Takin' the Low Road

As someone who writes a column for my local paper, one of my peeves is when other columnists rattle off a list of anything - usually something along the lines of "Cute Things That Pets Do" or "Looky What I Found in My Medicine Cabinet" - and pass it off as a column. Maybe lists of "Things I Think About In Traffic" is entertaining to some, but I've always thought that type of writing to be a cop-out.

I prefer a story line with all of the essential elements of plot, something that tells readers that I think they're worth the modicum of effort I put into another tale of my dysfunctional family, even if I don't deserve their attention in return. And though I'll probably (okay, never) get Pulitzer or a readership that exceeds Mayberry, I still try to tell a story each time.

But not today.

Today I stoop, because I thought of something funny while I was on my run this morning. And not only is it a list, it's a list involving body humor.

Specifically, balls.

So here goes: Did you know that you can substitute a noun in any soap opera title with 'balls', and it's absolutely freaking hilarious (if you're in seventh grade)???

Just see for yourself:

"Guiding Balls"
"The Balls and the Restless"
"As The Balls Turn"
"Balls Barbara"
"Port Balls"
"Balls Hospital"

I'm peeing, I swear!!! And I dont even watch soap operas!!!

Not only that, but it works for all TV genres. Take shows from the seventies and early eighties:

"Welcome Back, Balls"
"Diff'rent Balls"
"The Balls of Life" OR "The Facts of Balls" (either works)
"Laverne and Balls"
"Happy Balls"
"Joanie Loves Balls" (Jim's contribution)
"W-Balls-RP In Cincinnati"
"Balls in the Family"
"Good Balls"
"The Love Balls"
"Balls Island" OR "Fantasy Balls" (two for one)

and my personal favorite -

"Little Balls on the Prairie"

Why stop there??? Thinking of my own all-time favorite TV shows, I came up with:

"Designing Balls"
"The X Balls"
"Gilmore Balls"
"Balls Exposure" OR "Northern Balls" (another two-fer)
"30 Balls"
"The Golden Balls" (love you, Bea!)

and my soon-to-be brother-in-law's fav Sci-Fi show...

"Balls Hunters"

So, what do you think??? I know there are more. And I also know this is quite juvenile and possibly stupid.

But, really. "King of the Balls" - who doesn't on some level want to spew liquid from their nose at that???

Okay, so that was my little venture to the low road. And you know what? The view from down here's not all that bad...

Especially if you've been "Touched By Balls".

Mom - 1, Tara - 0

First the good news: my biopsy came back normal. Yay!!!! I never suspected it wouldn't but, still. This also means that my doctor was able to get the sample she needed - whew!!! Would've hated to have had my uterus turned inside-out for nothing.

Now for the bad news: my mom was right, and I was - how do I say this? - wrong.

Looks like I have endometriosis.

Not that I mind having endometriosis, because I'm also having a little procedure to cure not only that but every other woe that comes with having two X chromosomes (except for the body-image neuroses and constant worrying over the kids).

I just mind that my mom called it first, and that I disputed her claim with the arrogance of Dick Cheney. Do people still laugh at Dick Cheney???

Anyway, it goes like this:

My doctor pronounces things a little strangely. For every one of my pregnancies and other doctor's visit issues, she talks about something called 'sonometers'. Were these mysterious 'sonometers' related to ultrasounds? Were they a special cervical measurement? What the hell were they? Jim and I have wondered this for years, but never asked for fear of:

A) not wanting to offend her in case it is indeed her speech and

B) not wanting to appear as stupid as we are in case it's not.

"Hey, Docter-Lady, what's that thar thing yoo call a 'centimeter'?? Is that something yoo got from all yer book-lernin'?"

So we've just always left the office figuring the baby will eventually come out, no matter what a 'sonometer' is or how many 'centimeters' I might be.

Turns out maybe I should've asked, because the day I got my biopsy, she tells me, "Sounds like you have the beginning stages of 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'. That simply means your uterus is growing into your muscle."

I'm a mentally-visual person, meaning that I automatically spell words in my head when I hear them, putting sentences together in an order that has color, shape and texture and is probably understood only by people who have consumed lead paint. So I naturally visualized this new word, 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'. Red, because it has a strong short 'a' at the beginning, angular with the emphasized 't' at the end, and so forth. But I had never heard of this word before, and had no idea if I was spelling or visualizing it correctly.

