Can we talk about how in England, they apparently call the big trash can on the street a “wheelie bin“? Brits are so precious.

Here is a picture of Trash Cat Woman being escorted into a police car. I think we all know, however, that the real story here is the ridiculous getup those cops are wearing. WTF???

*This photo and all my info on the topic is from www.dailymail.co.uk

Please read the title to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Love in an elevator.” And now that we have that taken care of:

I’ve been reading a self-help book, as I am wont to do, that told me to look for love everywhere I went, and to look for the connections between others and myself, and between others and other otherses. This was very good for me, because lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of hate in the world, and it’s started to get me down in a major way. I’ve gotten so tired of experiencing all the aggression that occurs 1,000 times a second on the freeways, for example, and it all culminated a couple weeks ago when someone put a pre-printed business card on my car that said it hoped I got cancer, because I was parked a little bit over the line in the tiny compact car space that my compact car does not fit into properly. Yes, I will repeat that: Someone went to the trouble of ordering and purchasing business cards that say on the front, “Way to park, asshole.” And on the back, “I hope you get cancer.” It was actually quite a visually appealing card, with a lovely combination of fonts printed on a nice brick-red color. But the point is, feeling that malice directed at me was the straw on the camel’s back of hate that I’d been witnessing, and it made me really, really sad.

So, back to the self-help book. The day after I read the section about looking for love everywhere, it was “one of those mornings” where all forces of the universe were determined to slow me down, and after running to catch the metro, I got there a minute too late, and had to wait, all sweaty-like, for the next one. When I finally got on, a woman using a walker (with difficulty) got on, too. A youngerish woman and a blind man both got up for her to take their seats. (Side note: The question has been raised as to how the blind man knew to get up for her, and my guess is that the youngerish woman said something, or maybe he’s just that good.) Well, the walker woman (henceforth referred to as Walker Woman or WW) took the blind man’s seat and began talking with him and the youngerish woman (YW). When the blind man got off, he said goodbye to YW, and she and WW kept talking. Throughout their conversation, I unabashedly eavesdropped and exchanged eye contact and smiles with both of them at various points. When it was time for me to get off at my stop, I said goodbye to Walker Woman, and Youngerish woman got off there, too. And here comes the best part: Youngerish woman crossed to the other side of the platform to wait for the train going in the opposite direction. She had gone past her stop, and I believe it was out of love, because she didn’t want to prematurely end her conversation with Walker Woman. She wanted to make sure WW was taken care of, and then and only then did she get off and make her way back to where she needed to go.

Love.

I’m so glad I missed my train that morning and ended up on the one I ended up on.

That day marked a new chapter for me, one of looking everywhere for love and kindness, and finding it. I make a point to make eye contact, smile at, and talk with more strangers, and I’m making new friends all over town. I still see the hate, and it still bums me out, but now I have something with which to balance it.

I think you should try it, too. We’ll fill the world with love, one person at a time. Then one day, we’ll realize that we don’t see any hate, because there won’t be any.

(Do I sound like a hippy, or what?)

One time recently I was at the gym and ran into a male person whom I know from the comedy theatre where I took improv classes and spend a disproportionate amount of my time. And when I saw him, I cleaned my proverbial glasses (“squeak, squeak!”), because “improv” and “the gym” are two worlds that rarely collide. Too often for my comfort, men who are comedians (or in a band, for that matter) seem to have an excercise phobia. It’s such a widespread phenomenon that it caused me to coin a term for it: “improv arms.” I think it’s a shame, because funny guys and musicians have a degree of automatic hotness because of their talent, so if they’d do a bicep curl once in a while, they could likely be an unstoppable force of hotness. It seems like a waste.

And that leads me to my next point: I love men’s arms. I love them so much. Every day that I wake up in the morning, I love them more than I did the night before. If I could only take one object with me to a desert island, I’d take a man’s arm. I can’t get enough! Men’s arms to me are what boobs are to many men. I love looking at them. I love touching them. Sometimes I stare inappropriately at them. When they’re covered up, I wonder what they look like underneath all that pesky fabric. I love kissing them and squeezing them and rubbing my face all over them. I’m serious, Internet! It’s true! It must be a cavewoman instinct. Probably if you were a caveman, no woman would mate with you if you had improv arms, because you wouldn’t be able to protect her from beasts or wrestle tigers to the ground to bring home for dinner.

