The Well-Watered Callous-Free Eyebrow Wig

If you own a TV, you already know there are some amazing products to be had by the savvy consumer armed with a credit card ... even if you never watch an infomercial. Some of this stuff I've seen advertised and some of it I've run across while either idly or purposely surfing the Internet for something else. In each case this is a product I'd like to personally try or I'm convinced would make a nifty gift idea for someone else.

I myself would not use this first one but it might make a nice present for the person who has everything. The item of which I speak is the eyebrow wig. These are actual brow-shaped toupees that you glue onto your face above your eyes. In the unlikely event I want to impersonate Groucho Marx in some other way besides spouting his clever one-liners, perhaps I'll try these. But with any luck I won't hear: "I never forget a face, but in your case I'd be glad to make an exception."

The next intriguing tool is the PedEgg foot file. This is like the rasp Rachael Ray keeps in her kitchen for zesting lemons, only in this case what you're rasping is the callouses on your footsies. The PedEgg is ergodynamically shaped like a computer mouse, the business side of which is a diminutive grater that will zest your callouses in no time but is so gentle it "won't pop a balloon." (This is assuming you get a hankering to remove the callouses from a balloon, in which case you'll have to use some other gizmo As Seen On TV.) Unlike other callous files that make a pile of white dust on your carpet or floor (unless you utilize them outdoors or while uncomfortably pretzeled with your foot over a trashcan), the PedEgg has a reservoir for the skin it removes from your foot. Sort of like a self-contained pencil sharpener, only it doesn't sharpen your callouses into a point unless you get carried away.

Then there is the AquaGlobes plant watering system. This thing resembles a tie-dyed bong (something I would not know anything about except people mention them at depositions from time to time) or an item you'd see displayed in the window of one of those bohemian shops that lure tourists from the sidewalks of college towns all across America. (You know ... the ones where you walk in and can't decide which is more annoying: the smell of incense, the sound of sitar music, or the tick-like studs in the salesclerk's tongue and nostril.) Be that as it may, this glass syringe-shaped object, about twelve inches long, is spherical on one end and pointed on the other. You fill it with water and then stick the open pointed end down into the dirt of a houseplant, where it looks like "art" but is continuously watering the plant for up to two weeks.

This sounds like a thing I could use had I not long ago given up on houseplants. If there is a live plant in my house, it is invisible to me until it dies. Then I can see it for the space of time it takes to move it from wherever it was to the garbage, where I deposit it with only a twinge of guilt. My mom has lots of houseplants but I don't think she'd like the AquaGlobe because she converses with her plants while watering them. If she used an automatic watering bong-thingie, the plants would be so lonely they'd die even with the constant supply of water. However, this might work for the times Mom's on the road and there's no one there to hydrate the plants. I'll keep this on the back burner as a Mother's Day gift idea in case I can't think of anything else. No way Mom needs an eyebrow wig.

S.W.A.K. (Sealed With A Kick)

Last week at the manicure salon, while submitting to Rose's ministrations to my nails, I was obliged to watch Dr. Phil. This is not a program I would ordinarily countenance, but when in Rome ... The theme of that day's show was romance, or lack of same ... specifically, hopelessly unromantic husbands. The targeted non-uxorious male was brought onstage and ensconced comfortably, if nervously, beside his lovely spouse. Across from them perched "Dr. Phil" McGraw and his mate, Robin.

The longsuffering guest wife, prompted by the cheery McGraws, proceeded to describe her husband as a man who, despite their seventeen-year marriage (during which she has borne him four children) has yet to bestow upon her a card, gift, bonbon, or blossom on Valentine's Day. This nice lady believes that if her husband came home from work one day to find both his missus and his recliner missing, he would rue the loss of his Beloved less than his Barcalounger.

The sweet, shy woman allowed that her husband has given her something: at least one reason for never buying her flowers. "They die," he observed as though he were the Grim Reaper's floral emissary. Once however, in an uncharacteristic frenzy of ardor, he showed his wife a picture of a dozen roses ... accompanied by the caveat that the photo was as close as she'd ever get to receiving actual flowers from him.

(Hey dude ... have you ever heard of diamonds and gold? These things don't die. Ever! The fine jewelry you give her will outlive even you. Just a suggestion if the prospect of your gift's demise is what's actually bothering you. And it's really easy to pick something out; just hand over your credit card, close your eyes, and point.)

Prior to the show's filming, Robin McGraw and three other females had formed a persuasion posse and ushered Sir Stingy into a brightly-lit and sparsely-furnished room. Taking turns, they attempted to raise Lord Loserface's consciousness with regard to the needs of women. Mrs. Dr. Phil told the turkey that her husband never runs the slightest risk that she will doubt his devotion; he tells her at least twice a day and shows her in countless other ways that he loves her. The other women put in their $.02 worth as Prince Paltry glumly listened.

In the end he was given an assignment: Write a love letter to your wife. This would be a first for Count Clueless and as such he faced terror unlike any he had known. Painted into a corner, he clutched a ballpoint in his sweaty palm and began.

