Category Archives: Pop Cult-ure

Being a MILF

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I was driving home from yoga this morning and I heard “You Shook Me All Night Long” on the radio, and it occurred to me – not for the first time – that the line “knocking me out with those American thighs” had much different connotation back in 1980 than it would today.  American thighs probably doesn’t have the same seductive imagery these days. 

Unless, of course, the owner of the American thighs are following the MILF Diet.  Have you heard about the MILF diet?  I had been blissfully unaware until yesterday, when I discovered that there is a book and website devoted to becoming a MILF via nutritional intake.  The book describes a MILF and her diet in the following way:

A true milf is confident, sexy, and radiates natural femininity. By eating whole, plant-based foods, you, too, can find balance and dynamic health, and unleash your inner MILF. It’s simple: you are what you eat. So, to fulfill your true potential for health, happiness, and MILFiness, it’s best to avoid refined sugars, processed foods, dairy, and meat.
 
You guys, that is totally MY diet!  Plant based, no meat, avoiding dairy, refined sugars, processed foods…do you see what I’m saying here?  I AM A MILF.  Either that or the MILF people stole my diet plan. 
 
Who am I kidding, I didn’t need a diet book to tell me about being MILF-y.  I felt Mrs. Robinson-like the first time I accidentally flashed my thong while gardening in my front yard, and noticed the young guy across the street standing there, staring at me.  HOWDY NEIGHBOUR.  Nice day, isn’t it?  That incredibly awkward situation did have an upside: I now only garden in yoga pants and with long shirts.  No need to disturb the neighbourhood, or to make my other across-the-street neighbour feel like it’s okay for him to mow the lawn wearing only giant sneakers and a pair of cut-off red sweatpants.  This is not that kind of neighbourhood, people!  We have real estate values to think of, here. 
 
MILF is one of those words – or acronyms, to be more accurate – that some people find incredibly offensive, and to be sure, it isn’t the most polite way of saying that a woman is attractive.  It’s better than, say, hootchie mama, but that’s about it.  Still, it’s best not to think of it literally; in the fucking sense, I mean.  I would prefer not to think of men – especially those who live across the street from me and with whom I now have very stilted, awkward conversations about the weather – thinking of me as someone they’d like to fuck.  Because ew.  Just…ew.  I’m sure this goes without saying, but bedroom-sexy-times imagery is something I would prefer to keep between me and my husband.
 
Apparently though, the term has evolved to simply mean a woman who is a mother who happens to be attractive, which is okay, unless you take everything from When Harry Met Sally as Biblical-level wisdom:
 
Harry: No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive.  He always wants to have sex with her.
 
Do you see what I’m saying here?  I’m saying this term, which started out kind of gross and offensive, and which is generally now thought to have a gentler meaning, is really just gross and offensive, due to the nature of men wanting to have sex with attractive women.  It’s a circular argument.  That is, if When Harry Met Sally is considered to be an accurate representation of male/female relationships, and if it’s not, then I just do not know where to turn.  TOP GUN?  Never fire unless fired upon?  It’s unthinkable.  SAY ANYTHING?  They take your money and tell their friends everything.  It’s about economics, man.  No way.  THE BREAKFAST CLUB?  Don’t play with the bull, young man.  You’ll get the horns.  No, no, no.
 
One might think that I should possibly get on top of pop-culture references that are less than twenty-five years old.  This might be something to think about in future posts.
 
But really, do you know what I find offensive about the term MILF?  It’s an inaccurate acronym.  It really should be MILTF, but I guess that’s just too complicated.  Also?  In The MILF Diet, the author refers to – get this – DILFs.  As in “Dad I’d Like To Fuck”.  Is it me or has the whole thing just gone too far?  There was a line, MILF Diet author, and you crossed it.  That is a big fucking envelope and you are pushing it to the extreme.  First a diet based on how to get random male university students to want to fuck you, now we have to pull men and some kind of Freudian imagery into it?  Not to mention that DILF just makes me think of DILLHOLE, which isn’t exactly a term that makes me think of sexy-times.  The whole thing smacks of idiocy. 
 
It appears I may have had too much coffee today.  Wait.  WAIT.  Is coffee allowed on the MILF diet?  Probably not.  I have overestimated my position as a MILF.  I guess I will abdicate and just go on with life as a regular mom.