If you are a man who has nice arms, you are automatically 75% more likely to get into my pants than if you have improv arms. I’m not saying IAs are a definite dealbreaker… no, if you’re perfect in every other way, I’ll still give you the time of day. But don’t be surprised if you wake up with a set of weights jury-rigged around your wrists, or if I ask you a little too often to lift heavy objects for me. Just bein’ honest.

Guess what, Friends? I’m going to New York on Monday to meet my dad and see two Broadway musicals! It has been yeeeeeaaaarrs since I’ve seen anything on Broadway. The first one I saw was Les Miserables, and boy, did I fall in love with that show. I still love it with all my heart, as I do a few others I’ve seen. But as I’ve gotten older, I find myself looking at certain storylines a little… differently.

For example:

Eponine in Les Mis: If you’re not familiar with her story, there’s this whole thing where this guy Marius meets this girl Cosette, and they fall in love and sing beautiful duets and so forth. Well, Eponine has been friends with Marius forever and is secretly in love with him, and can’t stand it when he falls for Cosette. Hence the song “On My Own,” and Eponine piping into other songs singing about how she’s all alone and isn’t life so hard and yadda yadda yadda. Well, when I was in high school, I romanticized the ever-loving shit out of Eponine’s story. Wasn’t it so heartbreaking that she loved this man, and he just treated her like one of the guys? Wasn’t it valiant of her to deliver this letter from Marius to Cosette in the middle of the French Revolution and get shot on the way, and didn’t that just serve Marius right to have her die in his arms? Wasn’t she the most beautiful, the most tragic, the most passionate, amazing woman?

Um… and now I just find myself thinking, “Girl! Pull yourself together! Sure, this dude has a lovely singing voice, but he’s in love with somebody else.” I mean, I’m frankly more than a little embarrassed for her. She’s kind of making a fool of herself if you get right down to it. She needs to stop whining, stop obsessing, pull herself up by the bootstraps, go get some fondue and a glass of burgundy, and eventually meet a man who actually notices her. Geez, right? Seriously, lady, put on your beret and go get on your bike with a long loaf of bread in the basket, and I’m sure you’ll meet someone new in no time. Someone who will make you forget all about Marius and his pesky girlfriend. I mean, you don’t need him! Sure, it may take time to mend your heart, but I suggest getting some fine milled soap and taking a bubble bath. Hunker down with a good Victor Hugo novel to take your mind off things. Go ride a carousel or get a crepe or listen to some accordian music, I don’t know, these are just things I’m throwing out there.  But my point is, when I was 16, this character was like my hero, and now, well… well.

And while I’m at it, what’s up with Rent? I mean, some of the characters I have to admit are really in tough spots, like Mimi for example (AIDS, junkie); and the Collins (AIDS) and Angel (dies of AIDS) storyline is heartbreaking. And it sucks that Roger’s gf killed herself (because she had AIDS). That really does suck. But still… Maureen and Joanne seem fine and in good health. And Mark seems to have had a pretty stable existence up until now, and his mom seems positively delightful — I mean, she sent him a hotplate for goodness’ sake, and she calls him all the time to tell him she loves him — and yet he’s burning posters and screenplays to keep himself warm because he hasn’t paid the heating bill? And everyone’s bitching and moaning because Benny is making them pay…. oh my gosh, say it isn’t so… Rent! Like, because, aaaahhh, what a hardship to have to pay for the place where you live! Oh my gosh, he’s such an asshole for asking us to pay him to live in the building he owns! We would prefer to live for free!

Oh yeah? Would you? Would you prefer to live for free? Because you believe your housing is someone else’s responsibility? There’s a word for that, and it’s “communism,” and I’d like to see you move to a communist country and try to be a professional actress or musician or filmmaker there. Go ahead, Maureen. Be my guest, Mark; Roger. Go move to China and start a band and get some gigs and see how well you do.

Listen, I get it. I’m an artist, too. And I would much prefer to spend all day languishing about, creating, rather than working a day job just to pay the bills. But since I’m not an heiress, I accept that sacrifices must be made, and I get it done. And maybe you should do the same, Cast of Rent. And you know what, Eponine? I’ve had my heart broken, too, and I’ve been into plenty of guys who weren’t into me back. (I know, it’s reeeeeeally hard to believe, but it has happened). And did I moan and cry and sing sad songs all the time? Well… OK, I did write a bunch of bad poetry about boys I liked in middle school, and you should see how ridiculous my journals from circa 1993 were… but I mean, ahem…  You get my point.