I called my mom when I got home to give her the report.

"Hey. She took the biopsy, but thinks I may have this benign condition I've never heard of before. There's a procedure that can be done to relieve it, though, but I have to wait on the biopsy results first."

"Oh, my GOD. What kind of condition???"

"Nothing serious; just very uncomfortable. I can't remember the exact name because it's new to me, but it starts with an 'a' and has an emphsized 't' somehwere towards the end."

"Huh? Well, what else did she say about it?"

"That my uterine lining may be growing into my muscle."

"Oh. That's en-doh mee-treeeeeee OH sus." She has her own way of saying things. Like 'diuh BEE teeeees'.

"No, Mom. I know what endometriosis is. This is something different. It started with an 'a'. I've never heard of it before."

"But en-doh mee-treeeeeee OH sus is when your uterus grows into your muscle. I've had it."

"I know that, Mom. And this just wasn't it. I swear. This sounds similar but is somehow different."

"Are you su..."

"YES, Mom. I heard her say it with my own ears. Now I'm still in pain from the biopsy. I'm going to lie down for a minute. Love you."

Geez - she can be so exhausting when she thinks I don't know what I'm talking about!!!

So I'm out running this morning, thinking the random thoughts that always pop into my head. This time that includes pie, my high school reunion, and my upcoming procedure, because I can really feel the 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis' kicking in. Lord, this can't come soon enough.

And then it hits me.

'Sonometers'.

I think about the definition of endometriosis, which is essentially the uterine lining growing outside of the uterus, like kudzu. Which is exactly what my doctor described to me. I then imagine her trying to pronounce it.

Logially speaking, if 'centimeters' = 'sonometers', then it's likely that...

Yep.

'Endometriosis' = 'ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis'.

Crap.

I briefly debated never telling my mom this and letting her believe there's this exotic, never-before-heard-of condition I have that's very similar to endometriosis but definitley NOT the same thing. I even toyed with creating a whole new word. But she would eventually want me to spell it for her so she could look it up on the Johns Hopkins website and WebMD. So then I thought of reading up on medical terms and saying I had something else entirely. Anything but admitting...

well, not that I was wrong, but that SHE was right.

NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But alas, I am here, out in the open, saying that I am 99% sure that I am incorrect and that there is no such thing as ahn-duh-ma-TRO-sis. She wins; it's the only logical ending to this story. But considering I don't know how it's spelled, I can't validate that just yet. So there's a teeny-tiny smidge of a chance that I could still be right.

But don't count on it. Not that it matters, anyway, because in a few weeks, it will be gone, Daddy, gone - no matter how it's spelled. Oh, wait - I know!

R-E-L-I-E-F

I Take My Coffee Black

I haven't posted here in about two weeks. Incidentally, that's about the same amount of time that I've been having - as my grandmother likes to say - "fee-mayle problems." Not to get into the gorey details, but let's just say that if Jesus were to walk by, I'd definitely try to sneak a feel of his hem.

Not only has this situation been more than a tad inconvenient, but I've been disgruntled, achey, and as fatigued as the dead. So most of my free time has been spent doing what needs doing before slinking off to bed with a handful of Motrin and shaking my frustrated fist at the air whilst cursing Eve. I swear I was more productive when I was in the womb.

But, as with most situations, there's light at the end of the tunnel - er, canal. I made a doctor's appointment last week, and they wasted no time seeing me - good. But then she said I needed a host of tests, including a uterine biopsy - bad. The people with whom I've discussed this have all commented on the pain of the biopsy, though that was never my concern. A little pain I can handle. I just don't like, as a general rule, needing a "biopsy." It makes me need a "drink."

Not to be dramatic. I know I'm far too healthy to have any serious problems. But who wants any problems, much less one that might end in '-ectomy'? The truth is, I look young for my age. I act young for my age. I feel young for my age. But, as my doctor noted, that doesn't actually change my age. I have freckles, not a flux capacitor. So my body is aging despite the fact that I saw a fifth-grader wearing a t-shirt identical to my own. My favorite shirt, in fact (and it looks sooo much better on her).

This morning marked the day I would enter my doctor's office, wrap a piece of paper around my ass (I always feel so huge in those because they never go all the way around), and let her "take a sample with an instrument that looks just like a coffee stirrer."

Well, I suppose it looks like a coffee stirrer if you can smell the blood of an Englishman.