Oooh, I hated the Colonel, with his WEE BEADY EYES

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After my last post, I had a few people grumpily say There is NOTHING good about January, to which I respond, sunnily, There is only a week left!  One week and then we are into February!  So there’s a positive thought for you, even if it is just time tick-tick-ticking away.  Also, tomorrow is Robbie Burns’ Day, for all you of Scottish or partial Scottish heritage.  Time for the annual viewing of So I Married An Axe Murderer, complete with Rod Stewart and the Bay City Rollers impersonations.  My dad is probably gearing up for a Haggis feast right this very second.  I was in the grocery store the other day and noticed this sign:

It’s so cheerful!  Got Haggis? 

Gracious, that’s repellent.  Well, the Scots are not known for their cuisine, that is for sure.  Anyone for some sausage cooked in a lamb’s stomach with a side of boiled potatoes?  OH YES PLEASE.  Has anyone noticed that there is not exactly a plethora of Scottish cookbooks around?  There is a reason. 

So I’m not a fan, of haggis or boiled potatoes.  But each to his own, right?  For example, my husband hates my new hairband, which I think is the cutest thing ever.  It has a bow on it!  And lest you think that I look like I’m about to break into the Good Ship Lollipop, the bow is very small:

I think it’s cute, anyway.  It occurred to me that the gap between what my husband thinks is cute and stylish and what I think is cute and stylish is often very wide indeed.  I do tend to pause, if he has issue with something I think is tres adorable, because after all I do not want to become one of those women who bring to mind the wretched “mutton dressed as lamb” saying.  It’s good to have feedback, even if that feedback isn’t exactly what we want to hear. 

Which brings to mind something I meant to mention last week, but I was too mired in the January Blues.  Kate Middleton is, in my opinion, the most beautiful woman in the world.  What I wouldn’t do for her hair and her wardrobe.  Her shoes!  Anyway, she is, without a doubt, stunning.  This portrait, however, is not:

Now, I’m no artist.  (This is an understatement.  I can draw little stick people, daisies, and a happy little sun and that is about it.)  However, I find myself a bit depressed about this portrait.  If this can happen to Kate, what chance do the rest of us have?  At least her hair still looks fabulous, even though her eyes look strangely dead and she looks like she needs to sleep for twelve hours. 

All of which is to say, feedback is good, even if it is not what we wish to hear.  And yes, I know that Kate was purportedly thrilled with this portrait, and to that I think, well, what is she going to say?  Is she going to threaten to have him beheaded and throw a bucketful of paint at it?  I’m guessing NOT.  I’m guessing she dug deep into her good manners reserves, smiled politely, went home, and berated William with questions “Do I need a new undereye concealer?  My god, why didn’t you TELL ME?” 

Anyone else have a crush on Mike the hitman?

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Wowza, it’s been quite a strange week.  I was eyeing the bottle of wine on the counter, wondering if it would be acceptable to enjoy a glass before dinner; it’s a Friday after all, I spent ninety minutes standing in the playground this afternoon, my husband is working late as usual and what the hell.  I need no more excuses.  I cracked that baby open and am now enjoying a polite, lady-sized glass which will be replaced by a few big-ass trashy ones later.  IT’S FRIDAY.

Yesterday I was contemplating ending it all, or at least drinking myself into oblivion, because I could not get the song Crystal Blue Persuasion out of my head.  Those of you who have been watching Breaking Bad may understand why this is pertinent.  My husband and I have been watching this show for a few months now, and now that we are all caught up on episodes, I am feeling bereft and wondering what I have left to live for, on weekend evenings at least.  Anyone want to talk about Breaking Bad?  Because I’m kind of upset it’s all over until the SUMMER.  I’m also realizing that there is something inherently wrong with me; no one else seems to have a crush on Mike the hitman.

Crystal Blue Persuasion was soon replaced by – oddly enough – Old Time Rock and Roll.  If there is a song that can possibly be more “get people out on the dance floor at a wedding”, I would like to know what it is.  In fact, dancing with my husband’s best friend – who was our wedding MC – to that song is one of my favourite memories from my wedding.  Other than getting married to my awesome husband and being totally the centre of attention, of course.  That was pretty fun too.



