Will you take a dollar?

I'm a self proclaimed, penny pinching frugal shopper. And I love to find creative ways to make a little extra cash, too, as long it's not illegal. Well, as long as it doesn’t hold any higher of a charge than misdemeanor.

I guess part of this attitude has sprung from necessity and part from the sheer thrill of a bargain. When I was out of work a few years back, I turned to eBay to supplement my income. I would buy items from discount stores or clearance racks and turn around and sell them for a nice profit. It actually paid my mortgage for 6 months.

I probably developed this penny-wise mentality from my mother. She always loved a good deal, whether it was at the grocery store or JCPenney's. If she found something with a flaw, she would ask for an additional discount. If she didn’t get it, she would smile and say, in Armenian, with a big smile on her face, “Shove it up your ass.”

The clerks had no idea what she was saying and probably thought it was, “Have a nice day.” Most of what I can say in Armenian involves some level of insults or cursing. Oh, and the Lord’s Prayer.

My mother thought it was hysterical. My sister decided to show off her language skills when she was 7 years old and our church priest was coming for dinner. He was having a lively discussion with my father and grandparents in the living room when my sister came running in to proudly boast, in Armenian, to Father Diran (pronounced Dee-Dahn) that we were having roast beef.

Only she didn’t tell him we were having roast beef. She told him that a hooker was coming to dinner. Now in her defense, "hooker" in Armenian and "roast beef" in English sound very similar. We learned the word “hooker” when my mother’s brother remarried.

Sorry, I got off the subject there.

So I’ve been sitting on a lot of this eBay surplus that I didn’t sell and I decided to sign up for a Community Garage Sale this past Saturday so that I could hawk my wares. This was my chance to not only clear out all this stuff that I’ve been sitting on but to make some extra cash, too.

I tried having a garage sale last year but lucky me, I picked the HOTTEST day of the year. I HATE hot weather. But I thought, okay, I live on a street with pretty high traffic so it should be a blow out. Nope. Apparently, that busy street thing works against you when you don’t have street parking.

People would slllllooowww down in front of the house until the guy behind them WHALED on their horn and then they would drive away. The few people I did get were looking for very specific things.

“Do you have any knives?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Do you have any electronic devices?”

“Nope, sorry.”

"Do you have any chicken wire?"

"No. And get the hell off my lawn."

It was pretty easy to prepare for this sale since everything from last July was still boxed and sitting in my garage. I arrived there 30 minutes early and set out my treasures. When I was done, I wandered around the community center to see what other people were selling and came back confident that my table would do the best. I was wrong.

"Do you have any mice on a string?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mice on a string. You know, for cats to play with?"

"Um. No, sorry."

"Do you have any bottle openers?"

"Nope."

But I did have designer sheet sets, new pillows, dog collars, pictures and a ficus tree. Apparently, no one was looking for any of those things. I had one foreign man who picked up and examined a 50 cent, 50 CENT, soap dish. He stood there and called someone who gave him permission to buy it.

I wanted to say, "Are you fucking kidding me? It's 50 cents, asshole." But all I said was, "Thank you, have a nice day." and then I muttered "Shove it up your ass" in Armenian.

As I started packing up early (I got in trouble for this, by the way) another seller stopped me.

"I didn't see that tree. How much do you want for it?"

Desperate to get rid of this 6 foot tree, I blurted out, "Ten dollars."

"Will you take 5?"

"Sold!" I happily handed her the tree and went about hauling things out the back door next to her table. I stopped on my way back in so she could pay me and she handed it back to me.

"I just realized I have no way to get this home. It won't fit in my car."

"Where do you live? I'll drop it off!" I did NOT want to take it home again and I excitedly leaned in toward her.

A look of fear came over her and she backed up a few steps, shaking her head. "No, th-that's okay. Thanks, anyway."

C'mon...you know what I said..with a big smile on my face....."Shove it up your ass."

