Happy Halloween!!

This Snoopy Dog was at a pet parade in Bozeman MT last year

I guess people are stopping at journals around J-Land to say Trick or Treat and leave links to their journals. Fine. Be that way.

This Just In -- Mrs. Linklater was half watching Oprah while pretending to work, even though Halloween is a national holiday for her, when she noticed a guest that she thought she recognized. The young woman's mother is a member of a very well known family here. On more than one occasion this well-connected c -- um, person has treated Mrs. Linklater like lint. And suddenly there was her daughter on national TV, talking about women who let themselves go. Being a fat person on Oprah isn't so unusual. But she said part of the reason she got fat was because of the sexual abuse she suffered as a child, which she went on to describe in detail.

My question is, do I call her mom and say, "Hey, I saw your daughter on Oprah?"

Mrs. Linklater Opens Her J-Land Birthday Gifts

Mrs. Linklater doesn't usually write stuff people call poetry. You'll soon know why. But this was one way to list all the strange, yet wonderful birthday gifts that were left in her comments.

Your generosity made her 62nd birthday feel like 59.

Thank you for. . .

Flowers, tickets, a pepperoni stick
John Lennon CDs, oysters, trips
Todd the Pool Boy,
Sven, the Masseuse,
Ray, Yak's husband [I want pics]

Cukes and bananas made the list
A box of Depends [the perfect gift]
A White Sox repeat
A Huge dragon kite
A little red convertible -- and a date with KISS?

Champagne and a cannon [wanna light my fuse?]  
Orthopedic underwear -- do they come in twos?
Spa day, cheesy play,
Tootsie rolls, 45-year olds
Plastic surgery and a howitzer -- to chase the blues?

Opera boys singing The Pearlfisher duet
Nobel Prize winners I've never met
Homecooked meal
Prepared for me
It's starting to sound like the best is yet

To come.


Yeah, it's lame, but my heart's in the right place.

Patricks' Saturday Six "Birthday Bash" Edition

Mrs. Linklater has been rendered speechless by the pile of virtual presents left in her comments area of the previous entry. Todd the pool boy, Sven the apparently transsexual masseuse, a convertible [rental? gift?] to visit the VIVI winners, a huge supply of Depends, a superb selection of foot long vegetables -- your thoughtfulness knows no bounds. Or taste. She'll post the entire list of gifts as soon as her call to Russell Crowe gets through.

Along with the White Sox winning the World Series [you knew I'd work them in somehow], and her three VIVI nominations [humorous, attitude and outspoken -- gotta mention them], there's a chance that Northwestern [one of her alma maters] could beat Michigan tonight, which would also help ease Mrs. Linklater's pain of losing another year to the Grim Reaper.  In case you're wondering, or she hasn't made it abundantly clear, Mrs. L prefers sports or anything else to shopping. Oh, and did she mention, she hates getting old?

If the Bears can beat Detroit tomorrow she'll put another candle on the cake to celebrate, which will already set off smoke alarms in four counties.  

But we digress.

1. What is a bigger pet peeve for you:  Someone trying to talk on a cell phone during a movie, a baby crying in a restaurant, a dog barking on your street, or music played loud enough to rattle windows?

Nothing, I mean nothing, compares to someone talking on a cell phone during a movie. Barking dogs, crying babies, even loud music, I'm okay. But death should be an option for making and taking phone calls in the movies.    

Right now there's a reminder before the movies here to turn your cell phone off. They get your attention by ringing a cell phone and everyone starts reaching for theirs. Gotcha. Now, turn it offyou complete asshead!!

Of course, there's always someone who's better than the rest of us and takes calls during the good parts of say, the Wedding Crashers [okay, the good PART].  I would like the chance to accidentally trip and spill popcorn all over the guy. Because it's always a guy. Or some babe who sells real estate. But she usually just takes forever fishing through her purse trying to find her phone so she can turn it off.

2. What is your favorite cologne or perfume that you wear most often?  Which one is the one you like the scent of, but don't wear often or at all?

I like Eau! de Man Right Out of The Shower. But I can't get it in a bottle yet.

So I substitute with Estee Lauder Pleasures the most.  But I also change my perfume a lot. Some days I am in the mood for Coco [not Swiss Miss] or Joy [which is a joy to receive, but not a joy to pay for] or White Linen, Beautiful, Chanel No. 5, Jessica McClintock, Jo Malone, and a gift from my sister in law, Shalimar. I could use some Gucci.

I hope you're writing this down.

I like all of them, but I probably wear Beautiful the least. Maybe because at one time I wore it the most. This is female logic, which means I can't explain why. Of course, I haven't worn perfume much lately because a guy I know says he doesn't like it.  

3. In your opinion, what is the best way to tell someone you value how much they mean to you?

Cash.

4. Earlier this week, I posted a personality quiz:   If you haven't taken it, please do; if you already have, how accuratewere the results compared with your true personality.

Sheesh. Another test of my short term memory. Can't I just give you the box scores for  the White Sox Sweep of the Astros?  [Have I mentioned that they won the World Series?] I'll have to get back to you on that personality thing.

Okay, took the test. Got a forty-two. Here's where I fit in and I think it's pretty accurate, except it doesn't mention any medication:

41 TO 50 POINTS: Others see you as fresh, lively, charming, amusing, practical, and always interesting; someone who's constantly in the center of attention, but sufficiently well-balanced not to let it go to their head. They also see you as kind, considerate, and understanding; someone who'll always cheer them up and help them out.

5. When was the last time you feel you got as much sleep as you really needed in a single night?

Last night. One of the perks of sleeping without pets or other people in your bed is that there's nothing biting your nose or throwing up on the comforters. Not to mention what dogs and cats can do.

6. If a stranger walked up to you and handed you a briefcase with enough money to pay off every debt you had down to the penny, do you think you could start from then on living debt-free?

I think that money would be better spent on a vacation house, don't you? Or something nice for my birthday, which is tomorrow for those of you who were hoping I'd forget.

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To

My birthday is this Sunday. I will be sixty-freaking-two. To paraphrase a friend of mine who turned just 25 years old today, "Nobody's that old!!!"    

Given the fact that being this old is about as much fun as a tumor, what do you get for someone who is turning 62 anyway? Me, for instance. 

Because I deserve something for living the life that Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin missed. Yep, they would be my age, but, they're Halloween costumes now.  

To start my birthday week off, I got three VIVI nominations. I was ecstatic. At the time it seemed like a nice gesture from my friends in J-Land. 

But then I read the rest of the list and realized I was up against the likes of Albert, Mort, Remo, BoSox, Armand, Yak, Tilly, and Flora and their fumes alone are overwhelming. So naturally, I won't endanger you with links to their journals.