Old Time Rock and Roll seems a standard at weddings, bringing about nice memories of happily drunken dancing.  See also: YMCA, Do the Locomotion (with the bride leading the chain), Macarena, Celebration, and, of course, the Chicken Dance.  For my wedding, my brother gave me a card with a picture of a very drunken guest, tie on head, yelling at the band “Play Freebird!” while the bride and groom danced sedately.  The caption: “Why You Shouldn’t Have an Open Bar”.  We did have an open bar at our wedding, however I am fairly sure we didn’t play Freebird.  Freebird!  The 70s was a great time for such songs.  Freebird, Baby Don’t Get Hooked On Me, and By The Time I Get To Phoenix.  All songs about how monogamy is the WORST, apparently, and only suckers go for it.  Suckers who do not wish for a life of loneliness and STD’s, I guess.  The other day I was listening to Summer Breeze, one of my favourite songs, and I was struck at the idyllic picture of domesticity it portrays, given that it was written in the 70s.  Did the writers not know that casual and unprotected sex was where it was at?  *draws a square in the air with fingers*

A little note on open bars: I voiced a slight concern about one of our wedding guests – a notable messy drunk – and my aunt gave me these words of wisdom, “There is a drunken idiot at every wedding.  In my case, it was my husband.”  BURN.

I opened up my computer today and in the “news headlines” was a story about child stars – where are they now?  The star in question pictured was Tina Yothers, so I had to click on the link since Tina Yothers looks uncannily like one of my cousins.  It turns out that Tina Yothers – and most of the other child stars – are not really doing much, from a Hollywood standpoint, unless you count reality television, which I do not.  However, I was stunned – STUNNED – to discover this little piece of information: Leonardo DiCaprio was on Growing Pains.  He was?  This feels like something I should have known, although why I should know this I’m unsure since I essentially am terrible at pop culture.  I’m not as bad as my dad, however, who confuses Will Smith with Samuel L. Jackson.  DAD.  It’s the Fresh Prince versus Mace Windu.

My plan for this post was to copy Amber Strocel and compile a “happiness list” but right now I have wine and After Eights on it.  Oh, and this cashew “cheese” recipe.  Oh!  I just thought of something else: my husband, dear man, bought me my very own copies of The Breakfast Club (Judd Nelson – where is he now?) and Say Anything (ditto Ione Skye).  Squee!  That’s happiness right there, on a DVD.  Ditched in the Malibu! It’s your castle!  I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.  Diane Court is a show pony, and you, my friend, are a stallion.   

Am I digressing?  I’m digressing.  There are lots of things that make me happy but at the moment I cannot adequately organize my thoughts into a list.  I got too distracted after I found this kind of awesome live version of Freebird on youtube.  And this bird you cannot tame.  Also this post has taken longer than I initially thought to write, and now I’m onto big-ass trashy glasses of wine.  What are we talking about?  Whee!  Happy Friday!

COME ON DOWN!

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Yesterday I optimistically cleaned the house, sanitizing all the surfaces and disinfecting doorknobs.  I baked muffins and indulged in such self-care rituals as applying moisturizer, blow-drying my hair, and shaving my legs for the first time in many days.  I just finished reading How To Be A Woman, and while I enjoyed it, and felt a strong and hearty agreement with it, I also feel that there are many nice things in life, and having smooth legs, underarms, and bikini line after days of achieving yeti-like status is one of them.  Relatedly, I realized as I plucked them that my eyebrows would, if left unchecked, morph into a blend of Frida Kahlo and Martin Scorcese’s on my face.  There’s nothing like a few days of stomach flu and no sleep to make normal daytime rituals seem like the epitome of luxury.

Oh!  But I was too optimistic too soon, because my remaining healthy child took a turn for the worse last night, causing me to pull a very gross all-nighter with him.  I’m doing a lot of laundry, is what I’m saying.  My husband is also feeling nervous, like there is ominous music playing just for him.  If you hear a strange noise, do not leave the campfire.  Do not go into the dark woods.

The funny thing about kids is how quickly they bounce back, eating freezies and playing video games.  Even while sick, in the middle of the night, Mark both maintained his polite manners – “Please may I have a tissue?” – and his incredulity about the whole situation.  “I think I have the barfing flu” he said after heaving into the toilet for the seventh time in two hours.  Yeah, maybe.  Jake, on the other hand, maintained sunny optimism: “Every time I barf I feel a little better!” he said after the tenth bathroom visit.  “I think I’ll probably feel better tomorrow!”