It was more like a coffee vat stirrer, and I swear, it was flipping me off as she was explaining the procedure to me. And her little explanation went something like this:

"Now, Tara, you know you have a retroverted uterus. Which means I'll try to do it with the coffee stirrer. But if that doesn't work, I'm going to have to use this."

"This" looked like spaghetti tongs. So, we were using kitchen items. Okay - pretty nonthreatening.

"Now, because of your uterus, I may have to really work it to get in there. There's a risk of perforation, but I won't take that. If I can't get it, it will be called a 'failed procedure'."

I can fail a biopsy?

"So, scoot down. A little more. More. More. One more. There."

And... the coffee is stirred. Yowzer!!!

My original plan was that since I haven't been able to have sex lately, I was just going to close my eyes and make the best of this little procedure. But once that thing began its journey, I became immediately grateful that I drink my coffee black.

"Okay, Tara, I can't get it where it needs to be. I'm going to have to use the other (thingy). You may feel a pinch."

And Anarctica may be cold. Yowzer!!!!!

"Well, Tara, your uterus is quite tricky. It's not retroverted; it's actually retroflexed (makes gayish-looking Black Power fist to demonstrate)."

"Let me try something..." For some instinctual reason, I knew what was coming.

"Can you sort of...prop your bottom up on your hands?"

I was a step ahead of her. I had a sixth sense about how the coffee stirrer had to reach its destination, and I immediately did a Pilates bridge, completely losing my piece of dignity-sparing paper in the process.

"How's this?" I ask her with my naked ass clinched in the air, my ladies' department reaching for the heavens. I looked like I ought to be staring knowingly at a camera while sucking my finger.

"That'll work. I think."

"Okay. And sorry my vagina's in your face like that."

She worked that stirrer, I'm here to say, like she was kneading dough or changing a tire. For a second I thought she might hop up on the table for leverage.

"Okay, I got something. But again, your uterus..."

"I know. I would have a problem uterus."

"No, it's 'normal' - but I may've only been able to get cervical tissue." Ewww.

Fingers in ears...lalalalalalala...

"Done! Well, that was certainly a team effort."

I tried to speak, but drool prevented 'language' from leaving my mouth. So I just said, "Ooooaaaayyy." I was in so much pain that my thoughts drifted to scalping for my happy place.

But now for the light: she told me that I may be eligible for a procedure that would scar my effed-up uterus (what would it know?) and allow me to scoff at feminine products FOREVER!!!!

I imagined my smugness as my friends complained of their PMS.

"Oh? I remember those days."

I thought of their dismay at having to wear shorts over their bathing suits in July.

"Wow - that must really suck for you."

I could hear them asking me for a tampon in the restroom at the movie theater.

"Oh, silly, you know I don't need those!"

Yes, I thought, rubbing my hands together, yessssssss...

My eyelid began to twitch. My drool turned to excited bubbles. I gestured towards my doctor like I was playing Pictionary, making every effort to communicate, through my pain-induced muteness, "Yes! Me want woman scar!"

So she handed me the pamphlet. And I clutched it to my chest like it was the family Bible I was saving as Union troops burnt my house.

And I limped out to my car. But it was the Limp of Hope and Dreams. Because before me, in the reachable future, possibly lies a lifetime of ease and comfort. Emancipation from my cursed female destiny. Induced... menopause.

Because even though I may look young for my age, even though I may act young for my age, and even though I may feel young for my age - sometimes youth is for suckers.

And coffee stirrers.

Adventures In Hell-Mart

Roll 'em back, people! I had to spend my morning in my least favorite place on earth next to a Port-o-Potty or The Dollar Tree. Actually, The Dollar Tree isn't too bad, seeing as it has a decent soundtrack. It's just that it always smells like burning plastic and the floor looks like a landfill. And I could never eat a jar of pickles from such a place.

But that being said, the experience of running into Wal-Mart for cheap dogfood or the makings of some sort of school project is like no other. The country music that frequently sounds over the intercom. The homeschoolers that have taken over like 'Red Dawn'. The trucker hats that people wear. The people.

It's like the fair minus the midway.

I had to go several times this week to acquire the necessary items needed to pull off a birthday party. The other trips have been brief and therefore relatively benign, but today I was there for nearly an hour - more than enough time to lose faith in Darwinism and go ahead and declare myself a pure-t creationist along with everyone else in there buying deeply discounted meat and bathroom cleaner.