What chance do I have against two guys who need a Hazmat team to put out their flames, a hardnosed law enforcement officer who is STILL a marching band geek, a << puke >> Red Sox fan who wears black sandals and socks, a guy who thinks it's still 1776, some desperate housewife in Connecticut whose titolas get through the door two blocks before the rest of her catches up, an allegedly chubby British mum of 42 children, and of course, the Madwoman of the Midwest.

Hey, I'm just a single mom trying to make ends meet.  

Ah, well. But there was another birthday bright spot this week. The Chicago White Sox won the World Series. [Have I mentioned them yet today?] That was a wonderful gift. Even though I had to share it with a whole city.

So what is there that captures the thrills of being 62 without calling 9-1-1?

What can you buy me that says something special about the day? And doesn't require an industrial strenghth bra. Or panti-liners.

How can I celebrate the first day of the rest of what's left of my life? And not worry if I'm going to need Zantac.

Let's face it, after 62, it's not only downhill, it's a bungee jump off a bridge that's not quite high enough.

So help me here. What would you send me if you knew where I lived? Or thought you could curry favor with me by sucking up with a present?

Nobody should have to be 62. Why can't I just be thirty-one again?

The good news is that Halloween is the day after my birthday. I can drown my sorrows in all the bags of candy I bought for the neighborhood kids, but since I'm not going to answer the door, I can just eat all the treats myself.

NOTE TO ARMAND:  Better?

ASK MRS. LINKLATER "SHOW ME SOME LOVE" EDITION

Mrs. Linklater has made many personal sacrifices to come here and lend a helping hand to the advice columnists. Without her, people who need advice would read the smarmy, feel-good pap these mistresses of misguided malarkey hand out like Halloween candy and go away thinking everything was going to be just fine, thank you.

That's why, as a public service, Mrs. Linklater always butts in. Not so fast, taffy apple breath. Clear the decks, Jethro, she's lighting the fuse on the loose cannon and we don't know which way it's pointed.  


Cheryl Lavin
Published October 24, 2005 Chicago Tribune

Dear Cheryl: I've been with my boyfriend, Phil, for one year and four months. We couldn't be happier. I love him, and I know he loves me. But . . . we don't say the L-word. You may ask, How do I know that he loves me? My answer: Actions speak louder than words. I'm the epitome of a Chicago girl: tough and stubborn, yet sophisticated, sleek and chic. With that said, I don't want to be the first to say, "I love you." I would imagine Phil is thinking the same thing. My question to you is: What is the Man Code for saying I love you?

-- Chi-Town Cutie

Dear Chi-Town Cutie: Before we get to the Man Code, I'd just like to offer a little unsolicited advice: You're depriving yourself of one of the great pleasures of being in love: telling your partner you love him. It feels good! Drop that tough act, cuddle up with him, wrap your arms around him and tell him you love him!

Now, in the Man Code, "OK, I'll go to your little sister's recital" means "I love you."

Mrs. Linklater stops in the middle of eating her Chicago Hot Dog to wipe the mustard off her face and prevent this miscarriage of advice. Cheryl, you incredible slut -- oh come on, it's just a figure of speech. Where were you the day Mrs. L cracked the Man Code? Probably in the bathroom smoking.

Everyone knows that "OK, I'll go to your little sister's recital" means "If I do this for you, you're wearing the five-inch black leather, thigh high boots to bed."

The same goes for "Sure, I'll fire up the grill during halftime." Which is Man Code for, "If I can use your head for a coaster."

Mrs. Linklater, in her travels, has found that Man Code for "I love you" is, as shocking as it may seem, "I love you." The only time it's open to interpretation is when he says it to you while you are naked, especially on his sofa, in his bedroom, on his bed, etc. In fact, Mrs. Linklater might be going out on a limb here, but work with me -- if you're bare-assed naked with him pretty much anywhere, "I love you" means "I love doing you," which is probably not what you had in mind. 

Of course, if you're a woman, when you say "I love you" it could mean "I love you but I'm not IN love with you." Which is woman code for more bling, please.  Women are so full of shinola.

Unlike men, who are just full of themselves.
 
Shoot the cannon. My work here is done. 

Birthday Gifts for People Who Write in the Third Person

Mrs. Linklater has been nominated for a Most Humorous, a Best Use of Attitude, and a Most Outspoken VIVI award, although these last few entries in her journal could be nominated for Most In Need of A Real Life, what with all the White Sox hoo-haa. 

The voting begins on Tuesday, October 25th.  And ends Sunday, October 30th, which is Mrs. Linklater's birthday.

Did you know that some gifts are more suitable for framing than others?

Have I mentioned that Mrs. Linklater has been nominated for Most Humorous, Best Use of Attitude, and Most Outspoken VIVIs?

And that she has a birthday on October 30th? Coincidence? I think not.

WANT TO NOMINATE A GREAT COMMENTER FOR AN AWARD? CLICK HERE:

OKAY STOP WITH THE WHITE SOX BASEBALL STORIES ALREADY

According to someone who was at a concert by the Chicago Philharmonic at Northwestern University on the night of the second World Series Game, all the male members of the orchestra were wearing very formal attire -- tie and tails -- until you checked out their socks.  They were white. And the conductor began the evening by turning to the audience and saying, "Go Sox!"

Slugger's is a diehard Cubs hangout on the north side across from Wrigley Field. There are also several diehard White Sox hangouts on the south side near The Cell like Schaller's and Jimbo's.

But guess which place is getting all the publicity on TV during the World Series?  Slugger's. Apparently the northside sports bars have been empty. So in a moment of marketing genius, dammit, the owners of Slugger's hired Sox legend, Minnie Minoso, to host parties at their place during the World Series.

This morning the local NBC affiliate featured a remote broadcast from Slugger's with a bunch of Cubs fans and Minoso singing a Sox theme song -- NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA Hey Heeey, Good bye.  

Harry Carey was the voice of the Cubs for years. He used to lead the fans singing Take Me Out To The Ballgame during the seventh inning stretch. It has become a big part of the experience of going to Wrigley, continuing with celebrities leading the singing since Harry died.

People forget he was the voice of the Sox for eleven years before that and started the seventh inning tradition when he was broadcasting from Comiskey Park.  That should give you an idea of how uninspired the Sox marketing department has been in recent years. At least, since White Sox owner and promotional guru, Bill Veeck, passed away. Veeck owned the Cubs at one time, too. He was the guy who had the ivy planted on the brick walls at Wrigley. There's been lots of incest between the teams for years.    

The United Center, which is where the Bulls play, has invited Chicago to watch the fourth and fifth games on their Jumbotron, while the Sox are down in Houston. Just $15 a ticket. It's a nice gesture to all the folks who can't afford the Donald Trump prices at The Cell. Of course, those tickets will probably get scalped, too. It is worth noting that Jerry Reinsdorf, who owns the White Sox, also owns the Bulls.

The general manager of the Astros grew up in a south Chicago suburb. There is a picture of him and his wife at their wedding reception with Sox banners.  