And he seems to be correct.  Yesterday, while attempting to find a suitable children’s show on television, I came across The Price Is Right!  I was so excited.  The kids enjoyed the show in the same way I did when I was a kid.  The prizes and games were all so exciting!  A barbeque in the shape of an egg!  A new car!  A trip to New York!  A freestanding sauna!  I was kind of disappointed that there were no dinette sets to be won, as in my youth, but maybe I need to watch more.

When I was a kid, I loved that show.  I used to want to be a Barker’s Beauty, and this wish also coincided with my idea that I would, one day, be crowned Miss Canada.  My mother even made a Halloween costume to that effect, complete with red gown, crown, and sash proclaiming MISS CANADA 1982.  But the idea that a whole career – such as it was – could be built out of being pretty, wearing stilettos, and showcasing RV’s and sectional couches was fascinating.  I didn’t know about sexual harrassment, obviously, so it seemed pretty prime to me.

Of course, the Price is Right that my kids are now happily being exposed to has 100% less sexual harrassment – I THINK – and also has a male, um, Barker’s Beauty.  I guess they aren’t called that anymore but I cannot imagine what they might be called.  Anyway, this guy is disappointingly modestly dressed and also, it appears, in charge of driving the New! Cars! to be won.  What’s up with THAT?  The women can still drive cars in the presence of a man, thank you very much.

In any case, I’d like to thank The Price Is Right for the much-needed entertainment for me and my recovering children.  One episode had almost every single audience member in blocks of colour-matched t-shirts, which made Mark think that the audience was made up of “teams”.  “Oh, the red team is up.”  I guess it’s kind of true.  We also saw a woman win $1000 spinning the big wheel, whereas she promptly fell on the floor and rolled around.  “Wow, she’s REALLY happy.” Mark said.  “What would happen if she won one million dollars?”  I’m guessing she would probably die, but die happy, I suppose.

One of the best parts of watching The Price is Right is the commercials.  You have to hand it to the TV executives; they know their prime audience, and it isn’t me and my kids.  In one hour we saw two separate commercials for motorized scooters, several for Ensure, laxatives, and other supplements for Colon Health, and one featuring Henry Winkler advocating for reverse mortgages.  FONZIE.  Have we learned nothing?  Reverse mortgages are a very, very bad idea.  NOT COOL.  Stick with the Colace.

So bored! Send entertainment!

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Here we are now.  Entertain us.

Jake is now in Day Two of a cold.  I kept him home yesterday in hopes that it would be a quick recovery, only to have him wake up this morning, worse.  Backfire!  I’m not complaining too much; my kids are rarely sick and rarely miss school.  Even with swollen, watery eyes and a constantly dripping nose, Jake is still a chipper little guy who is currently wearing a Jedi robe and slaying invisible Sith with an invisible light saber.  But I’m getting the teensiest bit of cabin fever.  I had to cancel a few appointments yesterday, and one of those appointments had a 24 hour cancellation policy, which I obviously violated, leading to a fee.  I tried to talk my way out of it, but realized the futility of doing so with the nineteen year old receptionist.  She suggested I bring proof of my child’s sickness to get the fee waived, and I had an image of myself bringing in a giant bag of used tissues.  Here you go! I could say, Three boxes of used tissues. 

The upside of being confined indoors with a drippy seven-year-old is getting the mail.  Actually, I seem to recall getting the mail was a highlight of my day when the kids were small.  Oooh!  Stamps for Mark’s collection!  Oooh!  A magazine!  Oooh!  Flyers!  We got a Bed Bath and Beyond flyer and I don’t know about you, but I cannot even say the words Bed Bath and Beyond without getting all Old School and thinking about a “pretty nice little Saturday.  We’re going to go to Home Depot, pick out some flooring.  Maybe even go to Bed Bath and Beyond, but I don’t know.  I don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME.”

So Jake and I spent some time looking through the festive edition of the Bed Bath and Beyond (don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME) flyer, and I found a steal of a deal.  For only $299, you too could have your very Mixed Drink Maker!  I like how you could choose the “I Feel Lucky” button and get some kind of cray-cray mixed drink!  Party time!

 
48 different cocktail recipes!  Something tells me you could totally save the $299 and just randomly mix drinks yourself, but where is the fun in that?  I’m so curious as to how this thing works, that I am almost willing to actually go to Bed Bath and Beyond (but I don’t have enough TIME) and look at this for myself.
 
I never have enough TIME to go to Bed Bath and Beyond, because it is the most overwhelming store in the world, that simultaneously sickens me and also makes me wonder if I need a sno cone machine.
 