My first mistake was looking the greeter in the eye. Believe it or not, I'm relatively polite to others and try to acknowledge those who are kind enough to acknowledge me. This includes greeters. But I have no time for chit-chat when I'm there, and I don't expect that the kindly old lady held together with mentholated rub and a hair net will actually be able to help me find the varied things I need without breaking a hip or getting lost, though it was generous of her to offer. And no, I didn't have my 'helpers' with me today, though again, it was kind of her to notice. I'm sorry - I just don't like talking to people when I'm in Wal-Mart. Or anywhere.

My next mistake was to be in such a hurry that I crashed my cart into another old lady - this one less kindly - in her Jazzy. No one was injured, and 'crashed' may be a strong word. But we made contact, and while I was deeply apologetic and more than a tad bit ashamed, she scowled, attempted to shake an arthritic fist my way, and scooted around me towards the Maybelline. Geez. I felt really bad. I hope she found her lip gloss.

One thing I noticed today in Hell-Mart is that the building is filled with nothing but slow walkers. Except for me, because I'm always in a huge hurry to get the hell out of there. But no one else seems to have any place special to be. AND, I suspect... some people like it in there. The same way that some people like dungeons or watching women squash bugs. It's deviant.

Moving on to mistake number three: I got in the wrong check-out line. Naturally. Not owning a watch and having misplaced my cell phone, I didn't have a true grasp on the time but knew that I had few moments left to pick up my daughter from preschool, lest I be fined or - worse - scolded. So I picked a line with no one else peeking out from behind the impulse items, figuring it was short. Which it was.

But it was also a woman with two toddlers, buying enough stuff to survive a month or two in a bomb shelter. And the check-out lady? In keeping with everyone else in that place, she was most decidedly NOT in any hurry. Even to breathe - just not in any rush.

The toddlers in front of me were cute, so I decided to scare them a little to pass the time. I didn't really mean to scare them - it's just a side effect of me talking to children.

"Hey, there! I see you have a very yummy-looking cookie!"

Stare.

"Ooooo - purple sprinkles!!! My FAVORITE!! Can I have a little bite? Or better yet, can I just have the rest?"

Hiding behind hands.

"Oh, Honey, I'm not really interested in taking your cookie. In fact, I don't even like those kind. Kind of nasty, really. Of course, I don't expect you to actually know the difference - all you see are purple sprinkles at this point. But I suppose it's a step above that shoe you're licking..."

I swear she flipped me off.

After standing there long enough to watch "Thornbirds" in its entirety, it was finally my turn at the register. And the cashier moving at the rate of plate tectonics??? Well, she had...

A BEARD.

Yes, you read that right. Facial growth, completely covering her chin and neck. But not on the sides, fortunately. Or unfortunately, depending on your personal taste.

Now granted, Girlfriend can't exactly help looking like Abe Lincoln just come in from the rain, but were it I with the facial hair issue - well, I'm telling you, I would DO something about that sh*t. Whatever it takes. DONE.

So I pay Fuzzy Wuzzy, load up, and spy the bright spot in my visit: a guy working the service counter very loosely resembling Dave Grohl. YUMMY!!!! Yes, my standards for male yumminess vary greatly.

So, yay- not only did I survive another trip to Wally World, I got to leave on a vaguely high note, as long as I pretended that 'Dave' didn't drive his '92 Maxima home to an apartment complex where he plays video games and eats Taco Bell until his next shift. I can totally block that out.

Which makes that fact that I forgot something and need to go back tomorrow a little more appetizing. Because even though I feel as though I'm in a space-time continuum when ever I try to weave through slow walkers in the paper products aisle, as long as 'Dave' is there - well, those are some pickles I'd be willing to eat...

Fantasy Girl

We all have them - private, strange fantasies where we're doing weird things to the praise and adulation of others. Maybe it's sports-related (to which I don't relate) or career-oriented. Or just that people gawk at you in awe as you move through the grocery aisles because you have that special little something about you.

When I was little, it was all about my future as a fearless space traveler. Then I moved on to become the fuscia-lipsticked lead singer of a band I called 'Pizzazz'. (We were invited to sing front-row-center for "Do They Know It's Christmas?", where I stood next to John Taylor of Duran Duran. Plus I had a solo in "We Are The World".) And then I was just the cool-yet-unusual girl that everyone wanted to be.