After spending the first ten years of my life growing up on the south side of Chicago and becoming a White Sox fan, my family moved to the north side, specifically the northern suburbs. Up to that point I had only watched the Sox on TV, so I was beside myself with little kid joy, when our new neighbors had an extra ticket to see a ballgame and invited me to join them. It was going to be my first time ever at Comiskey Park, and I spent the whole week looking forward to it, at least until we were actually on the road and I said how excited I was to be going to a White Sox game for the first time. Silence. "We're going to a Cubs game." The disappointment on my face was so apparent, they actually apologized to me for going to see the Cubs, instead of the Sox.

I was watching the second World Series game last night with my cousin from LA at a great old White Sox hangout in Chicagp's Loop, Miller's Pub.  The place has roots back to Bill Veeck, so it was good place to be if you couldn't be at the park. When Konerko came to bat in the seventh with the bases loaded, I was asking my cousin to get out his camera and take a picture of us with the bottle of his dad 's ashes. He said, "Right after Konerko hits a grand slam."  Cosmic.

When Paulie hit the grand slam the place erupted and I screamed so loudly that I got hoarse. My throat still hurts. But I noticed that the guy next to me at the bar was not cheering, just sitting there. When things quieted down I asked him if he was an Astros' fan.  "I'm British."

It turns out he knew as much about baseball as I know about cricket. But I did my best to explain what I could. Nothing I told him seemed to make sense, however. Even to me. He wanted to know if the batters had to swing and miss three times to strike out. And I tried to explain foul balls and how the umpire can also call a batter out on strikes, even if he doesn't swing. Sheesh. His eyes glazed over. So did mine.

He did say that they get the World Series live on cable over in London, which means that my daughter living over there might be watching, too. Assuming she was up in the middle of the night with food poisoning or something.

Some Astros' fans showed up behind us. We could tell by the cheering when the game got tied up in the ninth. I was wearing a dark navy baseball cap with a big "C" on it. I turned around to give the Stros' fans a hard time and they accused me of being a Cubs' fan. No, baseball breath, this is a Bears hat.  

I have to say it hasn't been safe or comfortable for me to wear anything with a White Sox logo in public, living as far north as I do. But for the first time in years I have seen brave people around my neighborhood wearing White Sox paraphernalia outside their homes   Even putting stickers on their cars. And humming na na na na na na na na. . .

After the game my cousin and another Sox fan started a conversation that sounded like "Can You Top This?"  Who had been a fan longer. Who knew more names of players from the fifties. Who had their father's ashes in a little bottle in their pocket. That kind of stuff. I was waiting patiently for them to finish when the guy talking to my cousin stopped and introduced hmself. He heard my name and repeated it like it sounded it familiar. I asked if he was an attorney. Yes he was. I said my ex had been president of the Chicago Bar Assn at one time. He said, yes, I know him.

Seven milliion people in Metro Chicago and this guy was on the swim team with my ex in high school. Cosmic moment II.

A young artist who is a Yankee fan has been comimissioned by the MLB to paint this World Series. Apparently he has painted several other World Series games, too. Hehas seen all the recent ones with the Yankees and said that last night's White Sox Astros game was the best World Series game he's ever watched. He's right, of course. He even said GO SOX on the air.

All right, I'll give it a rest.

Girls Talk Baseball. No Really!

Comedy is where you find it. Girls talking baseball is one place.

My stepmother, who was knitting during Saturday's first World Series game, started discussing the Sox bullpen with me when Bobby Jenks was brought in to shut down the Astros at the end. Stop rolling your eyes.

We were talking about how big the Jenks kid was. Okay, fat. A tub o' guts. His size and shape reminded me of a slim David Wells, although that may be an oxymoron. Jenks is also so young and so new to the White Sox, they could call him Baby Jenks. If he does drugs, they could call him High Jenks.

That wasn't the funny part. I know, hurry up and get to it.  

I had never seen a pitcher throw that hard in a game. Despite the pressure of the crowd and the worldwide audience, he blew away some prime meat in the middle of the Astros' lineup to earn a save.

Hey, that sounded kind of sportswriter-ish.

His 100 mph fast ball left skidmarks. His dominance reminded my stepmom of Randy "The Big Unit" Johnson, the formerly invincible Astros' pitcher who's now with the Yankees.

Okay, here it comes --  the funny part.

Like most women, myself included, who find a lot of pro sports nicknames unfathomable without someone to translate their meaning, she looked up from the pretty purple scarf she was working on and asked, "Why do they call him The Big Eunuch?"

Now that's funny. But she wasn't done.

Throughout the game Fox had cameras and graphics for everything from a strike locator to a worm's eye view just in front of the plate.

I found the attention to detail entertaining. I'm not sure she had the same experience. After the last out, she wondered , "Who is this Rusty Arms guy?"

I am not making any of this this up.
 

The One Thing I Want You To Know About Me

  February 2005

Once again Judithheartsong's Artsy Essay Contest beckons me. Like Russell Crowe sitting outside my house on a yellow Fatboy with black leather seats and the engine running.

One thing, huh? There are way more things I would rather you didn't know about me than anything I want you to know.

Perhaps that is the underlying purpose of this month's essay contest. To see if I'm willing to peel back the layers of my carefully constructed personna and reveal myself in a manner still suitable for publication.

I find it interesting that personality quirks I'm not proud of leap to mind immediately like little kids who have the answer to the teacher's question -- PICK ME PICK ME OH PLEASE OH PLEASE MRS. LINKLATER!!

Shut up. Sit down and be quiet you noisy, noxious character flaws. Why would I want to pick YOU to share with strangers? You creep me out.

Oh great, there's a crowd gathering in the corners of my mind.  

For instance, I don't want people to know I'm afraid of becoming a bag lady. Or that I keep a box of Hefty Steel Saks in a secret place just in case the time comes. Bag Lady anxiety is the fear of all women over fifty who live alone. At least this one. The thought of sitting on a park bench with my shopping cart feeding the pigeons haunts me. Unless I'm in London on tour. Oh, say, aren't you Mrs. Linklater of Mrs. Linklater's Guide to the Universe? Weren't you nominated for a VIVI once?

I don't want anybody to know that if my feet get any bigger I'll have to wear the boxes. Seriously, even though I'm almost six feet tall, I shouldn't have to ask for a men's eleven when I shop for my Manolos. Is that fair?

I don't want to have to say "no" to posing nude. Oh, so you think I get a pass now that I'm over sixty? Not any more. That former supermodel Lauren Hutton has just revealed EVERYTHING for some freaking magazine, with the disingenuous disclaimer, "Oh, no, nothing was retouched." The bitch. She's 61 years old, almost 62. Just like me on October 30th, thanks for asking.

