One Little Letter Makes It Worse…or Better

My work-from-home gig, aside from this lovely blog (not exactly a money-making venture, despite all those damned “make money blogging, click here” links) involves me providing transcription services. I receive an audio file, type every freaking word that’s uttered – which sometimes includes some bonus profanities (I’ve learned a few new ones, hard as that is to believe for anyone who’s actually met HRH Princess Pottymouth) – then proofread the resulting document and return it to the client within the specified deadline. Yup, *yawn* because the work ranges from a wee bit boring to soul-suckingly mindless, with the occasional coma-inducing file thrown in to improve my mood.

With that said, I don’t really believe I meant to liven things up while typing a file for a public library, nor do I believe it was a Freudian slip – it was more an “I’m up typing waaayyyy too late because I’m also Princess Procrastinator” kind of an error. Yes, it was an itty-bitty typo, but it was a doozy; just one little letter left out of the word “public” gave that document an entirely new meaning. Heh. I kinda doubt Mom wants to take the kiddies to the pubic library for story time, but I’m betting Dad just might sign on. And oh, what that same typo would’ve done for the US Constitution – the right to peaceful pubic assembly. (I am so juvenile at times…OK, pretty much all the time.) I ran a quick search & replace to make pubic public (snicker…sorry) and scribbled myself a Post-It note reminder to check the remainder of my public library files for this oopsie. (Remember, kiddies: spell check misses contextual errors.)

My bored, smutty li’l mind then ferreted around, finding other interesting word pairs where an omitted letter or a switcheroo would make for some very interesting reading. Generous wench that I am, I’m sharing my results.



Let’s begin with bustard/bastard. Make one little mistake with that first vowel and you’re no longer talking about an ugly-ass bird – you’re talking about an individual whose parents were premarital-sex-having heathens and *gasp* unwed at the time the stork delivered. Which I guess means that technically, every bustard is a bastard, given that I’ve never even heard of bird nuptials, ugly-ass or otherwise.

Now let’s take a gander at gander/gender. I find this one ironically amusing, because gander is a term that denotes gender of the male goose. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander….yeah, OK, this is not quite as entertaining as the bastard bustard, but I’m just getting warmed up.

And I'm getting tired of fowl – back to the gutter.

How about topples/topless? This is a bit more complex a finger flub, with the extra S and a single P versus the double. This is actually a probable pairing, if you link it to the soap opera that is today’s political public (pubic? smirk) relations nightmare: topless girl topples a politico’s career. Oh yeah, it could happen – hell, I’m sure it has happened, we just didn’t get the full (frontal?) story with illustrations. And getting to the bottom of things, let’s not forget public figures who like to text pics of their naughty bits to the object(s) of their affections – filthy li’l sexter-fiends. To be honest, I think it takes a fairly secure man to sext a pic of his junk – even on my relatively large smart(ass)phone screen, Big Boy would look mighty puny.

Sticking with the nekkers theme, I give you morning/mooning. I’ve done this one – the typo, not the bum show, although I might consider it once I firm up my backside to the point I’m ready to rock that Undie Bomber TNT thong. This would be about the time hell freezes over or someone develops an ass-shrinking dietary supplement, whichever comes first.

I’ve about run out of steam here, but I don’t want to leave you with that scary mental picture. So in closing, I give you the omission of the highly significant F in shift, such that shift work becomes, you got it, shit work – which is kinda what I was doing when I had this little brain cramp. So...

Back to the salt mines for me, but I promise y'all I am all over this pubic library concept. It has incredible potential to lure the masses away from internet porn, right? (Yeah, it was rhetorical; don’t bother.)

Ms. Manners Disapproves of Da Bling-a-bling

So I’m reading the Ms. Manners column in my newspaper whilst enjoying a leisurely Saturday breakfast – it was kind of a drive-by viewing, her column is right next to a couple of columns I actually enjoy reading – and I almost snorted scrambled eggs out my schnoz. Oh, yes, I must share my giggle with you.