So anyway. When I’m in New York, am I going to be a cynical old lady? Am I going to look at these characters and roll my eyes and go, “Puhlease, Billy Elliot. You’re a boy! In a coal-mine strike! Just practice your boxing and for Pete’s sake, put that leotard away.” Or, “Maria! Maria! Can you hear me?! This guy is going to cause you no end of trouble. There are plenty of cute boys in your own gang!”

Will I? Or will I cry my eyes out and love every minute?

I’ll keep you posted.

Why do things taste so good when you’ve been drinking?

I just had a couple drinks at the bar, and I got home and was putting on my PJs, and I was in my closet and noticed for the first time since I’ve moved into this apartment that there was a box of raisins on my dresser. Now, I remember that I got these raisins on an airplaine, and as I recall, the last time I was on a plane was when I flew to North Carolina for Christmas. So for some reason… when I moved in March, I chose to bring that box of raisins with me. Sure, I got rid of the slipcovers that were custom made for the couch, and which I’ve wished I had every day for the last three months. Sure, I gave away my vacuum cleaner and my garbage can with the lid for the kitchen, and the lid for the other little trash can for the bathroom, and that whiteboard that I could have used instead of buying a new one… but I kept the raisins. The raisins from December.

And in my state of moderate buzz just now, I opened the box and inspected the raisins for any sign of mold or decay, and finding none, I stuffed several in my mouth, and I’m telling you people, it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’m pretty confident that anything I put in my mouth right now would take on that title. Something about alcohol makes everything taste so damn good. Is there a scientific explanation for this? If you have any inside knowledge, please let me in on it!

Meanwhile, I’ll be digging under the couch cushions for little bags of peanuts.

Did you know that cash money is the number-one carrier of pink eye? (Who just told me that? Someone just told me that recently. Matt Newell? I think so). Money is filthy! And it makes sense, because all God’s children are passing it around all day, from hand to grubby hand, in and out of sweaty pockets, dropped on bathroom floors and picked up again, and whatever else you can imagine; if a place is gross, I’ll bet money has been there.

That said, if you’re too grossed out to keep your cash now and want to get rid of it, I’ll be more than happy to take it off your hands — then you can go wash those hands immediately. You’re welcome.

Today I went to the big, pretty central library, which I’ve been frequenting ever since I started working up the street from it. Those sillies got all mixed up about my fines. I had a fine of $3.60, which I paid on Dec. 1, then checked out 3 more books, which I also let get overdue. I renewed them online on the 15th, and owed a 90-cent fine. Well, they were trying to tell me that I had paid the 90 cents and still owed the $3.60! I made the woman get her manager, and the manager kept saying the same thing over and over: “It shows that you paid the 90 cents but not the $3.60.” Which is physically impossible, because I hadn’t been to the library since I checked out the books that eventually cost me the 90 cents. And even more illogical, you can’t check out books when you have fines, and clearly I checked out 3 more books on the 1st, so clearly I must have paid my fines. Sigh. Sometimes people do not use their brains.

Despite the fact that the difference we’re talking about here was $2.70, it’s the principle of the whole thing. You can’t just take my (filthy) cash and forget about it and tell me I didn’t pay it, because I did, by George. And I stood there and pointed out the logic of my thinking and non-logic of hers until she waived the $3.60. But the whole time she acted like she was doing me some huge favor, like it was somehow my fault that they don’t securely fasten their thinking caps. Sigh again. In any case, I was proud of myself for sticking to my guns. And by the by, I paid my correct 90-cent fine and made sure to get a receipt.

So after that happened, I went into the library gift shop, which has become a favorite spot of mine to buy gifts due to its selection of generally awesome and delightful things. Awesome and delightful, but not particularly cheap. I ended up dropping a cool hundy on a handful of gifts for others (and two calendars for myself). As my break ended and I walked back inside and up to my desk, I was contemplating this “cool hundy” and wondering about other “hip” ways to say that I just spent a hundred dollars that I hadn’t expected to spend, because somehow if I say it in a different way it makes me feel a little better about the whistling sound of wind blowing through the sparsely populated tundra of my bank account. And the other way to refer to a hundred is, of course, as a Benjamin, but at that moment I couldn’t remember if old Benny Boy Franklin is on the hundred or the twenty. So I came back to my desk and looked it up, and here’s what I found out: (Thanks, Marshu.com.)

