by Dave Barry
Once you have achieved this fun and female “look,” it's time for you to get started on the other topic that is discussed endlessly in Cosmopolitan: figuring out what men want. It's a tough one! Cosmopolitan editors wrestle with it day and night, and they're constantly announcing new breakthroughs. Pick up any issue, and you'll see articles like:
• “23 Ways to Drive Him Wild in Bed!”
• “127 Ways to Make Him Want to Get Naked Right in the Foyer!”
• “387 Ways to Make Him Completely Lose Biological Control of Himself While He Is Still in the Driveway!”
Over the decades, Cosmopolitan has printed literally thousands of surefire techniques for driving men insane with passion. If these techniques actually worked, by now the entire male population of the United States would have been wiped out by lust, literally exploding into little mushroom clouds of vaporized bodily fluids.
But this has not happened, except in the case of President Clinton. The problem, I think, is that Cosmopolitan is making this issue way more complicated than it actually is. I mean, we're talking about MEN here. You don't need rocket science to drive them wild in bed: All you need to do is to get in there with them. Or, just leave them alone for a while. Because men don't need much. Using a complex, sophisticated technique to get a man excited is like preparing a gourmet French meal for a Labrador retriever.
So I think Cosmopolitan is trying too hard. In fact, it may be doing women more harm than good. For example, the August issue has a feature titled “What to Say to Make Him Ache for You—Whisper these frisky phrases if you wish to drive him wild.” One of the frisky phrases Cosmopolitan advises you to whisper to men is—really—“We'd better hurry home, because at midnight I turn into a vixen.” This frisky phrase might actually alarm the man, especially if he knows that the dictionary defines “vixen” as “an ill-tempered, shrewish, or malicious woman.” Basically, you're telling the man he could suddenly find himself in bed with Lorena Bobbitt.
Another frisky phrase suggested by Cosmopolitan is—get ready—“My bikini waxer went a little overboard.” Listen, women: If you actually say those words to a man, he's going to assume you want him to take you to the Emergency Room.
So my advice to the editors of Cosmopolitan is: Just drop this subject for a while. Trust me: Even without technical advice from you, your women readers will have no trouble getting men excited, as long as the men are aware (and believe me, they are) that the women, underneath their clothes, are not wearing clothes.
And consider this: If you Cosmopolitan editors stopped obsessing about men, you could focus your brainpower on the Middle East Peace Process, health care, Social Security, or the federal budget surplus. I bet you could give us some important insights into these issues! Or at least tell us how to drive them wild in bed.
Your Child Deserves a Halloween Costume by Calvin Klein
Halloween is coming, and you parents know what that means! It means it's time for you to make fun and creative costumes for your kids! Otherwise you are not as good as the other parents.
Even as you read these words, competing parents—the kind of people whose homes have candles burning in front of statues of Martha Stewart—are hunched over their workbenches, creating costumes that require more time and effort than you spent planning your wedding. These are the parents you see on the “home and family” segments of morning TV shows just before Halloween:
HOST: Our next parent is Mrs. Shirley Hamperwinkle, who has dressed her daughter, Tiffany, as an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower! What an amazing costume! However did you do it, Shirley?
PARENT: Well, Sue, first I forged 12,000 miniature steel girders in my home blast furnace, using ore I dug out of my garden. I assembled these girders using 2.5 million tiny handmade rivets with the help of my husband, Ed, before he ran off. Then I attached the tower to Tiffany using 147 surgical screws.
HOST: But how does she take the costume off?
PARENT (becoming agitated): Take it off? Take it OFF?? WHY WOULD SHE TAKE IT OFF???
This is the kind of parent you're up against. So you can't just throw some half-baked costume together at the last minute, the way we did in my childhood, when 80 to 90 percent of us kids stumbled around blindly on Halloween night wearing bed sheets with poorly aligned eye holes. We were supposed to look like ghosts, although this never made a ton of sense to me. I mean, ghosts are the spirits of dead people, right? Why would dead people wear bed sheets? Did they all die in an explosion at a hotel laundry?
