Freeform Friday, early edition

And quite early at that.

I noticed a Porsche in my work parking lot today, parked where an SUV usually sits. I speak occasionally to the woman who's spot that is. I imagined that I would say "Wow. Porsche. Nice." But I wouldn't feel it. Humorously, a radio personality just yesterday was talking about disliking Porsches. He stated that any man that owns one is either gay, closested, or doesn't yet know that they are gay. PC aside, I chuckled under my breath. I thought of the few people that I've known that have owned a Porsche. Check, check and check.

On the other hand, I could just be jealous of the lifestyle which affords one to blow off child-support payments in order to purchase a gas-insatiable roadster to impress future ex-wives.

But I have no bitterness.

She was gone before I had a chance to comment. That was probably for the best, given my mood and recent thoughts on the vehicle. But where, I wondered, was the SUV? I'm proud to say that I couldn't tell you if it was a Hummer or a Bejeezus X-Mark 010. But I kept thinking, "God, I hate it when my husband takes out the tank. I can't see around corners in this itty bitty Porsche!"

Somewhere my Honda and my plastic mini-van are weeping. Peace be with you, utilitarian vehicles. The patron saint of consumerism is nigh born. Hail Rudoph.

Which reminds me, for some reason, that we received a beautiful hand-made Christmas card from our oldest today. The day-care people took a great picture of our son, and pasted it above the requisite "love and xmas" handwriting. I'm dubious that my 2 year-old actually wrote, much less dictated, the note. Sweet, none the less. But the picture appears to have been taken at an opium den. My son's eyes are half-mast, and drool is pooled in the cleft of his collar bone. I'm thinking I should stop by unanounced occasionally. I know that child-care providers need a little time to themselves, but perhaps The Horse is a tad strong?

The upshot is that my little man is halfway to Sherlock Holmes. That is, he can't play the violin, and he's apparently addicted to smack. I'm working daily on the misogyny and pet-like feelings for fellow humans. We'll lick 'em yet, Baskervillians.

Off subject, my toilet tank has recently been sporting a skirt of condensation. I keep telling myself that it must be awefully cold outside, and awefully warm inside. But, c'mon, I live in California. The coldest it gets around here is maybe 15 degrees F. On a spectacularly cold day. And since it's raining, it hasn't been much below 50. So if there are any Bob Villas out there, what the fuck is up with my toilet?

Off/on subject, when I was a freshman in Highschool, I used to ride my bike a mile or so to my friends house. We would then walk the few blocks to school. For a week or two, it was just over 15 degrees F (Squishi - that's friggin' cold). I remember my hands litterally not working until about 2nd period. It took most of my strength to {crack.. crack} disengage my fingers from the handlebars. I understand that some areas sell "gloves". We don't have these in Sunny CA.

And you people in Colorado, pshaw. You're prepared. I know it gets colder. My sisters love to tell me about their wet hair breaking in the wind while waiting for the bus. Suckers.

But we weren't. It was damn cold. All we could wear at the time were weaved ponchos and penny loafers. And our pants were pegged, so our ankles became arthritic. I hold Tubbs personally responsible. Only because I can't remember Don Johnson's Miami Vice moniker. What an asshole.

My parents used to live in Idaho. They tell me that I have no idea what cold is. Strangely, my father worked for the Navy. Landlocked or no, Admiral Rickover knew where to build bases.

My father tells a great story about meeting Rickover. I'd tell it here, but I couldn't possibly do it justice. He is one personality that lives in the minds of every nuclear officer of that era. Is it strange to wish that I could have been interviewed by such an unmitigated asshole?

And speaking of characters, what happened to the Warner Brother cartoons? I remember this being a stock staple growing up. These cartoons were made from the 30's through the 60's, as far as I know, and were played constantly when I was a kid. Now that I have kids, I'm often up early enough to watch Saturday morning cartoons. But it's all Yu-gi-oh! and Pok-e-mon. I don't even know what the fuck that means.

Where's the "puddy tat?", the "Wyle E. Coyote, Super Genius?", "Hoo-hoo!! Daffy?" To quote arm-pit hair diva, Where have all the cowboys gone?

And what happened to arm-pit hair? When I was young and stupid, and did I mention young (and stupid?), we played a game in Germany called "Mann oder Frau?" We would sit in the train platforms in the summer and watch the legs go by. Without looking above the waist, we would try to identify men or women based on leg hair. Surprisingly, there is little natural difference.

And I ain't a child of the 60's, but c'mon, tell me the truth. You don't think a little underarm hair is sexy? No? I suppose you like clinical clean-room sex, as well. Some Honda robot pulls a rubber onto your schwantz, then lowers you toward a perfectly washed and shorn female.

Wow. Nothing sexier than antispeptic romance. "I'm done, honey. Would you like to spray with Lysol?"

"You're what? I was watching The View."

Any wonder "3rd World" countries reproduce at an embaressingly faster rate? If absolutely nothing else, I bet they know, and can smell what is truly sexy.

"Tutanka," asshole.