Twenty-five insipid drafts later, the Billet-Deux Gang declared Monsieur Maladroit's letter passable. Now all he had to do was read it to his wife. Aloud. During the Dr. Phil show. Which he did, with no discernible emotion. The camera caught several female audience members going misty-eyed over the missive, which in my opinion was so noncommittal it made Genghis Khan look mushy. His own wife appeared only cautiously happy, but Tammy Wynette could not have stood any straighter beside her man. When asked for her reaction, she said that the letter "made up for seventeen years of no Valentines."

Ahem ... honey, could you lower your standards a hair? I think a tapeworm just slithered underneath.

The Gregory placed a large heart-shaped box swathed in blood-red cellophane and bearing a golden ribbon stamped "All Dark Chocolate" on my pillow this afternoon. When I found it and, hyperventilating, shredding the wrapping, asked him why he gave it to me today, he dipped me chivalrously and said: "It's Valentine's week."

I think I'll give him his first card tomorrow. It features a cute doggie perched at the base of a statue depicting Romeo and Juliet in a clinch. Inside is this sentiment: My tail waggeth at the mere thought of you. That's what I'm talking about, y'all.

Dunston Checks In

My inamorato, in addition to being the love of my life (a full-time job in and of itself) is a bottomless source of current news events, and in this capacity he tends to be as thorough as he is faithful to report. I often call him "Mr. Sunshine," so relentless is he at ensuring I am privy to all the gory details of man's inhumanity to man, woman, and child. Over dinner at home or as we drive here and there in traffic so terrifying it would stun a bullfrog ribbitless, he seamlessly regurgitates sound bytes ingested from talk radio and cable news. We do not take a newspaper. Why should we? I have my own personal live-feed link to all things journalistic. After all, inquiring minds do want to know ... and for those minds, at least the ones at our house, there is The Gregory.

This evening he returned home from work and found me sitting in my chair, numb-fingered and hollow-eyed, pretending to solve a crossword puzzle. After delivering my kiss he plunked down on the sofa, put his slippers on his feet, and semi-reclined to read his book. He was not hungry just yet, he said; he'd heat up some leftovers "in a little bit." (This totally works for me.) Cable news was on the TV as usual, and for a few minutes The Gregory unwound. Then, out of nowhere, he saw fit to share this priceless morsel:

"Dunston Cursed entered rehab."

Stunned as ribbitless as a bullfrog in the middle of I-26, I looked up from sixteen across and doubtfully eyed my mate. Funnily, my mind being the Venus Flytrap that it is, even though before my eyes materialized the image of a chimpanzee in loud boxer shorts, I IMMEDIATELY KNEW WHO HE WAS REALLY TALKING ABOUT. My darling husband had just informed me that the actress Kirsten Dunst had checked into a rehab center (in Utah, as it turns out) within the last day or so. Did I hear someone suggest that he himself is leading a double life involving controlled substances and also needs to be checked into rehab? Thank you no, my man is stone cold sober. He just got confused and tung-tangled! Has this never happened to you?

My father-in-law, who is profoundly hard of hearing, once referred to my favorite actor as Johnny Deff. Of course I prefer that to the more obvious Donny Jepp, but let's face it: the man's name ain't broke so let's not try to fix it. But I don't mind if we skew the monikers of certain other of Hollyweird's most-lauded denizens, to include ... oh, I don't know ... Cleorge Gooney, Lude Jaw, Com Truise and his lovely wife Hatie Kolmes Truise, Balle Herry, Rolia Juberts, Hom Tanks, Gwynow Paltreth ... and let us not forget Dunston's fellow compulsive rehabbers, Spritney Bears and Losey Lindhan.

And in an election year you've got to agree it's fun to wonder how the golden tickets will get printed up. Who will Clenator Sinton choose as her running mate, should she secure the nomination? Will she offer the olive branch to Obackarama? That's too bad about Nitt Momrey. Will Hike Muckabee run as Mondo Cane's veep? We shall have to sate and wee. I freely admit that throughout the Bush2 administration I have remorselessly referred to the wife of our Vice President as Lon Chaney. So sue me!

But back to celebridiots ... one notable such person, an aging egotistical provocateur we'll call Demonna, on Wednesday evening had trouble remembering the geographical identity of the very (sacred) soil her expensively-shod hooves teetered upon. Standing smack-dab in the middle of New York City she told her audience something along these lines: We're not in America. Uhm ... hey Madonna ... I've got news for you, luv. It is called America ... The United States of America. Yes it is. Trust me.

Oblivious To The Obvious

There was a bit of dramatic weather east of the Rockies today ... lethal tornadoes in the Southeast and powerful blizzards in the Midwest wrought havoc and claimed many lives. Please do not construe from the levity contained in this post that I take lightly the suffering of those who died and those who are left to grieve for their dead and put their own lives back together. But on a day like today when I was at home and had tuned the TV to cable news and weather stations while puttering around the house, at times the quality of broadcast journalism was truly astonishing.