I preferred to trick-or-treat as a vampire, which I felt was much scarier. The problem was the plastic vampire teeth. I have a powerful gag reflex, so when people opened their doors, instead of being terrified by the awesome bone-chilling specter of the Prince of Darkness, they'd see this short, caped person, retching. Their only terror was that I might throw up on their shoes.
But getting back to my point: As a modern parent, you need to get to work on your children's costumes RIGHT NOW. Don't worry if you're not the “artsy” type! Because I have a really original and creative costume idea for you. Start by gathering together the following arts-and-crafts materials:
1. Car keys.
2. Money.
Okay! Now drive to the mall and buy your child a creative and original costume that was originally created in a factory in Taiwan. You'll have lots of choices! For little boys, you may choose from the following: Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, the X-Men, Licensed Character Man, Buzz Lightyear, Darth Maul, Rex Kilometer, Commander Strafe, Buck Gouge, Sergeant Groin, the Violence Squadron, the Legion of Compound Fractures, the Masters of Really Hard Face Punching, and Al Gore. For little girls you may choose among the following: Ballerina Barbie, Princess Barbie, Cheerleader Barbie, Presidential Intern Barbie, Bride Barbie, Severe Hangover Barbie, Minority Group Barbie, Joint Chiefs of Staff Barbie, Chest-Cavity-Dwelling Alien Fetus Barbie, the Barbie Formerly Known as Barbie, and Al Gore.
Now your kids are all set for some real “trick-or-treat” fun! But before you let them leave the house, the U.S. Department of Consumer Nervousness reminds you to follow these important:
HALLOWEEN SAFETY RULES
• Be aware that many municipalities have established special dates for trick-or-treating. For safety reasons, these dates are never on Halloween. Some of them are closer to Easter.
• Make sure each child is carrying a fire extinguisher and wearing a head-mounted smoke detector.
• Trick-or-treat candy may have been tampered with, so you should take it away from your children, check it carefully, then eat it.
• Never allow your children to trick-or-treat at night, or in dangerous areas such as outdoors.
Remember: The important thing is to have fun in a safe and federal manner. Even you adults can join in the Halloween fun! Why not think of a clever and topical costume: For example, if you're a fat, hairy man, you can walk around naked; if the police stop you, simply explain that you're trick-or-treating as the guy who won the million dollars on Survivor. I'm sure the police will applaud your cleverness! Then they'll take you to a place where you can make your one phone call. To Defense Attorney Barbie.
100 Years of Solitude, Waiting for Customer Service
Recently I had a great idea while waiting on hold for Customer Service. That's pretty much all I do these days: wait for Customer Service. My call is important to them. They have told me this many times in a sincere recorded message. They can't wait to serve me! They will answer my call just as soon as they finish serving the entire population of mainland China.
It's my own darned fault that I need to speak to Customer Service. We made a really stupid homeowner mistake: We moved to another house. Don't ever make this mistake! It's ALWAYS better to stay in your current house, even if it's actively on fire. If other people have bought your house and are moving in, you should hide in the basement and forage for food at night.
Because if you move, you'll end up like us: surrounded by hundreds of cardboard boxes packed by strangers, each b
ox containing an average of one item—perhaps a used toothpick—wadded up inside 75,000 square feet of packing paper. Virtually every box will be labeled with some mutant spelling of the word miscellaneous. You will not be able to find ANYTHING. For example, I'm pretty sure that, before we moved, we had a seven-month-old daughter.
(I'm kidding, of course. We know exactly where our daughter is. She's inside of one of these boxes.)
On moving day, I was crouching in a forest of stacked boxes, attempting to take apart a sleeper-sofa the size of a Chevrolet Suburban so that we could attempt to force it through a doorway the width of Courteney Cox, when suddenly, outside, I heard the movers, who spoke Spanish, shouting something about a “serpiente.” I could tell by the urgency in their voices that there were upside-down exclamation points at the beginnings of their sentences. So I ran outside, and there, on the front walk, was a snake. In other places, when you move, you're visited by the Welcome Wagon; here in South Florida, you get: the Welcome Snake!
