Alone and Naked with Yanni. Stop it.

I'm beginning to think that not only am I predisposed to wanderlust, but my brain likes to loiter in the places I've been and so takes its sweet time catching up. What I mean is, my feet are on the ground here in Austin, but my head is still flighty. And I have to figure out what's next, which I would totally do if I could just land the plane.

Fortunately, I'm in a good place. Which brings me to the meat of my post. I'm no longer Alone and Naked with Yanni.

There, I said it. You pervy people who keep coming here looking for that? That ship has sailed. You normal people who keep up with me, you know that my running-around-the-house-naked love affair with Yanni happened last summer; and quite sadly I've now entered into territory where Yanni is the equivalent of Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And really, what self-respecting rabid fan would subject her musical sex-symbol-of-yesteryear to the anathema of Generations X and Next? No, not me. The young'uns can have their beat boys and that Fitty Cent guy.

The aforementioned post was one in which I lamented that living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. Now that I'm living temporarily with my daughter and two nanaboys, I'm reminded of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for," cuz these days I'm never EVER alone. That is, unless I go into the bathroom and lock the door, and even then the family Boxer feels the need to accompany me. And may I point out that the walls are so thin in apartments, I'm not sure I'm ever really alone. You hear what I'm saying? I can't croon in the shower for fear my vocals will end up on WikiLeaks. Damn you, Julian Assange!

Plus, and this is the most egregious news of all, my pastime of running around gloriously naked has been severely, um, destroyed. I know. The tragedy that befalls my life is never-ending. I'm now subject to wearing clothes ALL THE TIME, not to mention humming "The Flower Duet" in private to myself. Yeesh, one's children can be so cruel.

But back to last summer's most-highly-sought-after post, Alone and Naked with Yanni. I've gotten thousands of hits from this one post and only 57 measly comments. Pervy people, if you stop in to see me (or me naked with Yanni), please leave a nice note. That just shows you have manners.

The next closest post, I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex, has less than a quarter of the hits. That tells my scientifically analytical mind that Naked trumps Sex. Or that Yanni trumps Sex. No, no, Yanni IS Sex—figuratively speaking. But never Alone and Naked trumps Yanni, which is obviously blaspheme and cause for a trip to Confession.

Anyway, I've moved on, you obsessed lovers of Alone and Naked with Yanni. So stop it.

UPDATE: Twice as many hits today on "Alone and Naked with Yanni" as this post here with essentially same title. C.R.A.Z.Y.
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I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex

I shaved my legs this morning. Sadly no, I'm not getting ready to have sex. Actually, my rule is I shave no leg before its time. When my Neanderthal roots start sprouting, I know it's time. I break out the quad-steel blades and puffy mango cream and get busy. Sadly no, not that busy.

What I want to know is who made up the rule that we Western babes weren't acceptably beautiful if we didn't depilatorize? Especially where sex is involved, since sex is such a primal act. What other creature in the animal kingdom de-hairs itself before coitus? I mean, is this really what we're using our superior brains for?

Let me help you make sense of this, people. You know you want me to.

Seems the earliest shavers were flint razors, way back in 30,000 B.C. Flint dulled fast, and since no one had yet invented the Mach 3 Turbo, flint stones became the first disposables. You ask me, it should have been more important for those cavepeeps to blend in; flint may be responsible for a lot of premature cavepeep deaths. Hungry maneaters get a whiff of all those razor cuts, they'll lunge in for the mauling. The perfect example of how pretty can be perilous, people. I'm guessing the next big invention after the wheel was that little box we call a bathroom, sparking the onset of civilized society. Everything calms down when you lock yourself behind that bathroom door. Am I right?

Then, in like 54-68 A.D.—Rome, of course—Nero's wife Poppaea used cream as an alternative to razors. Poppaea and her counterparts used inventive ingredients like resin, ass's fat, she-goat's gall, bat's blood, and powdered viper. Those crazy Eye-talians will try anything once, I'm telling you. If my own ass's fat performed such miracles, you can bet I'd be harvesting and selling it for fun and profit. Plus I'd be flaunting the chiseled mini-butt of a five-year-old by now.

I think it's clear. We can blame our ancient ancestors for having to shave our legs. If they were here today, I'd do the only civilized thing. I'd withhold sex.

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