The dazzling Annemarie will be staying with me for a few days starting tonight, and since we all know that the thought of a house guest silently judging me is the lone catalyst for getting me to clean, like, really clean, there were a few items I needed to pick up last night as a means to this end. Here's what was on my small but essential shopping list:
New shower curtain
Rubber cleaning gloves
A large sheet of plastic (?)
Kitty Litter
Except for the plastic, which I'll explain in a second and really was followed by a (?) as if even my subconscious was like, "gee willickers, that's zany--seems like some one's biting off more than they can chew!" none of the other items are terribly out of the ordinary, yeah? Considering that my office is within two blocks of three different drug store chains and right across the street from a Gristedes, I figured I would have everything checked off within a half hour of leaving work, even if it meant going to more than one store. Okay, I'll concede that the shower curtain is more of a Bed Bath & Beyond or Target type of purchase, but B&B is wayyyy over on 6th and 16th, and it's not so far fetched to think a drug store would carry at least one or two...right? Oh, pipe down, I don't need your empty validations.
Well, aside from the kitty litter, the "cleaning/household items" aisle at Gristedes was a flop. Ditto for Rite Aid and CVS--not one of the four carried even the rubber gloves, and that really frosted my cookies. They're rubber freaking gloves! Then I started second guessing how commonplace rubber gloves really are, wondering if they keep them under lock and key like razor blades or behind the counter as part of government mandated supervision thing a la Sudafed. But why would that be? To make life difficult for serial killers?
I decided to cut my losses and head for the F train when what should assuage my weary eyes between 7th and 6th avenues? Why a 99 cent store! But no...could I? Is it possible they would have..
YES! That bitch had every last thing on my list! An entire BIN of rubber gloves, in fact, plus a cute shower curtain that doesn't resemble a splatter cloth in a morgue and two large plastic (I'm getting there!) place mats as well. And all for a very reasonable $3.98! I was as smug as Virgania Horsen!
"See you later, suckers!" I said, drop kicking a thumbnail pic of Rite Aid. "Nooo thanks, CVS! I'm sticking with the 99 cent store!"
God bless you, seedy Bastions of NYC housewares!
The place mats are also surprisingly attractive, albeit in a "rustic chic," kind of way since they feature large yellow sunflowers. Too bad they'll never see the surface of a table, since they are for Curly to shit on when she has diarrhea and decides she's too lazy/spiteful to make it all the way to her litterbox.
This is an occurrence that has taken place the past three days, the first instance taking the form of a welcome home present after a totally exasperating commute home from the airport Sunday night. Wouldn't have been quite as onerous if she had stuck to the hard wood or tile that makes up 98 percent of the flooring in my apartment. There is one small swatch of exposed carpeting right in front of the litter box in my closet--guess where kitty aimed her chocolaty bon mots?
Adorable!
Now what's for dinner?
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Suck it, Mouse Trap!
Aside from the six-foot Festivus pole Dad's coworkers gave him, I will now unveil the hit of Christmas '08--a gift from Santa to D.J.
Assembly by Deej, camera work by Dad, post-production stuff, Dad. Song: "The Breakfast Machine" by Danny Elfman. Creepy, pendulous baby not included with kit.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
things to ponder
You know that inexplicable phenomenon that occurs the minute you leave a venue after a night out and descend into the the subway station only to realize that you totally should have peed before you left, but oops, too late now? Follow me here: If luck is with you train-wise, your longish commute shouldn't be TOO torturous, and you don't really have to go THAT badly, so whatever, you'll make it home okay. You close your eyes for a bit and concentrate on your Ipod, strategically skipping over Champagne Supernova and TLC's Waterfalls (yes, both of these songs ARE on my Nano!) and finally you arrive at your stop...
but now that you've gotten off the train you REALLY have to pee like whoa, as if your bladder is screaming "we're almost home, haul ass, bitch!" like it can somehow sense you are close and suddenly feels carefree enough to unclench and start getting mouthy with you. You oblige by picking up the pace up a little, yet with each block that brings you a bit closer, the worse you have to pee, until finally you are in a dead run until you hit your driveway before throwing yourself at your front door, crashing into your apartment, and ripping your pants down to your ankles in front of kitty, her eyes wide as dinner plates. You make it to the porcelain turd gobbler and squat your sorry butt down, and the release is like the BEST FEELING IN THE WORLD, but, oh God, you reflect, "I just BARELY made it!"
