Thumbscrews Research Labs Presents... Project T.A.M.P.

As previously discussed, I am insanely loyal to O.B. tampons. I've been employing these wonderful little wads of obstetrician-engineered excellence since the day after I Became a Woman, an event which occurred during "Headbanger's Ball". I missed a much-anticipated video while awkwardly inserting my inaugural Tampax (filched from my mother's stash); perhaps that's why I developed such a powerful disdain for the company's product (I've never been able to look at Matt Pinfield the same way again, either). However, I prefer to believe that day marked not only my entry into the Sorority of the Shedding Endometrium (fight song: "Don't mess with us, Kappa Kappa Psi, or we'll fling a clot into your eye! Don't give us crap, Delta Lambda Mu, just a heating pad and some Breyer's too!") but, while standing in the Feminine Protection aisle of Rite-Aid, the first test of my skills as a discerning consumer.

Did I pass? I'd like to think so. I recently realized, though, that neither that gawky, crampy thirteen year-old nor the adult iteration thereof had any logical basis for declaring O.B. the ultimate tampon (or "Champon", in the words of my O.B.-loving sister). Sure, they FELT better and more substantial than the competition, but I was unwilling to rely on subjective evidence alone. After all, plenty of people bought the Pontiac Aztek, despite the fact that it looks like what would happen if an armored car made sweet, sweet love to one of those "extreme" tents which cost $700 and can withstand rain, snow, sleet, hail, "no-see-ums" (Ed. Note: then HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE? Perhaps they should be called "no-exist-ums", bug-namer-guys!) and a nuclear holocaust (with purchase of optional Nuclear Holocaust Fly, +$80).

Ahem. Back to the subject at hand (well, at OTHER PART, but I don't wanna blow my vulgarity wad too early. Oops!). I decided to conduct a series of rigorous, science-style tests to objectively determine the excellence (or suckitude) of my preferred 'pon.

And thus was born the Tampon Adequacy Measurement Project (T.A.M.P). O.B. "Champon" Super went head-to-head against Playtex "The Leading Brand" Super for five rounds of grueling competition. Which tampon reigned supreme? Click here to find out.

Happy 1st Birthday, J.Q.

May you have a hundred and fifty more, and smoosh a generous serving of cake into your hair on each and every one.



If you took everything else that's good in the world, compacted it into a sphere, inserted it in a mammoth interstellar waffle cone and drizzled it with butterscotch, I still wouldn't love it 1/1000th as much as I love you, little boy.


Note: The person holding J.Q in the cake-carnage shot is his grandpa (dyetta, in pidgin Russo-kranian). His given name begins with a "B", but since he's small, wise and somewhat wrinkled, everyone in our family has referred to him as "Boda" for the past decade. Nicknames just don't get much cooler than that (although last night, while Sam and I were discussing the Bean Bag Chair Manufacturer Mafia [a long an convoluted conversation, and one which came AFTER the one about which part of Post-It notes a tapeworm would be allowed eat {only the sticky part, duh}], I came up with the ultimate B.B.C.M.M. member name: Joey "The Pellet" Fagiola).

I'm In Love With That Song: "I Turn My Camera On" - Spoon

Every now and again, a song evokes such a powerful emotional response that the notes themselves feel like buckshot, rather than just the usual tympanic tickle. You're not sure what and you're not sure why, but something gets triggered and you're left grinning, weeping or yanking off your headphones and blurting, "Holy fuck!"

Spoon's "I Turn My Camera On" (the groove-a-licious tune featured in a recent Jaguar commercial) hit me like that. I began overdosing on it the second it finished downloading, repeatedly dousing my brain in breathy male whispering and memory. Memory, specifically, of junior high dances. They made me deeply miserable at the time, a pudgy walking embodiment of The Smiths' "How Soon Is Now" (I went and I stood on my own, and I left on my own, and I cried and I wanted to die). However, even then (but especially now), I reveled in the flood of fresh, giddy carnality which can only be produced by several hundred tightly-packed pre-teens, a bad DJ and entirely too many Twizzlers.

Without further ago, here's why I'm In Love With "I Turn My Camera On":

Thump, thump, thump.
Heartbeat. Bass. Sex.
A falsetto. A tease. A moan.
A New Jersey firehall, early 1990s, a swarm of junior high kids.
Potential.