“I'm always around!” was the snake's unspoken message. “Let me know if you ever need any puncture wounds!”
But my point, which I am hoping to get to before we reach the end of the column, is that, because we moved, we had to change all the essential services—the electrical service, the phone service, the mail service, the water service, the cable service, the beer tanker delivery service, etc.—and naturally, because all the companies involved use sophisticated computers, none of these services actually works right in our new house. Everything is mixed up. We have water coming from our phone, and we receive phone calls on our toaster, and when we turn on our kitchen faucet, scenes from Buffy, the Vampire Slayer come gushing out.
So to straighten this mess out, I quit doing my job (whatever that may be) and started spending my days waiting on hold for Customer Service, listening to the snappy “lite” jazz music they play when they are not telling you how important your call is to them. While doing this, I got my idea. You know those telemarketing people who always call you at dinnertime? I'm talking about the ones who never come right out and say they're selling something. Lately, they've been using the bizarre term “courtesy call” to describe what they're doing.
“Mr. Barry,” they'll say, “this is just a courtesy call to do you the courtesy of interrupting your dinner so I can ask you this question: Would you like to save fifty percent or more on your long-distance phone bill?”
I always say no. I tell them that I WANT a big long-distance bill, and that I often place totally unnecessary calls to distant continents just to jack it up. I tell them that if my long-distance bill is not high enough to suit me, I deliberately set fire to a pile of cash. Then I hang up. But of course this does not stop them. The next night, they call again. That's how courteous they are.
So here's the deal: On the one hand, we have telemarketing people constantly calling us, despite the fact that everyone hates them, and to my personal knowledge nobody in the history of the world has ever bought anything from them; and on the other hand, when we want to reach Customer Service, we can never get through. Obviously, what corporate America needs to do is round up all the employees in the Telemarketing Department, march them over to Customer Service, and order them to step over the bodies of the Customer Service employees, all of whom apparently passed away years ago, and ANSWER THE PHONE, okay? Because this toaster is burning my ear.
Don't Fear to Tread: Laying Tile Just Requires Stick-to-itiveness
TODAY'S TOPIC FOR HOMEOWNERS IS: How to install a tile floor.
Any home decorator will tell you that there is nothing quite like a tile floor for transforming an ordinary room into an ordinary room that has tile on the floor.
But if you're like most homeowners, you think that laying tile is a job for the “pros.” Boy, are you ever stupid! Because the truth is that anybody can do it! All it takes is a little planning, the right materials, and a Fire Rescue unit.
Consider the true story of a woman in Linthicum, Maryland, who decided to tile her kitchen floor, as reported in an excellent front-page newspaper article written by Eric Collins for the Sept. 26 issue of the Annapolis, Maryland, Capital, and sent in by many alert readers. According to this article, the woman, who wanted to be identified only as “Anne” for reasons that will become clear, decided to surprise her fiancé by tiling her kitchen floor herself, thus saving the $700 a so-called “expert” would have charged for the job.
Step 1, of course, was for Anne to spread powerful glue on the floor, so the tiles would be bonded firmly in place. Anne then proceeded to Step 2, which—as you have probably already guessed—was to slip and fall face-first into the glue coat she created in Step 1, thus bonding herself to the floor like a gum wad on a hot sidewalk.
Fortunately, Anne was not alone. Also in the house, thank goodness, was one of the most useful companions a person can ever hope to have: a small dog. Specifically, it was a Yorkshire Terrier, a breed originally developed in England to serve as makeup applicators. A full-grown “Yorkie” is about the size of a standard walnut, although it has more hair and a smaller brain.
Anne's dog—named Cleopatra—saw that her owner was in trouble, so she immediately ran outside and summoned a police officer.