I nailed the unusual part.

Now - in my almost-40 adult life- I have two recurring fantasies. One is that I'm an acrobat, so malleable that I could almost be considereed a contortionist. The second is slightly less realistic but oh-so-much-more painful to watch.

I have a dream.

And that dream is that I am a guest star on Saturday Night Live - for the sketches, not the music. But in true Justin Timerlake-fashion, I'm capable of either.

Or, according to my fantasy, both.

Yes, I seamlessly perform uproarious skits alongside seasoned, trained professionals and am written up in all of the 2-A news sections the next morning, featuring still clips of me captioned with "Bailey Kills On SNL".

I would make you forget all about "Cowbell".

What-In-A-Box?

Amy and Tina Who?

See? As in most fantasies, it's all about me.

But, wait - that's not all! I also - and here's the Big Dream - perform MUSICALLY.

I can't sing, so this would be sort-of funny, I guess. But in my mind, I am singing alongside someone who can. Someone who makes me sound a little better. Someone who is...

Lisa Loeb.

Yes, seriously.

I'm not exactly a Lisa Loeb fan, but I love the song, "Do You Sleep?". Maybe you remember her performing that one on SNL back in the early nineties.

I do - and I have done her one better.

Because there we are, sharing a mic, dressed all cute, and I'm making the audience think, "Wow! She's funny, fearless, AND she can sing! Sort of!" We move rhythmically in our respective dance-spaces, showing the world how amazingly expressive, gifted, and embrasive of the world we are. We make you feel it. You're lost in our performance. We ARE the world. And we end our duet to maddening, fiery applause, along with ferocious stomping, and genuine, involuntary "Whooooooo!!!!!" - ing.

I am a hit.

I love this fantasty, because let's be realistic for a moment. I just don't get a lot of that at home. Well, I do get ferocious stomping, but it's not the same.

And yes, I know that this scenario would never actually happen.

Because Lisa Loeb is sooooo fifteen years ago.

I, on the other hand, am still awaiting my head mic and spot next to Lionel Ritchie for the Band Aid reunion tour - "Do They Know It's 2009?"

Michelle Obama's Garden

Someone - not naming names, so let's just say 'Tim' - accepted a Facebook friend request from my mother. Tim should not have done this, because Tim is a very close friend of mine and is privy to all that goes on in my life. Therefore, now with my mother examining all of Tim's Facebook pages, unfortunately so is she.

Not good.

Two weeks ago, she discovered through Tim a link to this blog. And went to it. And read it. And did not take it well. At all.

At first, I thought this would go quietly into the night, as I took the girls to her house for Spring Break and she said not one word about it. Later, when I rejoined her for Easter weekend, initially there was still no word regarding my profane and mildly-explicit story-telling.

So far, so good.

But then - out of the clear blue, never saw it coming - she dropped it.

I was reaching for a wine glass in my parents' kitchen Saturday night and felt sudden close breath on my neck. So I turned around, and there she was. Close-up.

Do any of you remember that creepy scene at the end of "Cinderella" when the stepmother locks Cindy in her room to prevent her from trying on the slipper? Do you remember the look in that stepmother's eyes? That cold, unforgiving, steely gaze? Get that in your head.

Because that's the look I got.

"Please. Do not go to that blog of yours while you're in this house. Especially on your father's computer."

Oh, sh*t.

"But. But. But. But it got Blog of the Day...???"

Yep - that's the best I could do.

I felt like I was riddled with syphilis or strung out on heroin, the subject of an intervention. Or that she had discovered a porn site that I moderated and posed for (God help us all). I felt - ashamed! Dirty! So, so WRONG! Thank God (literally) the Resurrection was the next day.

So Easter came and went, though no redemption was to be found in my Easter basket. We all headed back home (with 'Tim' in the doghouse), school started up, and things got back to normal around here. Until the phone rang this morning.

"Tara? It's Mama."

"Hey."

"I want to talk a little more about this 'blog' thing. What award did it get, again?"

"Well, it's not so much an award as just a little recognition. I really don't know, to be honest. It's just an email I got."

"You mean from computer people? Or do you go and get an award like Pop did with that Governor's award? "

"No, Mom. Just a verbal recognition. No big deal, really."

"Well, who gives you the award?"

"I don't know. Judges. Some guy who started it. I have no idea."

"I'm just curious to know what kind of award a blog gets."