 

Speaking of things that simultaneously sicken and arouse covetous feelings, this Jezebel article about anthropologie is very amusing.  Don’t get me wrong; I am not a hater of anthropologie, although I know that it is a trendy thing to loathe these days.  I like a lot of things from that store – I like their kitchy teatowels and their cupcake aprons and I even like their owl shaped cookie jars, although I would never, ever spend $100 on one – but some of their items are truly ridiculous.  It makes me think that someone over at anthropologie is just creating things as a dare to see what they can get away with.  Do you think someone will pay $3000 for this if we call it a Holiday Hovey House?  FUCK YEAH.  We’re fucking anthropologie!  People will buy anything if we put it on our website.

And while you’re at it, put some of those motherfucking floral grandma crops on there for $138.  Bitches be wild for that shit.

Do me a favour, anyone that covets those pants – check out the Sears catalogue.  You can get that style of pants for a third of the price, with a lovely elastic waistband included. 

And now I’m off to pick up my non-sick child from school.  Having Jake home has reminded me how much simpler life is with two children at home.  “I miss Mark!” Jake said yesterday as we sat snuggled on the couch, watching six episodes of Phineas and Ferb.  “It’s like I don’t even HAVE a brother.  Just a mom.  And that’s sad.”  Why, thank you, Jake!  Last night the boys proceeded to amuse me immensely by comparing themselves to Phineas and Ferb.  “I’m like Ferb,” Mark said “And Jake is like Phineas because he talks so much!”  I hated to break it to them, but everyone talks all the time in this house.  No one is like Ferb.

Did you know November is Gratitude Month?

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Well, it is!  I don’t know who comes up with these specialty months; probably the same people who come up with “Grandparents’ Day”.  For the record, every day is Grandparents’ Day, just like every month should be Gratitude Month.  Right?  It’s like I tell my kids when they are coveting something new immediately after a birthday, we should be grateful and enjoy the things we have, right now.  And then I go and spoil it all by purchasing a new black sweater or a yoga top.

But truly, I have so much to be grateful for, every day, and not just the obvious things like health, family, drawers full of black sweaters, etc. 

Things I am grateful for:

1) Jake can sing Gangnam Style, and his mastery of Korean lyrics is comparable to his mastery of English ones.  Heeeeyyyyy, sexy lay-day.  His rendition is equal, if not greater than, his rendition of I’m Sexy And I Know It.  There’s nothing quite so inappropriately cute as a seven year old boy singing “I’ve got action in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it”.  He is pretty fly. 

2) The boys both like to dance Gangnam Style, although it is really just their regular dance moves, which leads me to believe that Psy stole their moves.  Imitation, sincerest form of flattery, etc. 

3) I went to an assembly at the kids’ school yesterday where there was a visit from several Calgary Stampeders and cheerleaders.  I wasn’t going to go but I ran into a friend who was going and she totally peer pressured me.  It turned out to be hugely fun, complete with student MC who, in a completely robot-like monotone, said how exciting it was to have the football players visit our school, and Go Stamps.  Then the Ralph the Dog mascot pretended to lick the principal, and hilarity ensued. 

4) Prior to attending the assembly, I was at the school photocopying things for next week’s book fair – what else do you do with a Master’s in Economics these days? – and a kid ran down the hall and barfed all over the hallway, because, as he said between retches to a teacher who was passing by, he couldn’t make it to the bathroom.  I am very grateful that child is not in class with either of mine and we have – so far, knock wood and knock back more vitamins – not had the barfing plague hit our house.

5) I am ever-so-grateful for PVR technology.  It is the technological advancement of our time.  Better than sliced bread, voice mail, and the printing press, although not superior to automatic washers and dryers, email, or the wheel.  I recorded Top Gun on TV and I’m thinking of watching it and live-blogging.  While drinking wine.  Don’t you think that would be fun?  Son, your ego is writing cheques your body can’t cash.  In any event, my husband noticed that I was recording it and asked why.  NO REASON.  I like the dialogue?  Now, where is that aviator suit? 

6) People is going to come out with it’s Sexiest Man Alive, which means BLOGGING MANIA.  Remember my list from last year, and the accompanying addendum?  Well, my friend Nan just took it to a whole new level.  Her post made my whole entire day.  And my day started off with a friend buying me a soy latte with sugar-free vanilla so it was already pretty damn good.  Go read it, and just think – NICK NOLTE won?  Whaaaa?  Where were all the other men in the world that year?