I’m thinking I want to start referring to all paper solely by the first name of the man whose face is on it, or a nickname where appropriate, and all coins by last names only. “Do you have change for an Andy?” I’ll ask. “One Alex, an Honest Abe, and five Georges would be good. Thanks!” Or, “Can I get four Washingtons for a George?” Sometimes I’ll call one-dollar bills “Jorge”s, to acknowledge the increasingly significant Latin American influence here in the U.S. And I always get excited to see Toms, because you just don’t see them very often.

Has anyone ever seen a Woodrow Wilson, or a “Woody”? (ahem). I know I sure haven’t — but life’s not over yet! I did one time hold fourteen crisp Grovers in my hand when my dad was about to buy a car with cash, and that was a nice feeling indeed. It would have been even nicer if the Grovers were mine, but still.

Someday I hope to have a Woody’s worth of cash and more. But for now I’d be thrilled if I could drum up a Salmon or two and a couple Jimmys. And if they’re crawling with Pink Eye, that’s just a sacrifice I’ll have to make.

For the past several weeks I’ve been interning at an improv comedy theatre, and one of my jobs is to hand out flyers as people are leaving the shows. The other night I noticed that it goes in waves, like traffic when you’re trying to take a left onto a busy road. A big chunk of people will all take flyers, then someone says “No thanks,” and 5 or 6 more people in a row say no. Then some trailblazer renegade takes one again, and the 10 people behind him or her all take one, too. People just want to do what other people are doing! We’re copycats, sheep, and a little bit puppets. Sheepuppycats. Copuppyysheep. Copysheepets.

How many spiders do you reckon come in a litter? A litter? Is that the correct term? or a batch, maybe? Like, if a mommy spider lays eggs, how many baby spiders generally do you think will be in that batch?

I ask because, well, I was about to wash my face just now and I happened to look up and see a teeny, tiny adorable spider dangling from the ceiling. And look, there was another one, hanging beside it! How cute! I thought. They’re dangling together and it looks like they’re about to kiss each other. Isn’t that sweet? Boy, are they tiny. Oh, look… there’s another one on the wall… and two more up higher… and three or four more on the ceiling… Wait a minute…

I don’t usually kill spiders, even when they’re in my room, unless they’re all chunky and gross and all up in my grill & stuff. We kind of have a live and let live policy, spiders and me. I like them because they kill other bugs, and I don’t really feel threatened by them unless they’re like huge with colorful patterns on their backs or something. Sometimes I put them outside — The daddy longlegs I used to just grab by a leg and hang them out the window until they latched onto the window box or a tree, but then one time I accidentally pulled off the leg and felt bad. If they’re really in my way (like in my shower when I’m about to get in), I try to get them to crawl onto a piece of paper, then put them outside. If they’re not in my way, we both just give each other a respectful nod and go about our business.

However: Sorry dudes, but I can’t have an entire army legion of spiders living in my bathroom. While I hold nothing against them, I can’t say I relish the idea of having four or five of them trapezing over my head while I brush my teeth.

So this is why I killed as many as I could reach just now, and this is why I probably should figure out how many more I will likely have to contend with. OK, here goes nothing:

***

OK! So… bad news! After Googling “How many spiders in a litter” and “How many spiders in a batch,” and coming up empty, I tried the simple and straightforward “spider eggs,” and found out from Britannica.com that “Female spiders produce either one egg sac containing several to a thousand eggs or several egg sacs each with successively fewer eggs.” I’m sorry. Did you guys see the word “thousand,” because I’m pretty sure I just read something that said there could be A THOUSAND BABY SPIDERS LIVING IN MY BATHROOM. I’m so scared to go back in there right now and see swarms of tiny arachnids gallavanting around, using up all the toilet paper, taking long showers, using my toothbrush, and generally acting like they own the place. Y’all, what am I going to do? First of all, how am I going to wash my face tonight, and secondly, what if I go to sleep and they run out and attack me in the night? Now I’m feeling all itchy and am pretty sure they’re biting me right now as I’m typing this!

Aaaaahhhhhh!

To be continued… if I live through the night!