See, someone wrote in to our dear Ms. M, asking whether their ankle bracelet should be worn over the pantyhose or under them. (This is really a non-question. Either way, you’re gonna snag your hose – which is no big loss, since they’re a pain in the ass undergarment obviously invented by a man who’d never have to wiggle-worm his way into a pair, or suffer a serious case of swampass from wearing ‘em in the middle of a Chicago heat wave. Meh. But I digress.)

Ms. M’s reply? Why, *gasp* she ruled out both options, stating that the writer should instead try wearing it on the wrist. Um, helloooo – it’s an ankle bracelet, designed specifically to be worn on an ankle. Oh, wait…perhaps Ms. Manners was being a smarmy prig regarding the most innocuous of body adornment options? (This is where the scrambled eggs took flight. I could really use a neti pot right now.) Really? Does “polite society” still disdainfully sniff at an ankle bracelet? Bummer – I wear 2 of them on a single ankle; hey, it’s not easy being a middle-aged rebel.

I wonder if she’d like my cute little toe rings, one for each foot – I’ve been wearing them since before I had children, or what hubby refers to as the good old days (yeah, he swears he’s joking). Of course, I’m sure she’d completely ignore the fact that in Indian culture, the toe rings are worn routinely by married women to indicate their status as married women – perfectly acceptable and quite lovely.

Hm. Perhaps I’ve committed a major faux pas by not consulting Ms. M regarding placement of my tattoo. I decided to have it done on the top of my foot, not far from where an oh-so-tacky ankle bracelet would rest. Yes, it did hurt like a bitch in a few spots, but I am *so* glad I got it; in fact, I wish I hadn’t waited so long to do it – I break out in a happy smirk every time I look at it. But maybe Ms. M could’ve suggested a more tasteful spot for it – perhaps my bicep, bum or boob. (I’m partial to a boob for tat #2 – just can’t decide which one.) I suspect the tramp stamp would be an automatic thumbs-down, for which my tat artist will be most grateful.

I don’t think we should even get Ms. M started on facial piercings; I suspect she’s of the “one hole per earlobe” school of thought, so a nose or an eyebrow piercing would most decidedly be vetoed and considered ill-advised and ill-mannered. *snort* (In the interest of truthiness – has Colbert ™d that word yet? – I must report that I have neither pierced because I am a wuss. I have to get my eyebrows & lip waxed periodically because I can’t handle the ouch factor of plucking. Facial piercing fail.)

After much consideration, it's my opinion that Ms. M should only be consulted for the nuts & bolts etiquette issues: which freaking fork/spoon to use for which food course, how to hold them in a decidedly non-Neanderthal manner, and exactly where to place your dinner napkin if you’ve decided not to use it to strangle your nit-picky, holier-than-thou hostess. Yup, that’s right – we really only need her guidance regarding matters of the utmost significance in the grand scheme of things. (Bronx cheer here – etiquette can suck it.)

In Pursuit of Fitness: Truly Hot Yoga

I was in procrastination mode (a personal fave), mindlessly watching one of my girlie-cats perform her fastidious grooming ritual, which always includes her hiking up one of her hind legs (let’s just say she gets clean all over) in what the kids & I call the kitty yoga pose. My dirty li’l mind started off on a tangent – if I could perform the kitty yoga pose and all its related activities, would I ever leave the house? Could be really good to be a cat.



Said dirty mind then sauntered on over to the subjects of yoga and my own fledgling physical fitness regimen, and *DING* a connection was made, a fascinating hypothesis developed: Would people – especially males – be substantially more interested in doing yoga if that “industry” launched a marketing blitz that pointed out the similarities between yoga stances and boink positions? (Hm, hello, Kama Sutra?)

Downward Dog is the obvious first choice, just by virtue of the name (duh). Bark like a dog, baby – pant, pant. (I must confess, the last time I tried yoga, I was panting...and huffing & puffing. There was nothing remotely sexy about it.) Wouldn’t it be nice to learn how to get your yoga sweat on and end up with an afterglow that had absolutely nothing to do with yoga principles? Betcha I’d be a little more apt to stay the course, given a few favorable outcomes. Heh.