To borrow a Pohlerism, "Really, bladder? You were able to cope for 45 odd minutes of travel time, but you had to get all persnickety over those last five minutes of walking, and you were thisclose to exploding? Really."
I'm not sure why this happens. Maybe if the NYtimes still has that Science Questions and Answers section I'll forward them this link, but in the meantime, today I realized that I am able to draw a direct parallel between what I'll label "bitchy bladder syndrome" to another one that I'll call "cold cocking podmate before a vacation."
Same paradigm: podmate has been annoying the shit out of you since, well, ever, but you do what you can in way of coping mechanisms. Some are more effective than others, but for the most part, you just grit your teeth, try to play nice, and say, "this too shall pass," darkly surmising if the 'passing' part will be by your own hand.
But then you get to a day like today, just before a five day break. Podmate initiates her daily cooing session on the phone to ex-fiance (don't ask, or do in person, as her histrionics make for awesome bar conversation). It is somehow all you can do to not smash her face into her monitor, or at the very least scream, "why do you exist?" You know you only have ONE HOUR before leaving for the airport, yet you are all but sitting on your hands and swallowing your tongue for fear of the lashing that will ensue. Why does everything she does chap your ass that much more just before you know you are going to be away from her for an extended period of time?
If anything, and I'll switch it to first person, shouldn't I feel more benevolent toward Cuckoo Clock? Christmas spirit and all that?
Well we are talking about me here. Hmmm.
On a more pleasant note, this indeed means I'll be boarding a plane for the hinterlands in T minus five hours. I can't wait! I told Deej long ago to secure some Bailey's for us, so hopefully he followed through.....ahhhh, isn't it great when that Edge just melts away? My mom will undoubtedly spike it right back up after a day or two, but in the meantime..
Have a funky funky Christmas!
but now that you've gotten off the train you REALLY have to pee like whoa, as if your bladder is screaming "we're almost home, haul ass, bitch!" like it can somehow sense you are close and suddenly feels carefree enough to unclench and start getting mouthy with you. You oblige by picking up the pace up a little, yet with each block that brings you a bit closer, the worse you have to pee, until finally you are in a dead run until you hit your driveway before throwing yourself at your front door, crashing into your apartment, and ripping your pants down to your ankles in front of kitty, her eyes wide as dinner plates. You make it to the porcelain turd gobbler and squat your sorry butt down, and the release is like the BEST FEELING IN THE WORLD, but, oh God, you reflect, "I just BARELY made it!"
To borrow a Pohlerism, "Really, bladder? You were able to cope for 45 odd minutes of travel time, but you had to get all persnickety over those last five minutes of walking, and you were thisclose to exploding? Really."
I'm not sure why this happens. Maybe if the NYtimes still has that Science Questions and Answers section I'll forward them this link, but in the meantime, today I realized that I am able to draw a direct parallel between what I'll label "bitchy bladder syndrome" to another one that I'll call "cold cocking podmate before a vacation."
Same paradigm: podmate has been annoying the shit out of you since, well, ever, but you do what you can in way of coping mechanisms. Some are more effective than others, but for the most part, you just grit your teeth, try to play nice, and say, "this too shall pass," darkly surmising if the 'passing' part will be by your own hand.
But then you get to a day like today, just before a five day break. Podmate initiates her daily cooing session on the phone to ex-fiance (don't ask, or do in person, as her histrionics make for awesome bar conversation). It is somehow all you can do to not smash her face into her monitor, or at the very least scream, "why do you exist?" You know you only have ONE HOUR before leaving for the airport, yet you are all but sitting on your hands and swallowing your tongue for fear of the lashing that will ensue. Why does everything she does chap your ass that much more just before you know you are going to be away from her for an extended period of time?
If anything, and I'll switch it to first person, shouldn't I feel more benevolent toward Cuckoo Clock? Christmas spirit and all that?
Well we are talking about me here. Hmmm.
On a more pleasant note, this indeed means I'll be boarding a plane for the hinterlands in T minus five hours. I can't wait! I told Deej long ago to secure some Bailey's for us, so hopefully he followed through.....ahhhh, isn't it great when that Edge just melts away? My mom will undoubtedly spike it right back up after a day or two, but in the meantime..