Who wants that kind of pressure to prove you've still got it? When I reached my well deserved menopause moment, I thought I could enjoy my elastic waistband life without having to justify it.  After all there's a reason I stay in town for the winter here -- I can cover up every saggy and wrinkled part of my body and pass for two, maybe three years younger. But, in a bathing suit or [shudder] my birthday suit? Probably only a minute or two. But now, Ms Hutton wants us to keep our "ho" jos working. I'd rather be sucking on a milkshake straw with a side order of fries. Followed by a nap.

I don't want you to know how lazy I've become. "I'll get to it" is my new mantra. Just let me watch Wheel of Fortune first. [Kidding -- you have to be seventy] Okay, just let me watch this re-run of Law and Order and I'll get to it.

I'm embarrassed that I listen to WGN talk radio and not to a music station. The average listener of that station is 107. And I actually like it so much I have called in. It's the liking it that I don't want people to know about. If someone gets in the car with me and it's on when I start the engine, I tell them I only listen for the weather and the uh, traffic. Yeah, the traffic.

I have also been known to put in a Metallica CD, the Monster one, open the windows and turn up the volume on my way into the parking lot, when I'm working downtown, in case I run into someone I know. Boy, I didn't want you to know that.

I don't want anyone to know that I smile a lot only so the wrinkles on my face go up instead of down. I remember doing that so much when I was talking to a guy I just met that he even commented on it. "You sure smile a lot." Haaaaaaaa.

There's more. But I have to get downtown and take pictures of the statues with White Sox hats on them. So I'll be back later. I'm not sure I want you to know that. Ooops.Too late.

 

The VULVI's

The VIVI nominations are in.  Now it's time for the VULVI's or VULVAE, depending on your latin proclivities.

By the way, Mrs. Linklater has just perused the list of VIVI nominations and like she said earlier, a lot of the folks over there in her OTHER JOURNALS have been nominated. Unlike last year, there are also some people she's never heard of, which just says J-Land is getting bigger.

This year Mrs. L even got a couple of nominations herself -- THE MOST LIKELY TO START A PISSIN MATCH, and the coveted YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT? award. Okay, no false modesty. 

I was nominated for Most Humorous, Best Use of Attitude, and Most Outspoken. I'm up against some of my favorite journals, so it's a mixed blessing to get this nomination as much as I deserve it. But I think a campaign of slander, rumor and innuendo ought to propel me into the winner's circle.

You can check out all the nominations with a click on the VIVI Nominations link over there at the bottom of the OTHER JOURNALS section.

When you're finished perusing the VIVI's, come back and make your VULVI nominations. Many thanks to bosoxblue6993w's inspired name for a new award that honors the best comments writer. I think the whole thing was all his concept as a matter of fact. Once again Mrs. Linklater can spot an idea worth stealing before anyone else. 

The VULVI honors the person who stops by, reads your journal, and leaves a one or two line comment that's funnier and usually better than your entry. 

My nominations for this award are:

1) SCREAMINREMO303

2) ROBBUSH6

3) BELFASTCOWBOY75

4) BOSOXBLUE6993W

Here's the deal. You have a week from tomorrow October 22, to add nominees for your favorite commenter.  Starting October 29th, the day before my birthday, you have one week to vote for the VULVI of your choice.

Put your nominees in the comments. Along with one of their comments that you think is especially VULVALICIOUS when you get a chance.  Or email it to me.

Meanwhile, I will find quotes for REMO, et al., that I think are good examples of how scary funny they can be.

And I will also ask each one of them to provide another one that they think is funny from anywhere they've left their scat in their wanderings around J-Land.

You have a week to make nominations.  Then there will be a week of voting.

Our motto this week: VIVI VULVI VOLUMINOUS

Ask Mrs Linklater "Naughty Bits" Edition

DISCLAIMER:  Remember Mrs. Linklater is just someone with an opinion. And this one will be like throwing gasoline on a fire.  She can hardly wait for the conflagration.  


Mrs. Linklater wonders if moms who parade around nude in front of their sons and fathers who flash the family jewels at their daughters think they are performing some kind of public service.

Would they do the same to their children's friends?  No. Because it's inappropriate. And, if you want to get technical, illegal.  So what makes it appropriate to do the same thing to their children? Because they're family and can't escape?

Mrs. L can't wait to expose these kinds of parents for the buck naked numbskulls they are.  But first, the advice giver makes a lame attempt to put lipstick on this pig.  

Dear Abby [Jeanne Phillips]
Published October 19, 2005 Chicago Tribune

Dear Abby: My son-in-law insists on walking around naked after his shower. He claims that he must let his hemorrhoids air-dry. This man has four children, three of whom are girls ages 9, 7 and 4. My daughter has done everything from plead to scream to get him to stop this habit, yet he still emerges from the bathroom with the announcement, "Turn your heads, girls, I'm naked!"

What more can my daughter do to get him to understand how potentially dangerous this is?

-- Disgusted in Jameson, Mo.

Dear Disgusted: I discussed your letter with Dr. Stephen Kuchenbecker, a respected colorectal surgeon in Los Angeles. He informs me that while hemorrhoid sufferers are advised not to rub that tender area of the body, they are encouraged to gently "pat" dry or even use a hand-held hair dryer to be sure the hemorrhoids are free of moisture.

It is not appropriate for your son-in-law to parade around in front of the girls. The next time he makes his grand entrance, your daughter and the girls should point at his lower midsection and start laughing. If that proves ineffective, she should buy a long extension cord for her hair dryer, and warn her spouse that if he doesn't dry his hemorrhoids, then she will.

Mrs Linklater is blowing milk through her nose. Here's a dad who ignores the pleas of his wife and daughters to stop putting his private parts on public display -- for whatever reason -- and Abby calls a colorectal surgeon?

Abby, it's pretty clear Dad's an asshead, we don't need a rectal doctor to confirm this. Besides, take away his 'roid excuse and Dad will just come up with another reason to display his donkey kong.    

And that suggestion to have the girls point to it and laugh when he comes out of the bathroom. Are you hallucinating? Now he's got them looking at it thanks to YOU.

What is it about THE GIRLS DON'T LIKE LOOKING AT THEIR FATHER NAKED that you and he don't seem to understand?

Gotta play hardball. Next time he goes into the shower, Mom packs up the kids and they leave. She puts a note on the bathroom door that says they aren't coming back until he stops exposing himself AND gets counseling.

If exhibitionistic parents would consider their behavior a form of sexual abuse instead of defending their right to let it all hang out, children in this country might not need so many drugs to control their anxious behavior.  Family nudity is particularly heinous when the parents are asked to stop and they don't. Have they looked in a mirror lately?

There can be consequences. Good kids can start "acting out," having anger issues, substance abuse problems, boys attacking their mothers, girls exhibiting sexually promiscuous behavior, or one of Mrs. Linklater's personal favorites, four year olds pooping on the living room rug.

