOO there!

I've also been writing over at Fiction 365 too. HERE's a link to those shenanigans. It's a really cool site, and if any of you dabble in the land of fiction, you should check it out and submit some things there too.

There are other things in the works here in Hazmatland too ...  2012 will be a busy year for The Hazmat Crew.  Stay tuned for some more awesomeness in the next few months!

Monday, May 09, 2011

Invisible Hero

Here's a shameless plug for my friends' new Web Series - "Invisible Hero" - check it out!!

Thursday, October 07, 2010

A Farewell to Beantown

Dear Boston,

I’m leaving. I’m sorry to tell you this way, but it’s for the best. It’s not you … it’s me. It’s just not working out. I think I’ve outgrown you, and I need to move on. You’re just not what I need anymore.

It’s not anything you’ve done – in fact, without you in my life the last 4 years, I would not have grown into the person I am. I’ll miss aspects of you very much. I’ll miss walking around and seeing history at every turn. I’ll miss your old buildings and houses, your cobblestones and old graveyards, your harborwalk and your skyline. I’ll miss your inhabitants and their pride in their hometown, sports teams, and accent. (And yes, I’ll miss the accent. I grew up a New Kids fan – I find the accent endearing.) I feel privileged to have lived in Boston for four years, to have showed scores of our family and friends around, to have absorbed so much history and culture from the city and surrounding suburbs.

I’ll miss Arlington very much, especially The Costume Company, and The Book Rack, the Gail Ann Coffee Shop, Fitness First, and Menotomy Rocks Park. I’ll miss eating at Tango, and Not Your Average Joe’s, and Tryst, and Chilly Cow. I’ll miss walking on the Bike Path and saying “on your left” to the cyclists that fly by me and nearly take off my arm as they pass without a warning. I’ll miss yelling at those same cyclists who whiz by me on the sidewalk, past the big red signs in Arlington Center that say “No Bicycles on Sidewalks.” I will not at all miss commuting on the MBTA, except that now I will have to find something new to tweet about.

Most of all, I’ll miss the people I’ve met, lived near, and worked with in the Boston area. Outside of their vehicles, Bostonians are the nicest, friendliest people of any city I’ve lived in. They’re fiercely proud of their city, and well they should be. (They just drive like brain-crazed zombies on crack.)

But even with all that, it’s just not enough for me. I’ve always been a Californian at heart, even when I was a kid and had never been there. I always knew it was where I was destined to end up, and having previously lived in California and left, I now know that nothing else could ever fill its place. And so to California I return. I need the West Coast - the sun, the heat, the creative, laid-back atmosphere – it’s in my blood, and my heart, and my head. Nothing else will suffice, and though Boston has been a wonderful adventure, it’s not home.

So Boston, I hope you understand. I’ll always have a special place in my heart for you, and I hope that we can still be friends. I promise to never root against the Sox, to always root against the Patriots (sorry, folks, Bills fan to the core!) and to never take sides between the Celtics and the Lakers.

We’ll always have The Burren.

With Love,

The Hazmat Headmistress

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Free Magazine Meltdown

Today, when I got home from work and checked my mail, there were two issues of "Parenting, Early Years" waiting for me. I never subscribed to this magazine, but here it was, with my full name and address on it, like I would be waiting with bated breath for it to arrive in my mail. But more confounding than the mystery subscription is the subject matter of the publication - I am not a parent.

I flipped one open to the masthead and found the number for subscription customer service and gave them a call. When I finally navigated my way through the automated menu to a human, she looked up my info and told me that I was subscribed automatically from an order I had placed on an online shopping site.

So the customer service representative gives me the number for the marketing company who handles subscriptions for the site I ordered from. So I call it - a bleak automated system that does not allow any talking to an actual human. My address and demographics were shared by the online company to the marketing group, and that I didn't even need to click any boxes at the end of my order for this. Apparently, my subscription was a 'gift' and 'costs me nothing' and was a 'courtesy.'

Courtesy? Courtesy?! Let's think about this: Your jerk demographics analysts assume that because I am a thirtysomething, married female that I must have small children at home. Well fuck you very much, demographics mongers, but I don't have kids. And I don't want children, yet. (Because then I could not freely say 'fuck you very much' without worry of it being parroted by a toddler, among other far more reasonable reasons I don't want to be a parent yet.) It's bad enough people assume that I want to have kids just because I'm thirtysomething and married, when it's really none of their business what goes on in my uterus. I don't need my mailbox trying to send me hints too.

But further - what if I couldn't have children? What if it was my biggest wish, my hugest desire, and it was impossible for me, and you and your demographic marketing geniuses are sending me this magazine assuming that I can? How about pouring battery acid into my eye sockets? Or stabbing me with rusty tools after my 10 year tetanus shot limit has run out and I haven't gotten a booster? I imagine that's about as nice as it would feel to someone struggling to procreate getting parenting magazines in the mail. Hey, prisoner chained to the wall and starving to death, let's dangle this amazing steak two inches too far away from you. I bet that doesn't show up on your numerical age-gender-marital-status printouts, does it?