Have a funky funky Christmas!
Friday, December 19, 2008
are you starting to get into the holiday spirit and stuff? A little? Okay, we can build on that.
Happy Friday!memoree's not sew gud, akshully.
After the fact, I decided it was quite a revolutionary idea to pull What We Talk About When We Talk About Love off of my shelf for the first time in ages, and you know, re-read the story I thought I remembered so well, "I Could See the Smallest Things."
Yeah, not so great a memory, turns out, or at least as it pertains to the little (mostly fabricated) details in the story that enamored me so. Coincidentally, I recently read a David Sedaris essay where he talks about embellishing an article a fan mailed him because a little creative license made it a fantastic conversation piece-when he did some research, he was disappointed to find the story, one of those "wacky world" blurbs about an army of exiled rats being set on fire beneath a pile of burning leaves and one of them supposedly dashing back into their tormentor's house and burning the entire place down, to be pretty exaggerated. Fiddlesticks!
Here's what I fudged yesterday to maintain that idealistic glimmer in my mind's eye--not that you give a flying fuck, but I DO, and I feel I have some sort of responsibility to set the record straight--so here:
The story's protagonist KNEW the gate in her yard was unlatched from the onset and was much more cranky about her husband's snoring than I remembered. She put on a bathrobe over her nightgown, like you do, and sat down to have an unfiltered cigarette before grumpily exiting the house. There WAS a full moon, but she doesn't seem particularly caught up in the romanticallness (yes, that's a new word!) of it like I would be.
Carver much more heavy-handedly lets us know that this woman's husband is a total jerkoff, as she references some trouble they were having earlier and calls him "rolly polly" in their bed before all but bashing us over the head with the metaphor by bringing the neighbor into the equation as soon as she steps outside. The neighbor is killing garden slugs with Ajax (fu-re-eak!), which, in all their squirmy glory "remind her" of her fatass husband.
Not a lot of "basking in the moonlight" whimsy there, huh? I don't know why I'm surprised--most of Carver's characters are kind of no-nonsense "cut the bullshit" working class types, and why get overly sentimental about something like your backyard when you've got a failing relationship on your hands?
Touche, Carver--I'll try to pluck those stars from eyes, but much like Sedaris, I DO prefer my take on this one.
Yeah, not so great a memory, turns out, or at least as it pertains to the little (mostly fabricated) details in the story that enamored me so. Coincidentally, I recently read a David Sedaris essay where he talks about embellishing an article a fan mailed him because a little creative license made it a fantastic conversation piece-when he did some research, he was disappointed to find the story, one of those "wacky world" blurbs about an army of exiled rats being set on fire beneath a pile of burning leaves and one of them supposedly dashing back into their tormentor's house and burning the entire place down, to be pretty exaggerated. Fiddlesticks!
Here's what I fudged yesterday to maintain that idealistic glimmer in my mind's eye--not that you give a flying fuck, but I DO, and I feel I have some sort of responsibility to set the record straight--so here:
The story's protagonist KNEW the gate in her yard was unlatched from the onset and was much more cranky about her husband's snoring than I remembered. She put on a bathrobe over her nightgown, like you do, and sat down to have an unfiltered cigarette before grumpily exiting the house. There WAS a full moon, but she doesn't seem particularly caught up in the romanticallness (yes, that's a new word!) of it like I would be.
Carver much more heavy-handedly lets us know that this woman's husband is a total jerkoff, as she references some trouble they were having earlier and calls him "rolly polly" in their bed before all but bashing us over the head with the metaphor by bringing the neighbor into the equation as soon as she steps outside. The neighbor is killing garden slugs with Ajax (fu-re-eak!), which, in all their squirmy glory "remind her" of her fatass husband.
Not a lot of "basking in the moonlight" whimsy there, huh? I don't know why I'm surprised--most of Carver's characters are kind of no-nonsense "cut the bullshit" working class types, and why get overly sentimental about something like your backyard when you've got a failing relationship on your hands?