That's why the first question to ask is, "Do your kids see you naked?"  Two years old is usually the cut off time, if you'll pardon an expression.

If the answer is no, check out caretakers, clergy, scout leaders, coaches, etc. because somebody's messing with your children.

Well, now, wasn't that fun?  

Getting Dead People Into The World Series

It's been so long since the White Sox have been to a World Series that everyone is getting all nostalgic about relatives who are going to miss everything because they're dead.

I just got an email from my cousin, Rich, in LA. He's as big a White Sox fan as I am, having grown up around Chicago. His dad, my Uncle Whit, was as rabid about the team as my father, his Uncle Frank.

Sounds like a sportswriter friend thinks he can get my cousin a ticket to the World Series.


I can't believe it's actually happening. I'm sorry my Dad's missing all this. But I do have a solution for that...

...My good friend is a sportswriter and he said he's almost positive - almost - that he can get me a ticket for at least one of the World Series games this weekend. So it looks like I might be flying in. I figure I have to take this chance. And right alongside me, in my pocket, will be some of my Dad's ashes. I figure, why not, he was only four in 1917 and never made it to a World Series game  in ' 59 so I'm going to try my damndest to take him this time.

In the meantime I'm still hoarse from the Angel series. I decided not to spend any money and go to a game out here, but instead to roll the dice and risk it all on going toward a World Series game. I'm glad it paid off. Boy, are they ever looking good. How cool would it be if they won. The Red Sox last  year, the White Sox this year. That would show the Cubs that maybe losing isn't so lovable anymore.

And honestly, of the three, the White Sox have always had it the toughest. Second in many of the hearts in their own city, while the Cubs and Red Sox are loved. Well, fuck 'em all, it's the WhiteSox's turn this year!

I'll let you know as soon as I know if/when I'm coming. You don't have an extra ticket do you? Kidding! But seriously...

GO SOX!


I love that he's planning to take some of his dad's ashes to the ballpark if he can get a ticket. That got me thinking about taking my dad, if I decide to spend six hundred to a thousand dollars for a ticket.  

He died a couple of years ago, so it would be nice to do something symbolic like that for him, too. You know, bring him to the park with me if I get a chance to go.

It would be nice if I could put him in a locket around my neck. Or tuck him into my purse.

The real problem is going to be getting that exhumation order signed then trying to explain why I've got a casket with me.  

Egg for Sale

 

The place where I like to purchase wine as gifts for friends -- the Knightsbridge Wine Shoppe [you can Google it, they deliver] -- has a large round table in the middle of the shop.

There are dozens of different kinds of wines there and you can taste them any time you're visiting. There are more formal tastings on the weekends with much rolling of tongues, swirling of glasses, and sniffing of bouquet. Should you be a customer who orders more wine than I ever will, you may have your very own Riedel crystal wine glass to drink out of.

Each glass is kept in a pristine white and glass cupboard hanging upside down with dozens of others, embossed with the initials of each preferred customer. Swank. They even wash it out [quelle surprize!] after the tasting so it will be ready for you next time -- always with the hope that you will exceed their expectations while you continue to buy loads and loads of wine from them. The Knightsbridge folks also build more wine cellars than anyone else in the country. 

One of these days I gotta get rich.

But I only buy bottles at twenty or so dollars a crack, one at a time, not in bulk, so I have to taste wine out of little thimble sized things. No free crystal glass for me.

Anyway, I was in there purchasing a housewarming gift when I saw this strange egg-shaped item on the table. Oh, look, a strange egg-shaped item. Why it looks like a giant Faberge egg, i declared. I was told that it was, in fact, a Faberge egg.  Just much larger than the very very expensive ones that Malcolm Forbes used to collect.   

It even serves a useful purpose, instead of just sitting there to be gazed upon. It's for caviar.What every house needs.  And, here is the best part, it's on sale. Yep, only $7000, reduced from $10,000.

Not to mention that the amount of caviar you might want to serve in this convenient contraption will cost in the neighborhood of $1000. 

Or, you could just put Cheez-It crackers in there. The yellow would make a nice contrast with the blue.

I'm not rich, never will be, but it sure is fun to see how I could spend my money if I had it.

Mrs. Linklater is Verklempt

I've been a White Sox fan since I was seven or eight years old and Ferris Fain was playing first base. I remember Jim Landis' rookie year, his first day in centerfield.  

I followed the fortunes of Minnie Minoso, Billy Pierce, Luis Aparicio, Nellie Fox, and "Jungle" Jim Rivera, saving their baseball cards when they showed up in the gum I bought. Who could forget manager Marty Marion, Hall of Famer George Kell, and the big knuckleballer whose name I don't recall, Early Wynn perhaps? Those were the players I loved, whose stats I followed, even when I moved to the north side and had to embrace the Cubs or be drummed out of the neighborhood. Wrigley is a great place, but the White Sox were all that mattered to me.

My father and I, who were not exactly close, had a few moments of peace together. Watching the White Sox was one. When they were playing he would stay in the room and I could talk to him.

When they won the pennant in 1959, he did something completely out of character and bought a commemorative tray with the headline from the newspaper, declaring that the White Sox had won the American League Pennant.

It sat on the ledge by the stairway to the second floor of our house with all the decorative value of a Lava Lamp. But my mother knew how big a fan my dad was and she let it stay there.

One day I was racing off to school and I accidentally bumped the tray off the ledge and it broke into a dozen pieces. I really felt bad about it because he didn't have anything else to remind him about that wonderful year. But he didn't say anything, for which I was grateful. Of course, he didn't forgive me either.

A couple of years ago he died.

I don't miss him the way some people miss their fathers. I didn't cry much either. He was always more of a thorn in my side than a supportive parent.

But last night when the Sox won the pennant, I knew he would have been as thrilled as I am. So I was truly sorry he couldn't be around to enjoy the excitement that's just rocking the city.

Then I remembered that tray. For some reason, it got me thinking about my dad. In a good way for once. That moment was the very first time I actually missed him and I found myself shedding a tear.

Of course, based on how many years it takes the team to win a pennant, that may be the last time I feel nostalgic about my father.

But I'm sure he'll be on my mind during the World Series and for a change it won't be because he has said something unpleasant to me. It'll be nice to have a happy memory about him.
 

Breast Cancer Awareness Month Rant

My mother died of breast cancer in 1966. I miss her every day.

The cancer appeared shortly after two things happened.

1) She started smoking again. 2) She began to use a body lotion loaded with estrogen. [Try buying something like that now.]

She died two years later at fifty.

Don't smoke. Don't use estrogen products. Don't even think about combining them.

Every time I meet a woman who smokes I ask if she uses the pill or HRT. If she does, I say you're going to get breast cancer.  

It won't be today. It won't be tomorrow. Maybe not even for the first five years, unless you smoke. But cancer is coming.

Estrogen was added to the list of carcinogens for a reason, you know.