Let's really think about this - I'm a thirtysomething married female. There are plenty of benign magazine subjects that you could have chosen from besides parenting. Chances are, you send me a fashion magazine or an interior decorating magazine, I'll eat that shit right up. And be less inclined to send you an angry letter, write an angry blog post, and call your 800 number all angry. And, by the way, lose you that subscription you forced on me.

I feel bad for that, because Parenting Magazine is, I'm sure, a fine publication. I've worked in the publishing industry for years, and I know how valuable a subscription is. I just don't think this marketing company is doing the magazine any justice by forcing it on people based on their demographics.

I gave the magazines to my sister, who is a thirtysomethibng mother of two. Maybe she'll subscribe, and the balance will be restored. Either that, or some online company will send her "SciFi Monthly" and we can trade.

Updated - 1/31/11

Remember THE ABOVE, wherein I vented my frustration about my demographics being presumptive and how I found that, let's say, mildly annoying?

Well, it continues. Last week I received the latest issue of 'Parenting, Early Years' magazine. Even after calling and canceling my 'free complimentary subscription' just after writing that blog post. Not only did they not cancel my subscription, but it has my new address on it. Not forwarded, like the rest of my magazines; my actual new address, printed right on the front of it - 3000 miles away from my previous address. So maybe they did cancel my subscription, and this is a new subscription, and they're just stalking me. Either way, in the four months since that last blog post, I still don't have kids, and don't plan on having kids.

For the second time, I called the company that first signed me up for the magazine. (Whom I didn't call out in the previous blog post, but I will here: it was VistaPrint, whose products I love and use often.) I told them what a regular customer I am, and how I appreciate them thinking of me, but I expressed my displeasure with having to call a second time to cancel a magazine that I didn't even sign up for. They assured me that they would cancel the subscription for me. We shall see.

Today upon checking the mail, hoping my new California drivers license will finally be here after three months of waiting, I find that Gerber Life Insurance has started sending me junk mail that starts with the sentence 'Caring mothers like you know how important it is to plan ahead for your baby's future.' If by 'baby' you mean 'cat,' then we're on the same page. I called Gerber to request being removed from their mailing list, and they were very friendly about it, but said I could not have a policy for my cat. (Oh well, it was worth a shot.)

Every time I log into Facebook and go to my profile page, there are a series of ads that run down the side of the right column. For the last year, there has consistently been at least one ad about 'my baby' or 'being a mommy.' Facebook gives you the option to click out of the ad, and give them feedback so that they can 'find ads that better suit your interests.' And every time a baby ad comes up, I click out of it, and put in the 'other' category "I AM NOT A MOM! TAKE YOUR STUPID DEMOGRAPHICS AND SHOVE THEM!" I do it in all caps, just like that, but sometimes I change up the wording, to keep them guessing. Sometimes it has swears. By sometimes I mean all the times.

Am I going to be continuously barraged with baby mail now, just because I am thirty-something and married in Demographicland? I love my sisters' kids and my friends' kids, but I am cool with being the fun aunt and the fun mom's friend for now. Why does the Big Brother of Marketing think that my clock should be ticking? Why does society? Maybe not all of us want to be mommies. That's okay, you know. I like sleeping in, and traveling, and sleeping through the night, and not changing diapers, and that whole sleeping thing. After watching my sisters be mommies I can say I have a healthy respect for how hard mommies work, and how much joy they get out of it. But it's just not for me. Maybe someday I will change my mind, but as of right now, I hear no ticking. Clock is quiet. And I get to sleep in.

You know, Big Brother of Marketing, there are a lots of things about me that skew your all-knowing demographics. No matter what you think you have in your database about me, you can't figure me out. Really. Sure, I'm a thirty-something married female, but I love SciFi and Pro-Wrestling, not designer handbags and chick flicks. I'd much rather watch Ghost Hunters than Gilmore Girls, and I have never, ever seen an episode of Oprah. And if you asked me, I could name any Buffalo Bills player from the 1992-1995 seasons by number, but I can't name every character from 'Sex In The City.'

But don't worry, Big Brother of Marketing, there is one thing that fits my demographic with me that you can feel free to send me. I will give you this: I love HGTV, and I love interior design magazines. You send me those, and we will be best friends. Can we just go that route instead, and call it even? Please? If not for me, then for the environment. Think of all the paper, ink and envelopes wasted on your all-knowing demographics.

Save a tree. And leave my biological clock out of this.

UPDATED 2/24/11

(Refer to THE ABOVE for previous discussions about this topic.)