Stick with me here, fellow flexibility fiends.

Properly promoted, would the Warrior pose make your mate wanna get all conquistador-sexy with ya? Could assuming the Tree position give someone of the male persuasion *whispers* wood? Would it help if it were performed in the great outdoors? Or maybe nekkers? (I’d suggest a combination, but with my luck, I’d end up all “Baby, pass the wine and the calamine. Damned poison ivy – or was it poison oak?” Ivy or oak, wouldn’t matter which as I tried not to scratch ‘cuz, as Mama says with absolute certainty, it’ll get infected.)

Despite the possible itch glitch, I think I’m onto something. With a few modifications, the Plank position could be performed as a duet, rather than a solo – you know, improve your core strength while being thrilled to the core. Holy hot flashes – where do I sign up?! Use your own imagination and get creative, happy and healthy while having a blast and battling the bulge. Namaste, y'all!
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(Safety note: The DOB suspects that the slightly tacky-to-the-touch yoga mat could create friction issues, so if you catch a whiff of burning rubber, you’d better slooooooow down and practice safe...yoga.)

Twisted Knickers Indeed

So the Underwear Bomber, as he is affectionately known, was in the news last month. He was finally getting his day in court to present his side of the story, his defense for filling his undies with explosives and boarding a plane at Christmastime ’09 with the intent to blow up said plane. Hello, martyrdom and an F-5 wedgie; goodbye, cruel world and family jewels. Ouch.

Luck was with his fellow passengers – UB either didn’t get his wick lit properly or perhaps he didn’t keep his powder dry enough, because rather than achieving his gruesome goal, he roasted his chestnuts on an open fire. You know that’s gotta sting; poor aspiring terrorist learned the hard way that Karma is a bitch sometimes.

He decided to plead guilty, saving us all from the media circus that accompanies a drawn-out, high-profile trial, but in this era of reality (crapola) TV I’m surprised that some slimy promoter hasn’t latched onto the hot property that is UB. Think about it: the guy is already famous in that reality TV sort of way (infamous), he may actually generate a bit of sympathy because he’s wounded himself in such a sensitive body part that even women wince at the thought, and his situation presents a golden opportunity for a product tie-in, the Undie Bomber Undergarments.

For the ladies:

Boom-Boom Bikini – make your sweetie’s heart beat a little faster in this stringy style.

Martyr Midrise – for those who prefer that extra bit of coverage (you know who I am).

TNT Thong – for those who prefer practically zero coverage and can ignore that “I got a wedgie” sensation (sorry, hubby – not gonna happen).

Kerpow Knickers – a tap pants/hot pants hybrid (hot pants, get it? Sorry, I crack me up sometimes).

Great Balls of Fire Granny Pants – self-explanatory and very comfy for tennis (they tend to stay put; don’t ask me how I know this).

For the gentlemen:

Light My Fuse Long-Johns – perfect to keep you toasty during the chilly winter months, includes drop-seat capability for emergency situations (excellent access point for the fire extinguisher).

Blastoff Boxers – come in a variety of vibrant colors to match your mood (the manufacturer suggests you actually NOT try to blast them off, cites example of UB).

Big Bang Briefs – not just your average tighty-whities, they’re also available in prints and dark shades (cough, skid marks, cough).

I realize the Undie Bomber Undergarment line is a bit of a stretch and may be considered by some to be in poor taste, but since when has that ever been considered a good reason to not go to market? Consider how many geniuses have paid good money for “amateur hour” porn vids (Kimmie, Pammie and we'll always have Paris) or to buy that Snooki book.

Yes, as Mr. Barnum is rumored to have said, there’s a sucker born every minute and I say we go for it. It’ll be a risky venture, we’ll be flying by the seat of our pants initially, but I predict a very healthy bottom line.

Losing It At The Airport

No, I’m not talking about my sanity, nor did I join the Mile High Club; it’s something much more pedestrian, but it made me feel like a real globetrotter, a world explorer, a less provincial pussycat: I am no longer a “backscatter” security scan virgin. I had my first experience with this procedure at the airport in San Jose, CA, when I was returning from my very first ATP tennis tournament, about which I’m sure I’ll blog y’all into a coma – just gimme time. (So sorry for my recent dry spell; the elections took a lot outta all of us.)