Just try to get pharmaceutical companies to give you the odds on breast cancer after five years on the pill and HRT. How about the numbers of young women getting cancer in their twenties after ten years on the pill. Same with older women after ten years on HRT. Then add smoking to the mix.

Needless to say, I don't get many phone calls that start out, "Hey guess what, you know when you warned me about the dangers of smoking and taking estrogen products, well you were right!"

I hear about it through the grapevine. And I no longer call or send flowers or a basket because I was the messenger and they'd all like to kill me.

But that isn't what my rant is about. My rantis about how doctors mutilate women's breasts when they operate. And it isn't necessary.

In 1964 -- the date is important -- my mother, who was a nurse, had a radical mastectomy the day before a tennis tournament she was playing in was due to start. She found a lump and was operated on the very next day by a top plastic surgeon at the University of Chicago.

She went into surgery not knowing what the outcome would be. Breast or no breast? Cancer or no cancer? You didn't know until you woke up.

They found cancer that had metastasized. She lost her entire breast, a great deal of her lymph nodes and a chunk of muscle. Despite the fact that she had started smoking again, she had trained for months for the tournament. That's why two weeks later I was on the court hitting balls with her, even though she still had a drain in her arm.

Here's my point. The incision was huge. It went from under her armpit in a semi circle down her chest and around to her back down by her waist. But the scar was almost invisible. You couldn't see it unless you looked very closely. Plastic surgeons are competent that way.

The muscle had been dissected with the skill of a sculptor, so there was no gross distortion where it had been removed. Looking at her chest you couldn't tell there had ever been a breast there because the area was so smooth. In fact, I couldn't tell there had ever been surgery. She could look at herself in the mirror without disgust or self loathing. Unfortunately I thought this was the standard of surgery every woman could expect.

Keep in mind this was four decades ago.

As recently as two years ago, I've seen and heardegregious examples of female mutilation by surgeons who consider themselves experts in breast removal and reconstruction.

I've seen simple mastectomies that left women with a huge scar that looks like a railroad track from one side of the breast to the other. And the breast looks like a deflated fleshy balloon.

What the fuck are doctors thinking? That a woman would rather have a saggy slab of skin with a five to seven inch horizontal red zipper in place of her nipple, instead of having the breast completely excised and repaired with artful subcutaneous stitching so the evidence of removal and disease is gone?

General surgeons have no business repairing women's breasts. Period.

Breast surgeons should all be board certified in plastic surgery. Or they should not be breast surgeons.

Reconstruction is a joke, too. You can end up with an implant floating up near your shoulder. It happened to someone close to me. And mismatching is a huge problem.

Not to mention that the scars don't usually go away. And they have to tattoo a nipple for you.

Which leads me to a question. Plastic surgeons have finally figured out a way to spare the nerves leading to the nipples so that sensitivity can be retained when they perform breast augmentation. Maybe there were so many complaints that they stopped snipping haphazardly and learned to be more careful.

So why can't the nipple be spared the same way when there's cancer? Why does it automatically come off? Is it too much trouble for the doctor to operate in a way that would leave a woman with the one part of her breast that can contribute to HER satisfaction?

A friend of mine was diagnosed with metastasized breast cancer at 36. She had both breasts removed. Her breasts had been so beautfiul they should have been in a museum somewhere.

Afterward she showed me the reconstruction. Her combination saline/silicone implants were an odd shape. They looked like a bad execution of a great concept. And the nipple tattoos were a joke.

And there were these dark lines under each breast where the scars were. The area was smooth but discolored. Do doctors think that any kind of breast is better than none at all?

She has since had the implants removed and is much happier. Her husband seems okay with it too. I haven't seen what her breast free chest looks like so I don't know what kind of scars she has now. The good news is that she is a 25-year survivor.

There is an infamous photo of several women with their disfigured breasts exposed, which is so awful, it makes you look away in horror. I have been trying to find it. The ugliness is completely unnecessary. That kind of scarring ought to be grounds for malprarctice.

That photo or one like it was featured by Rosie O'Donnell in her now defunct magazine Rosie, I believe. Her mother also died of breast cancer.

On the other hand, I have also seen a very natural looking reconstruction on a thirty-two year old woman, based on her appearance in a bikini, where the artificial breast with the implant was beautifully matched with its partner. Here again it took more than one try to get the breasts to match, including adding an implant behind the healthy breast.

Given a choice after seeing what I'veseen, I know what I would do. But first, there are some things I've already done.

I nursed my babies, because breastfeeding seems to provide some kind of protection -- at least statistically. There have been theories about the release of melatonin and its preventative benefits, but I don't think anything has been proven conclusively.

I have never smoked. I took the pill, but only for three months in my twenties. I have never taken HRT.

Another contributing factor to cancer may include exposure to pesticides used in gardening, which convert to estrogen compounds in the body. My mother was an avid gardener who cleaned out her pesticide spray can by hand each time she used it.

Also there is a theory about the effect of magnetic fields created by electric blankets over a prolonged period of time. My mother slept under an electric blanket, too.

If ever diagnosed with breast cancer, I would hire a plastic surgeon to operate and remove the breast. Even if the cancer is in situ -- in place -- and hasn't spread. Lumpectomy and chemo is usually an option then. No thanks. I won't get into the damage chemo can cause to your heart and other organs. You need to be young to withstand that kind of poison.

I would also ask to see photographs of the surgeon's prior results, before any reconstruction. Show me how good you are, Doc. I want the smooth scar free result my mother had.

I do not want reconstruction. Would you tear down a national landmark to put up a trailer park?

And I wouldn't wear what I call a Porta-breast -- a bra with a prosthesis inside. Less is more when one is older. Besides breasts just get in the way playing sports.

When my mother was my age she had been dead for almost twelve years. So far, my tobacco free, estrogen free lifestyle seems to be working. My mammograms have been okay.

Ironically, however, after being so careful about my breast health all these years, I realize now that I have risks for other cancers and diseases that weren't even on my radar.

Figures. 

Patrick's Saturday Six -- ND Loses To USC In The Last Few Seconds Edition

At least the White Sox are winning.

1. Who was the last person you sent flowers to?  Who was the last person to send you flowers?

This is pathetic, but for a long time I saved the flowers from each bouquet I received and dried them. I'm looking at an arrangement I made and it's creeping me out. A lot of those flowers don't have happy memories. EWWWWW. What was I thinking?

In real life, I recently sent two dozen peach roses to the house of my college roommate's dad who was like a father to me. When he died, I was shooting a video in Dallas and couldn't attend the wake and funeral.

The last people to send me flowers were my daughters. They send bouquets a lot. I love flowers. I've got a picture of some around here someplace. I'll post it.

2. What is your favorite single piece of furniture in your home and why?

My bed is my favorite piece of furniture. I can enjoy two very pleasure-filled activities there:  Sleeping and reading.