Ha ha! No, seriously, Cleopatra did what all dogs do when their owners are in trouble: lick the owner's face. Dogs believe this is the correct response to every emergency. If Lassie had been a real dog, when little Timmy was sinking in the quicksand, Lassie, instead of racing back to the farmhouse to get help, would have helpfully licked Timmy on the face until he disappeared, at which point Lassie, having done all she could for him, would have resumed licking herself.
So anyway, when Cleopatra decided to help out, she naturally also became stuck in the glue. But again, luck was on Anne's side, because also at home were her two daughters, ages nine and ten, who, realizing that the situation was no joking matter, immediately, in the words of the Capital article, “began laughing hysterically.”
Eventually, with their help, Anne got unstuck from the floor and was able to lay the tile. But she still had glue all over herself. So, according to the Capital article, “she called a glue emergency hotline, but no one answered.”
I don't know about you, but that sentence disturbs me. I think somebody should check on the glue emergency hotline staff.
I picture an officer reeking of glue fumes, with whacked-out workers permanently bonded to floors, walls, ceilings, each other, etc. Come to think of it, this is also how I picture Congress.
But getting back to Anne: Still trying to solve her personal glue problem, she called a tile contractor. During this conversation, the glue on her body hardened, such that (1) her right foot became stuck to the floor, (2) her legs became stuck together, (3) her body became stuck to a chair, and (4) her hand became stuck to the phone.
“I had to dial 911 with my nose,” she is quoted as saying.
When the rescue personnel arrived, they found Anne still stuck.
Perhaps this is a good time in our story to bring up the fact that she had been working in, and was still wearing, only her underwear.
Fortunately, the rescue crews were serious, competent, highly trained professionals, and thus, to again quote the Capital article, they “laughed until they cried.”
Once they recovered, the rescue crews were able to free Anne by following the standard procedure for this type of situation: licking her face.
No, seriously, they freed her with solvents, and everything was fine. Anne got her new floor and saved herself $700, which I am sure more than makes up for suffering enough humiliation to last four or five lifetimes.
So the bottom line, homeowners, is this: Don't be afraid to tackle that tile job! Just be sure to have a dog handy, and always remember the No. 1 rule of tile-installation professionals: Wear clean underwear.
Terror on Flight 611— There's a Baby on Board, Ready to Shriek
Recently, my wife and I took our eight-month-old daughter on a trip involving five plane flig
hts in one week. Many people would be reluctant to travel with a baby that small, but we had a compelling reason: We have Fig Newtons for brains.
An intelligent person, or even a reasonably bright fungus, would know that two people cannot possibly carry both a baby and all the supplies the baby needs, including stroller, car seat, clothes, diapers, industrial-sized bale of wipes, stuffed bear, stuffed tiger, stuffed frog, stuffed paramecium, etc. The total weight of all these supplies can be hundreds of times the weight of the actual baby. This is why your famous explorers rarely traveled with babies. If Magellan had tried to sail around the world with a baby on board, his ship would have sunk at the dock from the weight of the formula alone.
We were one of those wretched traveling families you see getting on planes—the kind where you don't actually see the people, just this mound of baby equipment shuffling slowly down the aisle toward you. This sight is always hugely popular with the other passengers, some of whom will yank open the emergency exits and dive out of the plane. Because they know what babies do on planes: They stand on their parents' laps and stick their heads up over the seats, so they can get maximum range when they shriek. On a baby-intensive airplane, you see shrieking baby heads constantly popping up all over, like prairie dogs from hell.
As a parent in this situation, your fervent hope is that the other babies on the plane will shriek louder than yours, thereby diverting passenger hatred away from you. It would not surprise me to learn that some parents creep under the seats and pinch other people's babies to set them off. I myself would never do such a thing. I carry a slingshot.
The trick for keeping your baby from crying on the plane is to come up with a new activity each time the baby gets bored. A standard baby gets bored every fifteen seconds, so on a four-hour flight, you, as a parent, need to come up with 960 different activities. By the third hour of the flight, your standards are pretty low. Baby wants to play in the airplane toilet? Sure! Baby wants to crawl into the cockpit and bite the navigator on the ankle? Whatever baby wants!