Drop ceilings and flocked walls, everything the color of autumn on four packs a day: muddy yellows, oranges and browns. There was a wood-paneled bar with Hawaiian Punch on tap, a table stacked with paper-wrapped, rapidly-limpening tacos. A set of open double-doors did little to alleviate the waves of pre-adolescent heat sloshing across the linoleum; walking past them, though, was like plunging into a freshly-filled swimming pool: giddily, almost unbearably delicious.

The room was lit up with bare incandescents and yearning (more or less the same thing), fragranced by dry leaves, freshly-laundered Levis and overly-generous quantities of Designer Imposters cologne. And the taste? Cackled curses, chilly red sugar, but more than anything, the flavor which would linger so strongly on our collective palate for the next decade or more... dirty-sweet. That's GROSS, dude... and damn, I want it.

We'd filched illicit fingerfuls through the years... running along the train tracks, rifling through an older brother's under-bed magazine stash, any and everything ever sternly contradicted in a for-your-safety filmstrip. But this, THIS... glittery flurries of Wet 'n Wild eyeshadow, red-stained smiles, the warmth (of a windowless room), the pressure (of everything), the great ass-raps of the '90s... "all I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom, just shake ya rump" *, indeed. Twizzlers and potential. It was an all-you-can-stuff buffet of New & Better, Next Big Thing, Will He Like My Mango Lipgloss? Potential. Huge and fantastic. When scrawling it in Sharpie on a beige metal bathroom stall, you absolutely do love him 4-EV-R, in a way inexpressible later in life with white dresses and mutual solemn promises. Some approached it head-on, swaying on sticky vinyl, a hand slid inside the HyperColor shirt, someone special (4-EV-R), their clumsy endearments and taco breath. Others (yours truly) watched from the sidelines, ever-hesitant to plunge in, looking sidelong and fearful at swimming lessons, sharks and Snoop Dogg.

"I like the way you do your hair, UH!
I like the styles that you wear, UH!
It's just the little things you do, UH!
That make me wanna get with you..." *

Will someone want to get with me (UH!)? Can a spell be written in Sharpie? Can I set down my paper cup, unstick my Keds from the floor and MOVE?

There's always potential.


* "Rumpshaker" - Wreckx-n-Effect. You're welcome / I'm sorry. Either-or.

My Brand Is Crisis

J.Q. got dropped.

The dropping happened after his emergency room visit.

Damn... at this rate, I'm NEVER going to be able to sell this kid.

Let's make like Tarantino and back up for a second (or, should I say, BACK THE FUCK UP, MOTHERFUCKERS!):

J.Q. and I spent last week with my parents while the lord of the manor was away on "business" (the definition of which was loosened to include both a steak-eating contest and the consumption of drinks with names like the "Tallahassee Thong-Yanker"; amazingly, he did not return home with any "... and then I did a shot of hollandaise and hurled all over Wacker Drive" stories). I'd hoped that our return to the Thumbscrews childhood manse would be a fun, relaxing trip with abundant opportunities for free childcare and grown-up recreation. Those of you who've traveled with small children are now laughing hard enough to dislodge major organs.

Spirit-Crushing Events Which Occurred In New Jersey:

1. Illness! Shortly after we arrived, J.Q. got sick. I still have no idea which ailment he acquired; his only symptoms were fever, crabbiness and three hours of high-pitched shrieking at bedtime. This virus would make a perfect bioweapon; I'd like to see the Nukehavistanians get all up in our geopolitical grill after spending a few nights pacing the floor with an infant who's making a noise like someone trying to reverse a backhoe out of a tar pit ("EEEEEEEEE - AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH - ERRRRRRR - EEEEEEEE!"). In any event, it soon became apparent that I could greatly truncate the evening shriek-a-thon by allowing the kid to sleep with me. However, J.Q. is more active when asleep than most people are when break-dancing. Between that and the fever, it was like co-sleeping with an ignited ferret. Ed. Note: not that it would've made that much difference if he'd been perfectly immobile for twelve hours; even the slightest change in sleeping arrangements makes it really difficult for me to nod off. I've written a fable to illustrate.