3. You are given the chance to model clothing in a catalog.  What type of clothing would you most want to model and why?

Victoria's Secret fashions. Or stuff in the LL Bean catalog. Either way I get to wear clothes I like -- pretty underwear and polar fleece. Together, preferably.

4. Take this quiz:  What is your "power color?"

Probably red. We'll see. Apparently, it's indigo. Whatever.

5. What product are you mostly likely to buy in bulk? Have you figured out whether you actually are saving money by doing so?

Nutella, a substance not found in nature. It comes in a wide mouthed jar so you can use a really big spoon to scoop it out. Some people like to spread it on other things. I'm a purist. Two giant jars at Costco cost less than a sandwich and soup at the deli. For comparison shopping, I just picked up a smaller jar at the full contact retail price at the grocery the other day. But I finished it before getting to the cash register, so I had to get a second one. You do the math.

Oh, sorry, you're talking about buying something BULKY like laundry soap aren't you? I have bought a huge container with 90 eggs in it for only four dollars and split them four ways with friends.  Sure, they were five years old, but cheap is cheap.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #75 from Mortimer: Now that winter is approaching, what is your ultimate comfort food? What guilty pleasure do you eat that is sinfully not good for you but, you can't get enough?

One could read some TOS quality innuendo into that question, but not me.  

Back to a G rated answer: I don't have a comfort food -- oh wait, yes I do:  Cheetos.

But I don't have any fooking guilt about the food I eat. Acid reflux, yes. Guilt, no. And Zantac takes care of the former. So I never have to deal with the latter.

Youth Is Wasted On The Young

A friend of mine went to his umpteenth law school reunion a couple of weekends ago.

It wasn't a diploma mill law school.  It was a law school that is ranked among the best in the country.

During one of the gatherings the moderator asked the assembled attorneys, "How many of you dated Marina Oswald?"

My friend, who had spent a lot of time with her, stood up, along with a couple of his friends, one of whom had introduced him to her.

She was a celebrity of sorts on the campus while she was there.

The young dean of the law school was in attendance and he approached my friend following the event to ask, "Who is Marina Oswald?"

My friend answered, "She was Lee Harvey Oswald's wife."

"Who is Lee Harvey Oswald?" asked the dean.  

Earth to the generation behind me.  Anybody home?

Spa Day Part II

 
Anthony, the stylist mentioned in the previous entry, has been working out at my healthclub and working at their spa as a women's and men's stylist for at least fifteen or twenty years. Almost as long as I have been a club member.

I first noticed him years ago. He was a darker and shorter Italian version of Arnold Schwarzennegger and liked to lift some nasty weights. He didn't talk to anyone or look at the women at all. So I assumed he was gay or married. He was also at the club during the day which made me wonder what he did for a living. My trainer told me he was one of the stylists at the Spa. So, despite any evidence to the contrary, I figured he was gay.

I went on with my life without him, until a couple of years ago, when I started going to the Spa to get a cut and a blow dry from my latest stylist, Nora, instead of driving twenty miles to see my beloved Australian uber-styist, Stephen. I found Stephen when he was featured in Elle magazine as one of Chicago's top hair gurus, along with Oprah's guy and somebody from Sassoon.  

Stephen and I hit it off right away because, as he put it, I wasn't a starfucker. His claim to fame was doing the hair for a lot of the women in the early James Bond movies when he was working the fashion haunts of London. He was known for his "finish." Whatever that means. Then he met someone from a suburb of Chicago and gave it all up for love. Now he's mowing the lawn, going to Little League and styling hair for ladies who shop the sales, and charging one tenth of what he could be making downtown.

I miss him, but my club is more convenient, and I don't miss the commute.

I had already been going to my healthclub's spa for several years because they provide a platoon of massage therapists, any one of whom I could count on to whip my beaten up, tired body into shape after I'd twisted myself into a pretzel playing my latest sport du jour.

On my way to the designated massage table for my bi-weekly pounding, I would pass the hairdo emporium and see Anthony at work. Like most attractive men in a female environment, I just figured he kept his game face on to protect himself from the inevitable attempts by women to tear his clothes off, literally and figuratively. I understood his dilemma.

A tennis pro I knew once showed me the unsolicited stack of letters he got each week from women who gave him the dates their husbands would be out of town, what doors to the house were always unlocked, and diagrams detailing the route to their bedrooms. Sometimes it's embarrassing to be a woman.

So I understood why Anthony treated me like he treated all the other women within eyesight -- like a piece of lint. Until I made my first appointment with Nora to get a haircut. And he heard me laugh.

I don't want to say it was love at first laugh, but the man was hooked. He started doing impersonations, telling jokes from the Henny Youngman comedy book, even tap dancing just to make me guffaw. It was like a switch got turned on and his personality lit up.  

I found out he was married, not gay, which helped explain his careful avoidance of overt flirting with women -- no doubt a lesson he learned the hard way. But this somber, uber-muscular [I've used UBER twice now, hmmm] handsome man giggles like a schoolgirl when he sees me coming. It's really silly.

His eyes light up and hegets this shit-eating grin on his face. And it's not licentious. It's pure joy. Certainly nothing to do with wanting to jump my bones -- because I couldn't look less like a sex object when I'm in for my monthly makeover.  

I think it's worth noting that I'm not one of Anthony's clients. So he's not sucking up for a big tip.

The thing is, he really does know how to make me laugh. He does a great impersonation of Bill Murray's lounge singer from SNL. And his imitation of tap dancing couldn't be more comical.

Then one day not too long ago, when she wasn't burning one of my ears with the blow dryer, Nora wanted to see a picture of me with my natural hair, which is, or was, dark auburn. We were discussing the possbility of going back to that color, but I wasn't convinced.  So to help out I brought in a picture of myself when I was modeling so she could see what color my hair used to be.

What I hadn't planned on was Nora showing it to Anthony.

He may have loved my laugh, but he really loved that picture of me from 35 years ago. Sheesh, what's not to like?

The next time I came to the spa he made a point of letting me know that there was no telling what might have happened between us when we were younger. I, however, have seen a snapshot of him from his younger days and I can tell you nothing would have happened.

After he saw my picture, I noticed he looked at me differently the next time I came in to see Nora. Like he could see past the old me to the young me. I didn't know whether this was good news or bad news.

He started to treat me differently. Clearly things had changed between us because of the photo. It became quite apparent that we couldn't go back to just laughing and joshing and joking anymore.

No. First we have the usual few minutes of laughs, including some jokes so old they smell like mildew. Next he starts channeling Bill Murray's lounge act like always, holding a hairbrush as a microphone. This is followed up by a fantastic finish, thirty seconds of his signature faux tap dancing that cracks me up.  

Then -- this is the new part -- he sits down next to me, gets a serious look on his face, and. . .we talk about the White Sox.  