Touche, Carver--I'll try to pluck those stars from eyes, but much like Sedaris, I DO prefer my take on this one.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
priviledged insomnia
There is a Raymond Carver story I think about a lot. It's about a woman who wakes up one night in part due to her husband's snoring and also because she suddenly remembers she forgot to latch a gate in her yard. She isn't positive she forgot to latch it, but this uncertainty propels her insomnia and soon gnaws enough of her to rise, pull on some shoes and maybe a cardigan, and quietly exit her house. As in most Carver stories, the meat of this one rests in the implication that she has an unsatisfying relationship with her husband, and if memory serves, an exchange with the neighbor whose yard they share the ajar gate with comes to symbolize the dysfunction.
First I see her nightgown. Pale blue, I imagine, and sleeveless, hanging just below the knee and silky in the way only rayon can be with two small appliqued roses on the front just above a thin ribbon that creates a lazy empire waist, ends hanging down the front. The reason this image is so vivid is because I own this nightgown, which I bought for about ten bucks at a sample sale years ago and now sits crumpled at the bottom of a drawer. In theory, the nightgown is great. It is what I imagine myself wearing while I sit upright in bed absentmindedly brushing my hair and having a conversation about my troubled child like couples in sitcoms, or sneaking downstairs at 3 AM to sit at the kitchen table and devour a giant slice of chocolate cake. It's also a perfectly acceptable garment for wandering the streets in the event of a nocturnally timed disaster--not too gauzy, no inappropriate cleavage. Unfortunately, my life can't accommodate the grandeur of the nightgown. I either pass out in some variation of what I left the house in that morning, only to wake up a few hours later to tear the clothing off and fling it to the floor next to the bed, or I start out naked. Clothing is just too cumbersome for a restless sleeper, even a summer nightgown. I also don't have a downstairs or a kitchen table, and you can bet your ass that if disaster strikes, I will greet you on the corner of Ft. Hamilton Parkway in saggy granny patties and my broomball T-shirt.
But mostly it's the lawn I envy. Oh, to have a lawn! I imagine the woman descending a few steps off of a back porch and padding to the perimeter of hers along the fence, cheesily bathed in moonlight. Maybe she is actually barefoot and can feel the grass beneath her feet. No one (aside from the eventual presence of the neighbor, I guess) is around. She can stand out there for hours, if she wants, listening to crickets talk and the occasional dog bark, but who is going to bother her? It's HER lawn, and a real one, at that--not a slab of concrete littered with old dog turds. She could fall right down there in the grass, turn a cartwheel or two, and save a passing car or two, why would she ever have reason to feel self-conscious?
It's 2: 46 now, and I consider my own options. Three flights of stairs, two sets of doors, a stoop. I can sit there in the dark, provided I wear a placid enough expression so the occasional passerby won't assume I've locked myself out or am too drunk to cross the threshold on my own volition. Not that I think anyone would voice these suspicions, but how would it look? Across the street, the park would wink at me.
My immediate identification is with the man's snoring. Just the right combination of Cory's on- and-off sawing with too early a bedtime, too hot a room or maybe too blaring a TV, which he is used to keeping on while he sleeps while I prefer tomb-like surroundings, is enough to exile me to the living room for some TV or reading until I get drowsy enough to give sleep another shot. I'll stop you right now if you think the Carver reference means this will lead to a thinly veiled "trouble in paradise" essay, because that's not the direction in which I'm heading. The waking up happens pretty infrequently, and it's almost startling that it's not a bigger deal when it does. You audition a relationship so bull-headed about these sorts of things: "if he snores, it's an automatic deal breaker, " you initially announce to yourself, "because I need absolute quiet when I sleep--if he snores, it will never work." Give me a person who has ended a relationship based solely on the other person's annoying habits and I will tell you that they need to read more Raymond Carver and that they're probably a delusional jerk.
It was a full on appetizer platter last night--snoring + bedtime before midnight + Billy Mays infomercial (I hope somewhere there is a bounty out for this guy's head, because seriously dude, shut the Fuck. Up.) + my own negligence in wearing socks to bed definitively stacked the odds against me. I also had the audacity to sneeze, which we've discovered is Mama's deal breaker. As soon as one escapes either of us, she jumps off the bed in a huff and makes a beeline for the door. This from the princess who regularly sprays snot all over my Lean Cuisine, if not directly in my face while licking me. Jerk.
None of this has anything to do with what I love about the Carver story, by the way. For some reason, I am completely enthralled with the main character's simple act of leaving the house in the middle of the night to go stand in her yard.