Had another issue of 'Parenting: Early Years' show up in my mail today, after calling VistaPrint three times in the last six months to tell them to unsubscribe me from this "free courtesy subscription." I hope they recorded today's customer service call for posterity because it's the last time I'm going to be even remotely nice about it.

It makes me wonder how many companies are wasting time, money, and resources on these magical 'demographics' numbers, and how many of them completely miss the mark like in this particular instance. How many other people like me out there are being crapped on by statistics, and are they speaking up about it too? Maybe I'm the only one, though I find that hard to believe. And even if the majority rules, in this instance, that doesn't mean that we demographics-skewers should have to be quiet and just accept the junk mail and the irritating assumptions of companies out to make a buck.

But most importantly, how much waste is this creating? How much wasted ink and paper? How much wasted time? How much wasted effort? Is it really worth it?

Maybe this is why I ended up with a 'C' in Intro to Business.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Maya-pologies ...

... at least, that's what Roland Emmerich should be saying to, like, everyone, for making "2012."

My husband and I watched it last night because it popped into our Blockbuster Online queue and, well, I should think the below screen shots of our running commentary on Facebook should serve as an apt review of the movie. (The only thing it was missing that would have completed the horrible, terrible, awful badness of the movie were shots of hapless whales rolling through the multiple tsunamis.)


Thursday, July 01, 2010

Stride and Seek

I’ve started running again. Not from the law or from the truth, just wanting to get back into shape. When I was in high school I ran cross-country and track, all distance events. I’ve never been much of a sprinter, and the one field event I tried – long jump – I ended up spraining my back in the process. (Yes, it is totally possible to sprain your back, and it hurts like hell, I can tell you.) I played basketball for a few years in junior high and high school, but though my lay-up skillz were not bad, I wasn’t very aggressive on the court.

My days playing center bench in high school.

I was too timid to run up to someone and knock them down, steal the ball, and leave fingernail scratches on their arm in the process – that’s how a lot of our opposing teams played. I spent most of my basketball career making sure the bench didn’t move. My coach would take pity on me for the last 2 minutes of each half of the game and put me in – if we were losing and there was no hope of catching the score up. But distance running, that was something I could do, and I loved it.

We were awesome.

I was by no means the fastest. And for a time, I was certainly slowest. But once I hit my stride, I was usually somewhere solidly in the middle of the pack. I was even ok enough to be second leg on a relay team. And for the full 5 years I ran, our girls’ cross-country team was undefeated; I think I may have contributed to some of that a time or two, though others were by far the solid points-getters for the team. I didn’t enjoy track as much as cross-country. There was a certain Zen to running through woods and fields, with uphills and downhills and rocks and tree roots; it felt like more of a challenge than running in circles for three miles and trying to keep track of which lap you were on. I loved the earthy, muddy scent of the trail mixed with the woodsy pine and dried leaf smell of the course. Once you were out there on the course, it was you, your stride, and the runners ahead of you that you intended to pick off one by one as the three miles ticked on by.

It’s been several years since I’ve done any kind of running. I’ve tried a few times since high school to get back into it, each time whining and wheezing myself out of it. There is substantially more of me than there was back then, and things bounce and jiggle in ways that they never did when I was seventeen, which makes for all kind of psyching myself out. But over the last three weeks, I’ve been running again, and I seem to have found my missing stride. It started out as an experiment; I discovered, after doing the Relay For Life at our local high school track, that this school has one of the cool cushy tracks that our track team only visited – the kind that absorbs the shock of your footsteps and helps propel you forward, while going easy on your knees. (For those of you reading this who might have been on my track team, think Hornell or Campbell-Savona’s tracks.) I started telling my husband that these were always the best tracks to run on – I got all of my best times on the cushy tracks. (Our school had a cinder track, which was decidedly less cushy and absolutely not fun to fall and skin your knees on.) I told him offhandedly that, instead of one of our evening strolls, we should go down to the school’s track and try jogging on it. So on a whim, we did. And it wasn’t bad at all.

I started out with jogging a mile, with a substantial warm-up and cool-down walk each time, just to ease myself back into it. I decided that I would jog slow - slower even than I walk, just to get the rhythm of running and breathing back. It’s been 3 weeks of intermittent convincing ourselves to go to the track, but suddenly, the mile is becoming easier to do. So on to two miles! And other places to run! Last night, my husband and I walked up to a nearby park and ran the trails through the forest, and the joy of running cross-country flooded back to me. I forgot my pedometer, so I have no idea how far we ran in miles, but it was a good run with some substantial hills, and we ran at a good clip. I’m looking forward to finding more places nearby to run like that!