I was amused that Midway Airport in Chicago where my trip originated doesn’t use the backscatter scanners, but the airport in supremely laid back San Jose does. I wasn’t expecting it, so I was a bit flustered at first, but it starts out with the usual routine: empty your pockets, take off your shoes, scarves & coats…but can I Leave My Hat On? (You know I can’t resist. And I’m bettin’ the hat has to come off.)



But then it’s time for that interesting addition to the Traveler’s Two-step: you step into the scanner and you…assume the position. Yeah, I used to watch ‘Hill Street Blues’ back in the day (be careful out there), but I guess I didn’t watch it closely enough, because I needed a refresher on holding my hands over my head properly and looked more like a dumbass than a perp. (Perhaps the pose too closely resembles a jumping jack, an exercise with no purpose other than to cause your innards to settle. Pass.)

This is where I hit a slight snag – I’d forgotten about my freaking ankle bracelets (metal, of course). Yeah, yeah, I know I’m perhaps a bit long in the tooth for ankle bracelets, but I LOVE the way they jingle when I walk, or even better, when I go to Zumba class – makes me feel like a red-hot mama as I shake my moneymaker and make my jelly roll, whilst avoiding throwing out my back. Anyway, I did the “Oh, crap, I’m so sorry; I forgot I was wearing ‘em” routine and the TSA staff kindly invited me over to the sidelines for a slight pat-down. Given that I’m a female, I received the attentions of a female patter-downer – dammit. Don’t get me wrong; she was nice enough, even laughed politely (no eye roll) at my “I should make you buy me a drink first” smartassery, but c’mon! Gimme a cute male patter-downer & I’ll buy him a drink. (Yeah, suspect she’d heard that one way too many times, too – kept my mouth shut about it.)

They cleared me with no further fuss and sent me on my way. I admit to being embarrassed that I was wearing my big cotton granny panties; with a little notice, I could’ve totally rocked some butt floss. Why not? Hell, I was heading for a short layover in Vegas; I could’ve gotten some mileage out of my thongage and suggested a great new show for the Strip: Wet, Wild, Wideload Women. What? Hey, it could happen – and what happens in Vegas, baby! But I was also relieved I’d done a full top-to-bottom leg shave and cleaned up my bikini line – you just never know! (Damned hair fixation.)

Now I’m safely back in chilly Chicago (did I mention how lovely the February weather was in San Jose?) and in retrospect, I have a few questions for TSA, though not about possible radiation risks. Hell, I checked that out via a CBS News website back when all the controversy was raging, just out of curiosity. Bottom line: much ado about nothing, because the amount of radiation you actually get in one airport scan = amount of radiation you get flying on the airplane for one minute. (For that matter, sharing your bed with a partner for one year = 200X the radiation dose from one airport scan. Plan to sleep alone from now on? Didn’t think so.) *snap & sniff* No, I'm wondering whether they can see…things.

Will that breakfast granola bar be churning away in full view; will they be able to tell you are sans gall bladder and/or appendix? Can they tell if perhaps you should have that funky mole checked out? Can they tell whether you’re an innie or an outie? Oooooh, I feel so violated! (But I kinda like it – muchas gracias, Underwear Bomber!) And what about your really private parts – your internal organs? Can they see that growth on your spleen – you know, the growth you don’t know you have? If yes, is there some moral and/or medical imperative for TSA to tell you that you may wanna see a doctor about that? (Yes, it has been suggested I have hypochondriacal tendencies.)

But this initially promising tangent for exploration is a bust, based on these pics I found on Youtube – no peek-a-boo innards that I can see.

But on a positive note, I now have an assortment of alternative scanner poses. Yeah, baby! Next time, I’m gonna rock Pose #3 (Ms. March), or maybe #11 (Ms. November); they both just scream class and refinement. Don’t think I didn’t notice that the scanner seems to take off several pounds – it’ll be the best pic I’ve had in years.