First I see her nightgown. Pale blue, I imagine, and sleeveless, hanging just below the knee and silky in the way only rayon can be with two small appliqued roses on the front just above a thin ribbon that creates a lazy empire waist, ends hanging down the front. The reason this image is so vivid is because I own this nightgown, which I bought for about ten bucks at a sample sale years ago and now sits crumpled at the bottom of a drawer. In theory, the nightgown is great. It is what I imagine myself wearing while I sit upright in bed absentmindedly brushing my hair and having a conversation about my troubled child like couples in sitcoms, or sneaking downstairs at 3 AM to sit at the kitchen table and devour a giant slice of chocolate cake. It's also a perfectly acceptable garment for wandering the streets in the event of a nocturnally timed disaster--not too gauzy, no inappropriate cleavage. Unfortunately, my life can't accommodate the grandeur of the nightgown. I either pass out in some variation of what I left the house in that morning, only to wake up a few hours later to tear the clothing off and fling it to the floor next to the bed, or I start out naked. Clothing is just too cumbersome for a restless sleeper, even a summer nightgown. I also don't have a downstairs or a kitchen table, and you can bet your ass that if disaster strikes, I will greet you on the corner of Ft. Hamilton Parkway in saggy granny patties and my broomball T-shirt.
That the woman can so effortlessly leave her house is the next part of the story that makes me jealous. Again, the details are fuzzy, but I think it takes place on a night in summer or early fall, meaning she would need minimum preparation to step outside. I love nights like this. The last one I can recall taking advantage of occured on my St. Lucia trip, where our room had sliding doors that led to a neat little patio and beyond it, a small lawn. Constant warmth is the norm down there, but here there is obviously a four month window or so where you can step outside and not instinctively wince a bit from the fluctuation.
But mostly it's the lawn I envy. Oh, to have a lawn! I imagine the woman descending a few steps off of a back porch and padding to the perimeter of hers along the fence, cheesily bathed in moonlight. Maybe she is actually barefoot and can feel the grass beneath her feet. No one (aside from the eventual presence of the neighbor, I guess) is around. She can stand out there for hours, if she wants, listening to crickets talk and the occasional dog bark, but who is going to bother her? It's HER lawn, and a real one, at that--not a slab of concrete littered with old dog turds. She could fall right down there in the grass, turn a cartwheel or two, and save a passing car or two, why would she ever have reason to feel self-conscious?
It's 2: 46 now, and I consider my own options. Three flights of stairs, two sets of doors, a stoop. I can sit there in the dark, provided I wear a placid enough expression so the occasional passerby won't assume I've locked myself out or am too drunk to cross the threshold on my own volition. Not that I think anyone would voice these suspicions, but how would it look? Across the street, the park would wink at me.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
oh, and also
I have had the Crosby, Stills & Nash song "Marrakesh Express" stuck in my head for the past two weeks. I hate this song. It's super high up there on my "songs that give me a violent reaction" list along with Sophie B. Hawkins' "Damn I wish I was your lover" and a bunch of other songs that Annie will undoubtedly remember I hate and taunt me with in the comments.Don't mind me, It's not so much about the song being stuck in my head; now I'm just bitter about the amount of time it takes to type out Crosby, Stills & Nash, how the comma negates the ease of the ampersand and renders the whole damn thing too clunky to effortlessly insert into a sentence, because I WOULD HAVE said, 'I have had Crosby, Stills & Nash's Marrakesh Express stuck in my head,' but is "Nash's" grammatically correct? It doesn't look correct, does it? No, I'm asking you, does it? How Goddamn selfish were some of these 60's and 70's rock groups that they couldn't just decide on a one word band name, I mean, really, Crosby, Stills & Nash--there, I wasted another two seconds of my life! I am an important lady with important things to do! I haven't got time for the likes of you, Hall and Oates and Simon and Garfunkel and Crosby, Stills & Nash! DAMN!
I MISS YOU MEGHAN.
I am going to go lie down and sip some apple juice now.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Hey, want your head to explode into a wispy pile of spun sugar?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Lizz's Top Ten Game Shows for Kids
#10 Get the Picture hosted by Mike O'Malley.
