Rockin' the Peggy

When I was a gawky 13, Peggy Lipton was my idol. You remember Peggy, right? From Mod Squad, circa 1968? Yeah, her. Of course, her role as the perpetually stoic Julie Barnes taught me how to be completely aloof in the presence of boys and, yeah, girls too, and adults and, okay, everybody. Man, she was cool.

And back in 1968, I dreamed of coveting a suede fringe vest. If I could rock Peggy in suede fringe, I could be my own Mod Squad. Add some go-go boots and a little black light action, and I'm pretty sure Peggy would have been all verklempt with pride for her would-be stalker protégé.

You will therefore, my peeps, be quite distressed to learn that I never got my suede fringe vest. Or the go-go boots. And while I had a black light, what good is it if you can't rock the Peggy? Obviously, my childhood was fraught with deprivation. When a budding teen lacks her generation's grooviest pop culture paraphernalia, you just know mental scarring is inevitable. It's why I resorted to the ganja, Mom. You denied me my true Peggy.

To be entirely honest, remembering the Sixties is sort of complicated—and not because I don't actually remember them. Well, that's not entirely honest. Some of the Sixties, I did space for reasons of ganja. And other stuff. But today, recalling the Sixties is like having an acid flashback. I get a little paranoid while laughing and crying at the strange granny in a rocking chair floating above me, and I mumble, "Did I say that out loud?" Followed by, "Whoa, did I say THAT out loud?" It's all so trippy.

And let me just add that all the fried Spam, salmon patties, and macaroni and Velveeta my mother fed me played no small part in my photosensitivity to the Sixties. Not to mention my father's experimentation with "drunk bananas." Bananas drenched in rum and then set on fire and offered up to your unsuspecting, entranced children who idolize you, well, that's just a cruel parental prank. Is it any wonder I spent hours at a time in Tiger Beat?

(Did you see how I laid the entire gut-wrenching grip of my teen angst on my parents? Heh. I am the master. Dude, pass the bud. Whoa, did I just say that out loud? Oh man, did I just say THAT out loud?)

The ganja groove came and went with the Sixties, but the dream lived on. So this year, I am rockin' the Peggy. Black light, suede fringe, boots, and even a far-out headband. Oh yeah, baby, yeah! Hippie Chick rules!



Outasight, man.


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A Ping and a Poke

Hey, y'all, I won! On the driving range, I hit the rusty iron steer with a golf ball and a 3-wood. What a clanging ping it made! I am quite sure I succeeded in this task because I was wearing my lucky shirt. But I'm a little confused as to how my "winning" equates to me BUYING DINNER for my compadres who were clearly not as competent as I to ding a steer. Fortunately, it was "3 for 1 fajitas" night at Santa Rita.

In other news . . .

A CORRECTION. Fragrant Liar must apologize profusely for the egregious error she made in her last post, Spooning Made Easy—lo those many moons ago. See, she completely misspoke when she said, "Is his little guy willing to stand down?" Fragrant Liar is on her knees, begging forgiveness from any male reader whose ego was harmed in the making of that statement. She hereby amends the sentence to read, "Is his Gargantua at rest?"

Oooh, don't mention it.
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Spooning Made Easy

Thanks, Hilary!

People, it's come to my attention that spooning, much like kissing, is highly underrated. Truly, is there anything more fulfilling than getting as close as you can to someone you're supremely attracted to, without having sex?

I mean, let's leave the bennies of coitus and, you know, that "O" thing out of the equation, okay? Spooning is a sacred and intimate, yet entirely innocent, act. Naturally, somebody—not sayin' who—might wanna take advantage and get a little sum'n-sum'n when the parties involved are skin to skin, but that just shows a lack of self control because spooning is the ultimate No Sex Zone. Obviously.

I know, I know, spooning can be complicated. But let's easify, shall we? Because, people, I really want you to try this at home.

First, assume the position, which is "fetal." We don't want to call it fetal because that evokes all kinds of birthing shit; however, pick a side, okay? Just do it, is what I'm saying. You are now the spoonee.

Second, allow your partner to park behind you. It'll be like docking the Enterprise at Deep Space Nine. Let him pull in and get comfy with his chest/belly to your back. Your partner is now the spooner. Together, you are in the Pringles position and must move in tandem to prevent crushing and crackage.

Third, your spooner must employ skills. These are advanced critical thinking (ACT) and total indifference to a really exposed derrière (TIRED) skills. For this mission, one assumes your spooner is so equipped. Here are the logistical considerations, in order, for successful spooning:

• ACT TIRED One. Does he drape his arm across your waist? Your hip? Your shoulder? Depends on where he intends to place his hand.
• ACT TIRED Two. To cup your boob or not. That is the question. Or hold your hand? Or tuck his hand under your belly? Or somewhere else, which I can't imagine. At all. Positioning depends on your self-esteem and whether or not you have a headache. You must guide your spooner's hand to the proper coordinates.
• ACT TIRED Three. Does he wedge his knees behind your knees? Or drape a leg over your hip? Or attempt to "basket weave" your legs with his? May I say, Dude, wedgie every time. Anything else, and somebody gets hurt. Seen it before.
• ACT TIRED Four. Does he cradle his chin in the crook of your neck? Or bury his nose in your hair? Unless you're Hallie Berry, you must wrangle your coif neatly to the side so it doesn't tickle his nose, causing him to jerk upright, slap his own face, and roll over.
• ACT TIRED Five. What does he do with his other arm? Really, do you even care? It's the placebo, looks real but adds zippity-doo-dah to the experience. Your spooner can just lay on it or something.
• ACT TIRED Six. Is his little guy willing to stand down? This is the crux of spooning. Little guy has to go to sleep for spooning to work properly. Otherwise, the TIRED act is just a sordid ruse that you fell for; and next thing you know, spooning turns to forking which is a whole 'nother post.

And there you are, spooning easified. You're welcome.
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