Yesterday I was in line at the post office, and there was a 5-year-old kid with his mom in front of me. He was SO excited about everything, especially stamps. He was running back and forth and shouting at twice the normal speed, “We’ll get two stamps! One for you and one for me! Mom, we’ll get two stamps!” Then he started singing this song: “Stamps! Stamps! Staaaaaaaaamps! Stamps. Stamps. Staaaaaaaaaaamps!”

A minute later he said, “Mom, can you just buy me a sticker? Mom, can you just buy me a sticker? Just buy me a sticker, OK?”

“They’re not stickers, they’re stamps,” she says.

very tiny pause.

“Can you just buy me a stamp?”

Me, I wasn’t planning on buying stamps, but after all that hype, how could I resist? Clearly, stamps are the hottest thing since sliced bread! Yeah, I bought a sheet, what? You jealous?

I was in line today waiting to order some lunch at a fast food dining establishment, and I saw the girl at one register look and point at the woman at the other register… and I wish I could draw a picture here of what her face looked like, but if looks could talk, hers would have said, “Alllll you.” And the woman she was pointing at, whom I assume was the manager or some type of senior-type employee, and whom we’ll call Darlene, went over to this customer man who was positively FUMING, like so angry he was about to cry. He looked like someone might look if they had just stumbled out of a burning, flipped-over car in the bottom of a ravine.

He says, through clenched jaw, “I wanted an extra-large Coke, but you’re out of the cups, and I don’t see why I should have to pay more to get…” something, blah blah, and she just says, “Limited time only. Those were limited time only,” and walks back to her register. Oh, Snap, Darlene! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

And he shouts after her, “OK, FINE! WHATEVER!” And I had to bite my tongue, because the smart-alec in me was very tempted to helpfully suggest that perhaps he was dehydrated from all those extra-large Cokes, which are really very bad for him, and maybe that’s why he was so irritable.

But I was pretty sure he would lunge at me, fists flying, and then his head would explode, so instead I just shared a commiserating chuckle and head-shake with Darlene. A few minutes later I snuck a peek at him, and he was still staring wildly ahead and breathing all raggedy.

I just have to stop… and point out… that this guy really wanted an extra-large Coke.

Friends, large was just not large enough for this gentleman.

Large was just… not… large… … enough.

My back and neck are so painfully tight, and I have such an unrelenting tension headache, that if a bum walked up to me with visible scabies and offered me a massage, I would take it.

Sunday night I went to a party with my friend Brennan. I should have known this would be an eventful night, because the last time I went to a party with him we ended up chauffering a group of dressy young adults we didn’t know up to a castle on top of a mountain, where the valet yelled at us. Then at the party Brennan spent most of his time gone to get ice and trying to find a parking spot once he got back. Then when he finally did, and I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if that ice wasn’t melted anyway, the police came and the host got mad and started yelling at everyone, and it was raining and I kept slippy-sliding down the hill on our way back to the car. But that is neither here nor there.

At this particular party, the one on Sunday, we walked up, all unsuspecting and innocent (read: dummies who never learn), and were greeted by a crowd of people out in the yard all listening to a band. As we approached and I was able to see this band, my first instinct was, “awwww,” because it was one kid that was probably about ten or eleven, and one kid that couldn’t have been more than six. The ten-year-old was lead singing and guitar playing (The little one was kind of doing nothing, although you may get away with calling him “backup vocals”), and starts in on “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” except instead of Heaven’s door he was knocking on Satan’s door, and throughout the song he was swearing up a storm, to the point that any sailor in the audience may very well have blushed.

Brennan and I stood there for a minute trying to process this incongruous situation, and then we just looked at each other like, “ummmmmmmmmmm… ” I kept glancing around expecting the kid’s mom to march up and stick a bar of soap in his mouth.

At one point? He started singing about things he would do to a woman that are, um, very sexual in nature and involve, you know, um, a mouth and a, um, a… hoo-hoo, if you will. And I’m like, holy mother of pearl, where are this kid’s parents?! And here’s the part where I start to sound like your granddad who says when he was your age a bottle of Coca-Cola was a nickel… but when I was this kid’s age I had no idea what any of that “sex” stuff was, and if you were a fly on the wall, you may have even overheard me saying, “I don’t get why kissing lying down is so much worse than kissing standing up! Like, why does my dad always stand in front of the TV when people start kissing in bed? I don’t get it.” In fact, when my friend and I were twelve and discovered her uncle’s collection of cheesy romance novels and I read something about oral sex, I was completely traumatized. “He put his tongue WHERE????”