#9 Nick Arcade hosted by Phil Moore. I am still impressed by how they integrated the kids into the games on this show. It's Amazing! Hey MTV Slovenia, if you need another judge for your video awards, I'm your girl!
#8 Legends of the Hidden Temple hosted by Kirk Fogg, i.e, "the one with the giant talking head."
#7 What Would You Do? hosted by Marc Summers. This show revolved around pies and slime and people getting pied and slimed in myriad wacky fashions. Don't you feel kind of bad for Marc Summers, knowing what we know now and all about the whole OCD thing? Me neither. I think it's hilarious.
#6 GUTS hosted by Mike O'Malley and narrated by the quirkily British Moira "Mo" Quirk. I was far too tubby a child to kid myself into thinking I could ever be a contestant on this show, but I could still appreciate the awesomeness that was the "Aggro Crag" and Nickelodeon's seemingly limitless dry ice budget.
#5 Fun House hosted by J.D. Roth. All I remember about this show is that contestants never won because they spent way too much time climbing ladders out of things, like this poor sap here.
# 4 Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? hosted by Lynne Thigpen# 3 I'm Telling hosted by Laurie Faso and Dean Goss. Wait, an even better clip: why is that cool, moonwalking cat a young Sean Astin with sis Mackenzie?!? YES IT IS!
#2 Wild and Crazy Kids hosted by Omar Gooding, Donnie Jeffcoat, and Annette Chavez. Mellow, be-scrunchied Annette was later replaced by a redhead named Jessica Gaynes who I wanted to punch.
#1 Double Dare hosted by Marc Summers. Anybody remember the one week each season when they had CELEBRITY Double Dare? I'm still jealous of the girl who got Candace Cameron as a partner. Bitch, I will SHOVE YOU Down The Hatch!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
another one for the laugh and clap series.
...although it's a bit bittersweet because this makes me miss Brooklyn Aquarium's Ayvek. Hope you're RIP'ing it wherever you are, my beautiful friend.
Monday, December 1, 2008
of giant donkey balls and dookie
1) Equal odds that my Ipod was either carelessly left in GAP dressing room or swiped from my workspace at some point this afternoon (my office has had quite a bit of random foot traffic lately due to ongoing construction on our balcony). It was an older, no-frills Nano, the likes of which Apple doesn't even make anymore, but it still colossally sucks to be out 200 bucks due to either your own negligence or people being immoral asshats by capitalizing on said negligence. Such loss accompanied with the grim thought of, "I guess I'm lucky I managed to hang onto it this long"depresses me even more, because if you're me, that's absolutely fucking true. Save this little escapade, I consider myself a fairly responsible adult and generally don't make a habit of drunkenly flinging my valuables about. But even in stark sobriety, I'm also not the most, ahem, organized person on the planet either, as Cory will attest each time he patiently sits on the couch waiting for me to stop speaking in tongues and locate my house keys/cell phone/metro card so we can leave already. And word on the street is that some people my age have babies and stuff, and if they leave the baby in a GAP or the baby is stolen, it isn't acceptable protocol to just go to the Apple website and order a new monochromatic baby. It's mystifying, guys.
2) So tomorrow is Too Fat For Porn's kickoff of the ice broomball season, and I was--am--amped--but bollocks if we aren't already going to be down like five people for our very first game. I don't blame any of the missing team members individually, as I realize more pressing matters do occasionally crop up, but given our team's pitiful 5th place standing last season, I am chomping at the bit to start this season out right. COME ON, GUYS! We are better than 5th! Right? Anyway, when I'm less of a Grumpy Gus I'll take pics of my new hockey helmet and broomball shoes, which are totally boss and make me feel like the cat in the Opposites Attract video.
3) Save some new factoids (find out how Tina got her scar!), this article is a complete piece of shit that ruined my morning. In summary:
"Hey Everyone, isn't it GREAT that Tina 'Fatty' Fey and her Fatty Fatty Magoo 150 pound self lost 30 pounds? Now we don't have to blanch at the thought of her having sex and can swap out jabs like 'mousy' and 'rubenesque" for more appalling ones like 'hot-titted,' and validate her career through her new found attractiveness! After all, Liz Lemon's wit is that much more acerbic in a plunging V-neck than a frumpy-froo button-down, don't you think?"
Shame on you, Maureen, and that green-eyed monster surely enticing you to write such tripe.
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