"None, really. It was just a comment."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, but I also didn't realize you liked to say f**k so much. And talk about having sex. I thought you were against all things crude and crass in this world."

Yes, she has met me.

"Ummmm... welllllll... it's writing. It's different from talking. You know."

"What do you mean? That writing has lower standards than talking? Let me process this for just a minute."

"Yeah. It's just different. A different realm."

"I'm trying to understand. I just didn't know you were like that."

Like what, exactly?

To distract myself from this horrible, awkward conversation, I first tried to make myself invisible, but with no success, so I then answered an email.

"And now you're typing again."

"Uh, yeah. (More distraction) Nanny is doing this gardening project with the library. She has to be ten, though. Which she turns next week. As you know."

"What kind of gardening project?"

"Just a project where kids come and garden at the library."

"Like Michelle Obama's garden."

"Huh?"

"You haven't been keeping up with Michelle Obama's garden?"

"Noooo..."

"Well, she has this garden where kids come from all over to plant plants."

"Oh. That's nice."

"I thought you were interested in the Obamas."

"Sure, Mom."

"Well, I think Nanny might like to know about Michelle Obama's garden. And I really thought you would have known about it."

"Okay. Look, I love you. But I have to go. And have sex. And to be honest, I don't actually give a f**k about Michelle Obama's garden."

No, I would never actually say that last quote to my mother.

Because I am, after all, against all things that are crude and crass in this world...

Life Lessons From "Fast Times At Ridgemont High"

Ron the Audio Consultant. Ratner the Movie Ticket Guy. Damone the Scalper (oops- don't let him hear me say that!). Maybe even Mr. Vargas, though he did have a hot wife.

What do they all have in common other than mall-dwelling? Three words:

Jennifer Jason Leigh.

And not a current JJL, or "Single White Female" - crazy JJL.

They loved 1982 JJL - with her cute, squishy, imperfect 1982 body, chubby round face, and that long, bushy, horse hair.

They were all over her, even fighting for her.

Most people will, of course, remember Phoebe Cates, her red bikini, and the removal thereof. Hell, I do. But even beautiful Phoebe wasn't perfect according to a 2009 perspective. She was simply unafraid and not holding back for Brad (according to Brad, anyway) - and nothing's yummier than that.

And, yes, her tits looked good.

But by today's standards - well, they were just so normal compared to what's out there now. And her legs were normal and her stomach was normal; no visible ab-crunching or over-tanning. Just a natural, pretty body on a natural, pretty girl.

So rare in 2009 - and in a movie, nonetheless. And so refreshing to see, like snow at Christmas or my kids when they're on Benadryl. Just one of life's pleasures.

And Jennifer Jason Leigh - she was completely unafraid to shed her clothes, too, and she did it without any regard to self-consciousness. Though she was very cute, she was no Phoebe Cates - which was fine by her several suitors and throngs of pubescent guys from the early eighties, including my husband.

They liked her attitude, her smile, and the fact that she was such a normal-looking girl. A girl who might go out with them. A girl who would laugh at their jokes instead of waiting to be admired. A girl who put the energy she could have been putting into perfecting herself into the guys she was with.

And they all took notice.

Though bodies are closer to perfect in 2009 than they've ever been in history, now that we have self-tanners, Pilates, abundant surgery and facial injections, something beautiful is simply lost in all of that. Maybe it's just a girl who's content, relaxed, and not fretting over herself. The normal, gratuitous, naked nipple-age of "Fast Times" seemed almost nostalgic.

And even though "American Pie" is hysterical, I still think people will remember Phoebe Cates over the many Playboy 'models' (what in hell are they modeling?) who always appear in those movies.

And speaking of Playboy models, there were a couple posing in bikinis with Spicoli in his own fantasy sequence - remember? Sure, they looked good, but again - by eighties standards. What made them look Playboy-good was their ease and willingness to show it.

So what can we take from all of this? That what's hot may not be what we think it is... Not that long legs and perfect tits are a bad thing.

But something about JJL lying naked in that pool house, with her small chest, chunky legs, and a little belly pouch, was just kinda - hot. She wasn't there to impress - she was there to have a good time. A fast time, if you will - (by the way, I hate when people say "if you will...").

Would she even be cast by today's standards? Hard to say, but "Fast Times" is a good reminder that what makes someone appealing isn't so much a body of perfection as willingness to suck a carrot in public.