Spa Day Part I

 

[Picture of my daughters after they ran the Chicago Marathon a couple of days before I went to the Spa]

I'm writing this after the White Sox beat the Angels, although they sure didn't deserve to. This is going to make the Angels so mad they'll win the next three games. Watch. You saw it here first.

Before tonight's fiasco, everyone was talking about the White Sox losing the ballgame the night before. I don't think the Angels won it; I think the White Sox lost that first game with a bad throw to first, getting caught stealing twice, and a horrible display of bunting. Last night the Sox won on a bad, bad call.

On the morning of the night the umpire lost his mind, I was at my healthclub's spa getting a haircut from my crazy Armenian stylist, Nora, who was chattering about the new velour pants and jacket she got for twenty-five dollars at Burlington Coat Factory. I, however, was trying to talk to Anthony, the Italian bodybuilder stylist in the next chair about baseball -- specifically why I thought Garland should have started the series with the Angels, but there's this machismo thing with pitchers and Contreras had earned his chance even though, as a former pitcher myself, I could tell he was ripe for his team to lose it for him, blah blah blah.

Anyway, Pat Hughes comes in to get a haircut from Anthony while I'm getting a haircut from Nora.  Pat Hughes is the radio play by play guy for the CUBS on WGN's SUPERSTATION.  He's basically done for the year and probably wishes he was working the Sox games. Meanwhile, there's no way I was going to talk baseball with Pat Hughes -- have I mentioned he's a famous local radio play by play guy?  He'd probably think I was trying to hit on him, because I'm sure he thinks no woman would ever want to talk sports unless she had something else in mind.  

So now I have to talk with Nora about velour and do I want to go with her to get Botox injections next Monday at her plastic surgeon's office?  For $350 you can have enough injections to smooth your face into a baby's bottom. But then I hear you can't move anything, so nobody knows if you're smiling or not.  

Maybe in a couple of years.

At the same time, I'm trying to hear what Pat Hughes is saying to Anthony about the Sox game against the Angels, but he is talking very softly, in case somebody like me is listening and ready to tell the world what he is saying.  

Over the noise of the blow dryer, which Nora usually puts on the highest heat setting and then proceeds to hold against one of my ears so that the skin begins to melt, she leaned over and whispered a bit too loudly in her charming version of English, "You know, Pat Hughes vas MY customer. Anthony take him from me. I not steal someone's customer. But he steal from me. Take him away. POOF! I not do that to a person." I'm hoping she'll shut up soon so that Anthony doesn't come over and stab her with a pair of scissors, but between the noise of the hair dryer and the sudden shriek I emitted when my ear caught on fire, I don't think the guys heard too much of what she said.

As I watched her finish cutting and styling my do, I realized that even though I've never formally been introduced to Pat Hughes [the voice of the Chicago Cubs on WGN Radio, in case you missed it], I am almost related to his partner in the booth, Ron Santo, who played third base for the team and now does color commentary with Pat during the season.

Ron's wife went to Northwestern University around the same time I did.  And she was a sorority sister of one of the NU pom pom girls. This former NU pom pom girl is now my ex-husband's wife. So, that makes Pat Hughes practically family.

You live in a town long enough stuff like this happens.

ASK MRS. LINKLATER -- TEMPER! TEMPER! EDITION

Mrs. Linklater would like to know what it is about men in orange jump suits with their hands and feet in chains that makes them so attractive?

Once again an advice columnist treats this female phenomenon with kid gloves instead of the sledghammer it needs. Thank goodness Mrs. Linklater is around to slap these goofy women upside the head.

As usual our advice giver gets first dibs on this daffy duck.

Chicago Tribune Last Week
Dear Amy: I am 21 years old and hope you'll give me some honest answers. I really trust your point of view.

I am in a relationship with someone whom I love very much. We have only been together for five months, three of which he has spent in jail. I have fallen hard and fast for him! He is very good to me and tells me that he really cares about me and loves me very much. We have a very open and honest relationship, but I am worried about his bad temper.

He was brought up "on the streets," and he has always lived the "hard knocks" life. I am waiting for him to get sentenced to find out when he will get out of prison. When he does, we are planning on living together! He has a history with his temper, but he is working on that now, learning other ways to deal with things that stress him

Dear Concerned: Not all people who have a hard-knocks life or grow up on the streets have uncontrollable tempers. I point that out because it is my job to remove excuses Nos. 1 and 2 from your reasoning. Your guy is responsible for his own actions.

Now that I have your attention, let me say loudandclear that you must not move in with him.

One of the biggest mistakes you can make in any relationship is to hope that you will be able to change somebody else.

You cannot change him. Changing is his job. Talk is cheap, especially in prison, where people have every reason to talk a good game and no way to prove anything.

I imagine that your mother is very worried about you. It's very sweet of you to think that unconditional love, respect and honesty can cure an out-of-control temper, but it just doesn't work that way.

The fact that you think you can perform such an extreme makeover on this guy is an indication that you are not as mature as you think you are. Take your good heart and compassion, and find somebody who is available to reciprocate and give you the life you deserve.

Mrs. Linklater steps away from her Krispy Kreme to offer three words of advice for this young woman:  Witness Protection Program.

Oh wait, they don't have things like that for battered women. But you don't think you'll be a battered woman do you? You're too busy writing "MRS. I LOVE A GUY IN PRISON AND HE LOVES ME" again and again on page after page of three ring notebook paper in your trapper keeper. With smiley faces in the little circles you make over the letter "I."

Well, Little Miss One Brick Shy Of A Load, let Mrs. Linklater predict your sorry future:

Loser, I mean Lover Boy, gets out of jail. He moves in with you. So far so good. One day, and it may be the next day or the next month, you're going to do something that annoys him. Like you didn't get him the hot sauce for his eggs fastenough. Something really important.

Suddenly instead of basking in your unconditional love and becoming a good and useful citizen, Bad Temper Boy will turn on you and before you can set his favorite bottle of sauce in front of him and say you're sorry -- because you always have to say you're sorry -- you will become his personal punching bag.

Congratulations!!! Enjoy your FIRST, but not your LAST extreme makeover!

You get a new wardrobe -- lots of long sleeved shirts to hide the welts on your arms.  

You get new make up -- the heavy kind that can hide the dark bruises on your face

You get a new pair of sunglasses -- the big black ones that hide your swollen eyes.

It's not a question of IF this will happen to you, my naive nymphette, but WHEN.

Here's the good part. You won't listen to your mother. You won't listen to Amy. And you won't listen to Mrs. Linklater either.

No, you will do the stupid, dangerous thing and move in with this bad tempered bastard. Sorry did Mrs. Linklater say BASTARD?  Yes. She meant to. And because you don't want to admit you made a mistake, you'll let him beat you up seven or eight times until one day you call your mom and ask her to come get you.

Unless someone else calls the cops who have to call the medical examiner.

Lotsa luck!!!