To be fair, his win was prior to this sexy photo, but still.  Still.

7) I heard Rock Me Amadeus on the radio today.  AMADEUS AMADEUS AMADEUS AMADEUS AMADEUS.

8) I bought a new cocoa-butter handcream for my hands which are so dry and cracked that clothing snags on them.  The cream works a treat, and it also smells exactly like a cocoa-butter stick I used on my giant pregnant belly back in the day.  The scent takes me back, in a very good way.  I know it’s unpopular to say so, but I loved being pregnant.  I wasn’t ever sick, and I loved getting Princess Treatment.  I loved how people would express concern over me lifting a finger doing anything, I loved how the guys I worked with constantly brought me snacks and worried about me working too hard, I loved how people opened doors for me and helped me cross the street like a whale-like octogenarian.  The cocoa-butter smell makes me feel all the warm fuzziness about being pregnant, without the inconvenience of actually being pregnant.

9) I am so grateful my kids are old enough to have normal, and frequently actually interesting conversations, they are old enough to do most things independently, and yet they still like to receive hugs, albeit not in public.  I am grateful I can look back at pictures like this with nostalgia:

Remember the days that sitting up was too much effort due to massive sleep deprivation?  I’m grateful to sleep.  While I’m in the business of cute old pictures:

Jake has a wee little Tom Brady jersey on!  Death by cuteness!

Look at the cute little bookworm!  We seem to have the same facial expression, and it’s saying “Fuck off, we’re trying to read here.”  And we can’t forget Barkley-when-he-was-a-puppy:

He is watching the Dog Whisperer!!!!

10) I am ever-so-grateful for you lovely readers, as always.  xoxo

So tell me, darlings, what are you grateful for?

Hot Carl

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Twice a year I find myself commenting that I am in awe that we, as a society, still deal with such an antiquated notion as Daylight Savings Time, and twice a year my husband tells me that I am starting to sound crazy when I launch a diatribe against it.  And yet, although my children are older and they actually DO sleep in if they are kept up late, I feel it is my duty as a mother, and in solidarity with parents of little ones who are now waking up at 4 in the morning, sobbing for lunch at 10, and practically disintigrating with exhaustion before dinner, to steadily rail against time change.  After all, when I’m a senior I expect to still pay education taxes even though my own children will not be in school, and so I expect that I will have something angry to say about time change for many years to come.  However, I have probably said it all already; you can read about my feelings on the subject here and here and probably elsewhere but I cannot find it.

My husband was away for a couple of days, and I don’t know what you do when your significant other is out of town, but I seem to drink a lot of wine, eat a lot of guacamole, and watch movies that, while excellent, generally don’t interest him.  This weekend I watched Little Women, which in addition to being an excellent portrayal of the book, also features two of the world’s sexiest men, at least in my opinion.  It also contains one of my favourite movie lines ever: “Over the mysteries of female life, there is drawn a veil, best left undisturbed.”  I think of this whenever I am doing some personal grooming or surreptitiously eating (the somewhat sad snack of) Snapea Crisps and rice-milk chocolate during my ladies’ holidays. 

I also watched Say Anything, which – not coincidentally – also features one of the world’s sexiest men.  I have been watching that movie on a semi-annual basis over the past 24 years, and I never get tired of it.  I never get tired of seeing that guy wearing shorts under his graduation gown belting out The Greatest Love of All.  I never get tired of the line “I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.”  I never get tired of “Diane Court is a show pony; you, my friend, are a stallion.” 

I think I’m a show pony.

As a general rule I have a strong distaste for personalized license plates.  They remind me very much of Bruce from Sweet Valley High, with his license plate 1Bruce1.  Did you read those books when you were a kid?  I sure did, and I will tell you this: I had a very distorted view of high school based on those books.  In any case, due to my reading of the entire Sweet Valley High series in fifth grade, I have always thought that personalized license plates belong to douchebags, like the aforementioned Bruce.  However, parked in my neighbourhood is a vehicle with the license plate Hot Carl.  This has altogether changed my view, although maybe it’s more of an exception that proves the rule.  Hot Carl!  It’s fabulous on so many different levels.  I’m dying of curiosity; who IS Hot Carl?  I suppose camping out behind the vehicle to discover Hot Carl’s identity would be wrong, and would probably only serve to elevate my “crazy” status.