A coed at Union University in Memphis, Tennessee, was interviewed following her experiences during tornadic activity that decimated the campus. She and seven other girls huddled in a dormitory bathroom throughout the event, fortunately emerging unscathed. After listening to the girl's account of the terrifying ordeal, this was what the cable news reporter wanted to know: "How frightening was that?" Tell you what. Haul out your Fright-O-Meter, hand the girl a sledgehammer, and let's see what we come up with. If she can ring the bell, it was pretty scary.

The mayor of a small town in Arkansas that sustained heavy tornado damage could not seem to stop saying this, or variations on this: "It was totally destroyed." Yes! That makes total sense! I am pretty sure "destroyed" implies "totally" ... especially when the mode of destruction is a tornado.

The Weather Channel shrewdly dispatched award-winning meteorologist Mike Seidel to Wisconsin to report on the blizzard there. Riveting coverage of this major winter storm began with several minutes of a stationary camera trained on a tall building with gale-force winds blowing copious amounts of snow across its facade. The voice-over observed wisely: "Heavy snow in Wisconsin."

Just when you thought it could not possibly get any more exciting or informative, camera number two captured Mike Seidel at work. Well ... actually he was alternating valiant attempts to stay on his feet and keep his coat from blowing off, whichever seemed prudently doable at any given moment. His face was invisible in the recesses of his Gore-Tex hood; his thickly-gloved hand struggled to keep the microphone near his frozen lips.

This was the question posed by his colleague back at the warm, dry studio in Atlanta: "What's it like out there, Mike?" I wouldn't have blamed Mike if he'd reacted with a stare so withering it would have burned a hole in the electronic feed all the way back to Hotlanta and replied sarcastically: "Well, as you can see, it's the kind of day when you can just sense the nearness of springtime. Matter of fact, I think I'll make the most of it and go for a leisurely stroll. Maybe have a picnic lunch. Really savor the ambience of the Midwest in February."

Another report told of planes "stuck" in the air, unable to land in cities like Chicago and Detroit due to whiteout conditions. The announcer offered this revelation: "Because, you know, visibility is an important factor when landing and taking off." Indeed! When attempting to land a $260 million, 400-ton aircraft full of actual living people, it would be convenient if you could eyeball the skinny runway.

Obviously oblivious.

What Do You Think You Are?

The Gregory is a fan of the cable program Dog Whisperer wherein one Cesar Millan, the Dr. Phil of the canine world, analyzes and corrects the sometimes bizarre behavior of man's best friend. A recent episode told the problematic tale of a dog who, for reasons unknown to his human family, was totally intimidated by his surroundings. The poor beastie could not enjoy walkies because upon setting a paw outside the boundaries of his own yard, his tail lodged between his legs and he became a certified puppy poltroon.

The doggie's anguished owners, desiring a better quality of life for their pet, consulted the Dog Whisperer. The DW, sizing up the situation in one glance, grabbed the dog's tail and manually raised it heavenward. Instantly the dog perked up! The transformation was swift and miraculous! No whispering was involved! The DW then devised a special leash that attached to the dog at both ends. The trainer held the lead high in the middle, thereby elevating the dog's tail while walking him down the street. The doggie pranced along as if the very deed to that street were nestled in his personal safe deposit box.

Experts in graphology (the study and analysis of handwriting) believe that, by purposely incorporating "successful" traits into their handwriting, a person has the power to retrain the subconscious mind and transform the personality. Want to be a stronger and more intelligent leader? Cross your t's high on the stem and more to the right. Want to be a better communicator? Make your c's carefully. Want to be more honest? Close your o's. And so on.

Recently I came across this thought and was intrigued by it: Force complicated things into simple channels. It resonated because my dear friend Marilyn, a gifted writer, has been a great encouragement to me of late. She emails me occasionally and gives me a special smile when we meet. "Have you submitted anything new?" she'll want to know. Because of Marilyn I have sent several pieces to various publications. And I plan to keep on submitting pieces even though I'm not sure what I'm doing. Marilyn says I must.

Andrew Jackson is credited with having advised: Never take counsel of your fears. Often when we feel we've been stiff-armed by life and denied our dreams, the real problem is our own inaction due to fear of failure, or even fear of success. So I guess that means that whatever you want to be, you must start acting like that's what you already are. If you don't, you may never have the joy of being that thing.

The Gregory tells practically everyone he meets that his wife is a writer. He drops little pieces of paper on my desk with scribbled email addresses and says, "This is a customer of mine who wants you to send them a link to your blog. I told them you're a writer." I always blush. "Gregger," I demur. "I'm a court reporter. I only want to be a writer." He stares me down. "You're a writer." he insists. I still have not found the courage to make that claim, but right now, for the sake of your as-yet-unrealized dreams, dear reader, I will.

I am a writer. Tag, you're it.