2. Injury! Midway through The Week of Collective Insomnia, my mother momentarily perked up enough to notice that J.Q. hadn't been using his left arm at all... no crawling, no pulling up on furniture, no ripping at the cats' tails like one might try to pull-start a lawnmower. "Huh," I said, "I guess this explains why I'm so much less exhausted today." High ho, high ho, to the emergency room we... went. After five hours and numerous x-rays, we discovered that J.Q. most likely had a strained ligament, treatable with TLC. As TLC isn't effective in treating Overtired, Indignant, Stop-Trying-To-Make-Me-Wear-a-Tiny-Lead-Apron-NOW Infant Syndrome, a sympathetic nurse administered a squirt of baby codeine. Soon, J.Q. was all bleary-eyed grins. Aunt Sar, who'd stayed with us through the entire ordeal, found this to be hilarious. "Awww," she cooed, "You're high as an itty-bitty kite!" Gazing into his eyes, she began gently singing, "When the TRUTH is FOUUUUUND, to BEEEE... LIES!"

Side Note: J.Q. really, REALLY loved the ER's poster of Rabies-Carrying Animals of the Northeast. "Here, angry raccoon!", he seemed to be thinking, "I can't wait to pull THAT nice bushy tail!"

3. More Injury! After we returned home from the hospital, my mom volunteered to watch J.Q. so I could get a little sleep. I ripped off my hospital bracelet, fell into bed and passed out... only to be awakened by a loud thump, hysterical shrieking and my mother yelling, "OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!" Utterly worn out, she'd fallen asleep while rocking him; he'd taken a tumble directly onto his bad arm. In a rare burst of motherly intuition, I whisked him into the spare bedroom and cuddled up with him on the futon. He was asleep within five minutes and well enough to try flinging himself off the bed shortly after awakening in the morning. Fuck Rubbermaid... NOTHING bounces back like a baby.

Special Bonus Fable: Why Jul Cannot Co-Sleep

Remember the story of "The Princess and the Pea"? No? It goes a little something like this:

Prince Goodfellow decided that it was time to get married. However, the prince didn't wish to select a mate via the usual criteria... "pretty", "nice sense of humor", "ass the consistency of an executive stress-relief ball". No... Goodfellow wanted to wed the most "sensitive" lady in all the land. And he wasn't referring to the damsel who'd disgorged the most tears and snot into her box of Sno-Caps during the last half hour of "Titanic". Nay, the prince desired a PHYSICALLY sensitive woman. It's never explained why he'd try to deliberately introduce a genetic weakness into the royal bloodline; I suppose that would explain why Prince Charles looks like he could use a lump of sugar and a vigorous curry-combing.

So. Princess, pea, etc. The prince began inviting various princesses over to Snootyshire for sleepovers. "C'mon," he said, "It'll be fun! We'll watch "Adult Swim" and make Jiffye Poppe!" What the princesses didn't know, though, was that the prince had planted a surprise in the guest bedroom. No, not a hidden camera... you're thinking of "The Princess and the Perv". Hoping to test his guests' sensitivity, Goodfellow had slipped a small stone beneath their mattress. Princess after princess failed to detect the tiny lump, however. "So... how'd you sleep?", Goodfellow would ask over Jollyos and ewe's milk. "Totally great!", they'd invariably reply, "Those sheets have gotta be, like, 500-count!" The prince despaired of ever finding his true love... that is, until Princess Gertrude arrived.

"So... howdyasleep?", muttered Goodfellow, dejectedly stabbing a crumpet with his butter knife. "Horribly!" said Gertrude, "It felt like I was sleeping on a frickin' boulder!" "No shit!", said Goodfellow, "Um... I mean... I'm terribly sorry to hear that. Why don't you stay over again tonight, and I'll try to find you a more comfortable bed?" Over the next several nights, the prince began slipping increasingly tiny objects under an increasingly tall and rickety stack of mattresses. He put a thimble under two mattresses ("Ow!", said Gertrude, "It feels like I slept on an open manhole cover!", a human hair under ten mattresses (Gertrude developed red welts on her back; it looked like she'd been to Ye Olde S&M Convention) and finally, under a deluxe coil boxspring, seventeen mattresses and one of those fancy feather-topper things... a pea.

"I trust you slept well?" asked Goodfellow in the morning. "God, no!" said Gertrude, "It felt like there was a basketball under my bed!" "Do you know what this MEANS?" exclaimed the prince, voice quivering. "No, what?" said Gertrude. "I'm marrying Princess Melba!", said Goodefellow, "She doesn't whine half as much as you. Boy, I'd sure like to get in HER wimple!" "Your loss," said Princess Gertrude, "Maybe if you hadn't been so busy hiding shit under my mattress, you would've found out that my back isn't the ONLY part of me that's extra-sensitive."

As They Say in The Hood... The End