I’m not going to go ahead here and say that I can call myself a runner again; I’m wary of jinxing my rekindled enthusiasm for running, lest I talk myself out of it again. And I’m not going to commit to ever running races again, for fear that I won’t follow through. But I have to say, it feels really good to be back in my Nikes.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

4 a.m. This Morning, Chirped The Bird of Insanity

Ok, birds, I know the sky is getting lighter at 4 a.m. these days and all, but holy mother of God, could you please shut the hell up? This bird was non stop for an hour. AN HOUR. Imagine this, in high pitched angry squawking: "EEAAAGH!! EEAAAGH!! EEEEAAAAAGH!!" What the hell did this bird have to be so angry about? Seriously, it was pissed off. Some other bird must have gotten all up in its grill and it wasn't having any of it, and it wanted everything in the animal kingdom to know that it was mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

It was just far enough away in a tree that I couldn't clearly see it or reach it with anything I could throw. But still close enough to annoy the ever-living crap out of me. It was as constant as an alarm clock, for a full hour. I don't know if birds breathe - I assume they have some sort of oxygen intake system but I can't remember my 10th grade biology right now. I'll Google it later. Anyway, if birds do breathe like we do, then this bird was like one of those musicians who practice circular breathing to keep continuous sound coming from their instrument. (Ok, well now that I've had to Google circular breathing, I might as well Google how birds breathe. (Oh, yeah! 10th grade bio is all coming back to me now ...) I totally get now why that bird didn't stop to take a breath - it didn't have to. So it just kept screaming.

I eventually got up and shut the window, pulling out the box fan that was keeping us somewhat cool with morning air. I knew this would mean we would swelter as the sun crept higher, but I needed to drown out that damn bird. But it didn't help.

So I put the iPod in its dock on to soothing New Age spa music. But alas, the bird chirped through it.

Next I put the fan up a notch to drown it out with white noise, and we needed more air anyway since I closed the windows. Still didn't help.

So I put on the "naturescapes" sound machine, set to rolling thunderstorm. STILL didn't help. That bird was bent on ruining my zzz's.

So, as a last ditch effort, I pulled out the foam ear plugs. I hate wearing these to sleep in. It's totally umcomfortable to sleep on my side with them in my ears, and once they're in, all I can hear is my own heart and lungs. And that, to me, is just freaky. I'm glad to know they're in there and working fine, but I don't need to hear them doing their thing. But guess what? I STILL HEARD THE FRICKIN BIRD!! It was muffled, it was in the way distance, behind my heartbeat and the thunder and the fan and my iPod, but it was still there. I think eventual frustration coupled with exhaustion helped me finally drift off, but I dread tomorrow morning, and the imminent return of the pissed-off avian.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Stories From The Fridge

When friends and family come to visit, it is a true joy to open your home to them and share your bounty with warm and loving hearts.

According to

In the day of genteel manners and formal introductions, the exchange of calling cards was a social custom that was essential in developing friendships. The custom of carrying calling or visiting cards began in France in the early 1800's. It quickly spread throughout Europe, and then became vastly popular in the United States, especially the New England area from 1840-1900. Calling cards were carried primarily by the "well-to-do" ladies who made a point to go calling on friends and family on a specified day of the week or month, depending on their location and proximity to neighbors. The gracious reserve of a simple calling card is a gentle reminder of one's presence, and the care poured into a finely crafted card is a welcome courtesy.

I'm not sure that calling cards themselves are much used in this day and age, but our home has it's own breed of calling card that people leave with us after their visits: Magnetic Poetry. We have four editions of Magnetic Poetry on our fridge; Regular, Genius Edition, Wizard of Oz, and the STA Travel set. With this odd mix of sets, our friends and family have left an abundance of modern-day calling cards on our fridge. Here is a sampling of their creative wit.

Never shake crass drunk woman.

Beneath a sanguine moon, the wicked munchkins cry-d for blood.

So droll you are, with your turgid sausages.

They elaborated together with zeal, like a thousand verbose miscreants caterwauling together.

Beat the lazy fluffy hippie.

Auntie Em's diggity purple butt is tantamount to a nefarious symphony of lust.

Manipulate my mellifluous moment.

Space dog absconds with raw man parts.

Scream: Me want house!

Veil of the delirious goddess: Chocolate time is gone - say in love with the TV.

I have a waxing urge to frantic-ly smear my down under drool over your enormously pendulous and luscious breasts. Cheers!

Melting beauty never boors summer penguins.

Monkey hair makes my winkie sweat.

Sing storm - remember, must always drink up.

Happy lollipop. Always American.

We love the mooning.

Elucidate salient question that could gall vapid woman.

Language over the bitter spring finger.

Sad kids produce ridiculous dreams of great Kansas.

Crazy Dorothy had a broomstick and somewhere to expunge all the obtuse wizards from.

No more festivals sadness. Come Munchkinland, me & you.

Peach & Puppy rainbows, love.

Needless to say ... our friends and family are an interesting bunch!