I mean, maybe I had an unusually wholesome upbringing, but Brennan was equally as shocked… although I do have to hand it to the kid… he was totally badass. He could shred that guitar, and later in the night he actually shot a bottle of red bull, like how you’d shoot a beer by puncturing the side of it. As though he were practicing for the real thing. I have to admit that although I did get caught in the crossfire and sprinkled with red bull, I was a little bit impressed.

As we journeyed through the house and encountered various characters, we found that the rest of the party was no less strange than the beginning. I had brought a bottle of wine, being the classy broad that I am, and as we unsuccessfully searched around for a corkscrew, someone who had opened his own wine with a knife knocked over a glass (red plastic cup) of it on my shoe. Simultaneously, an awkward dude came around asking everyone for money, because apparently someone had stolen someone’s computer, and this guy was taking donations for, “you know, first of all, to like show appreciation for the party, and also for like, you know, Kevin’s computer.” Although we’d probably been there for a total of twenty minutes, we felt this was as good a time as any to get the H outta there, and we sidled our way to freedom and went up to Birds, which felt a lot more normal.

Normalcy is something I enjoy, although I’ve got to say, experiences like these are what makes the world go ’round — or at least, they make for fun “Remember that time… ” stories. Ahh, life. (shaking my head and giving you a knowing look).

Here are a couple thumbnails (I’ve just decided I hate the word “thumbnails”) of the more normal part of the evening when we went to Birds and met Eric.

I think in the second picture I was trying to make Brennan look at the camera, which he will not do without force, because he thinks he’s picture kryptonite.

I hate it when people sign letters or emails with “Regards.” I think it started several years ago when someone I was dating was mad at me and signed an email that way instead of the usual sweet & sexy signoff. I replied with an email to the effect of, “WHAT IN PETE’S NAME ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL? REGARDS?????”

I don’t like it because you don’t know where you stand with “regards.” It may be good or it may be bad. “Best Regards” is one thing, because, well, you’re giving someone your very best regards! What could be better? But “Regards” could mean anything! Worst Regards, Hostile Regards, Bored Regards, Condescending Regards, Sinister Regards, Snarky Regards, or any number of unpleasant regards.

At my former job, I mentioned my distaste for the “r” word to my friend Rebecca, and we began signing emails to each other with various types of regards, including, but not limited to, Sleepy, Hungry, Thirsty, Distracted, Sexy, Slutty, Steamy, Delicious, Cantankerous, Ornery, etc.

If I ever send you an email and sign it just “Regards,” know what? You are on my shit list. That’s my way of giving you the finger in written word form. It’s the “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all” methodology of signing off. If I’m not specific with my regards, you can bet they’re bad ones.

In conclusion, I am tired and don’t know how to end this blentry. Except by saying:

Sticky Regards,

Marcy

(Don’t know why, just picked “sticky.” Got a problem with it? Fine! I’ll be sending you my regards).

One thing I don’t understand, and you don’t see it much in L.A., but I feel like in North Carolina it was/is an epidemic: Why do some pregnant women or women with small children start dressing like small children? Why do they wear Winnie-the-Pooh shirts? I want to say to them, just in case it is unclear, “Ma’am, you are having a baby. You’re not becoming one.”

Winnie the Pooh shirts in adult sizes should not exist. And that goes for Eyeore, Piglet, and any of Pooh’s other friends from the Hundred-Acre Wood, including Christopher Robin; and while we’re at it, what is some adults’ reasoning behind owning Tweety Bird car accessories? Really, now, people.

Ladies, do us all a favor and don’t dress like your babies. It’s embarrassing! It makes me embarrassed for the human race. If aliens came down to observe and probe us and whatnot I would feel the need to apologize for all of you. “It’s the hormones, Sir, we Earthlings give birth to live young, and sometimes it affects people’s brains and makes them do crazy, crazy things like wear pastel shirts with yellow bears frolicking about on the front.”

And the alien would probably say, “Znarf zoot eeep bleep nippy nippy Winnie the Pooh zorf dorf,” which in alien language is, “Well, all these other mammals give birth to live young, and I don’t see them wearing Winnie the Pooh Shirts,” and I would have to just shake my head and shrug, sitcom style, because really, I can’t come up with any other excuses for it.