My X Factor

Back in the early 90's, I worked for Jenny Craig. We inundated the market with strategically placed commercials; in the morning after the kids left for school, midmorning while Mom was doing laundry or right in the middle of Oprah. Sure as the tides, the phones would start to ring after a 60 second spot ran touting "50% off Registration if you act NOW."

Our first goal was to read through the phone script to convince them that they had to come in TODAY before they ate one more cupcake. The theory behind this sense of urgency was that each person has that one thing that makes them pick up the phone and call.

Maybe their child said "Mommy has a fat butt" or they tried putting on their jeans and couldn't zip them up. We called that their "X Factor", the thing that made them say, enough is enough.

My X Factor happened last week when I signed up for my 25 year high school reunion. I try to work out regularly and I was thinking that I looked okay until I waved to someone the other day and when I stopped waving, my arm kept going. Okay, so maybe I need a little toning.

My high school had a large graduating class of about 450 and I pretty much stayed under the radar. I wasn't a jock but I wasn't a "burn out", either. I could easily mix with both groups but never quite fit into either one. My memories kind of blend from one non-momentous event to another.

Until prom.

Prom is the pinnacle of a young girl's high school experience. That moment when she can dress up like a princess and gather with her friends, bidding adieu to her childhood, looking hopefully toward her future as a young woman.

Then there was my prom.

I wasn't dating anyone and so I agreed to go with a friend of mine since he wasn't dating anyone either. We'll call him Vince, since that was his name. He was on the football team and hung out with the jocks. He had a great body but average looks so girls weren't exactly swooning.

Vince and I had been friends all through junior high and high school and I told people that we were just going as friends. Vince's perspective was a little different as you'll see.

I went shopping with my girlfriends for my dress and after prom outfit and was really looking forward to the night. About 3 or 4 days before the big event, I ran into a friend in the bathroom.

Friend: "Oh my God, Chrissy, I just heard about what happened with Vince. I'm so sorry!"

Me: "Hmm? What do you mean? What happened with Vince?"

Friend: "Um. Nothing never mind."

Me: (blocking the doorway so my petite friend couldn't leave) "WHAT do you mean?"

It turned out that Vince really liked me and was upset that I was telling people that we were just friends. So he asked someone else to go. Someone who had a huge crush on him. Someone who was a FRESHMAN. Or maybe a sophomore. Anyway..she was younger.

He never did have the balls to tell me himself until I managed to get him on the phone and make him fess up. Everyone in the school knew what a shitty thing it was to do and so Student Council decided that they were going to pay for me and a date to go. Have you ever been 17 and tried to find a date 2 days before prom?

Needless to say, I couldn't find anyone to go so a friend volunteered his younger brother. He was very nice, even though he stepped on my dress and tore the bottom of it almost completely off while we were taking pictures before prom and he didn't speak at all the whole night. But, hey, what a trooper!

Wait, it gets better.

My date wasn't able to go to after prom. I don't think he was allowed to stay up that late or something. So my friend Lisa and her date said they would swing by and pick me up at my house after I went home to switch outfits.

I eagerly changed into my cute after prom outfit and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I finally called Lisa's house to see where they were and her mother told me that they had left over an hour ago.

They never picked me up because Lisa's date thought I looked pretty and she was jealous.

I never spoke to Lisa or Vince again until 10 years later when I ran into Vince out one night. He looked really different and I wasn't even sure it was him.

Me: "Are you Vince? Vince...(Okay, I won't say his last name)?

Vince: "Yes", a puzzled look came over his face as he tried to place who I was.

Me: "You bastard! You ruined my prom!"

He was shocked to see me and seemed really upset about what had happened all those years ago. I told him how it had hurt my feelings at the time but that I had gotten over it because we were kids and kids do selfish things.

Then I saw Lisa a few months back.

And she was fat.

It was fantastic.

Gosh, I hope she makes it to the reunion so we can catch up...

I'm an aunt again!

My sister, Lisa, just bought a house recently and decided that it was time for a new addition to her family, a 6 month old Beagle mix named Stewie. He sort of has a beagle head but no one knows who the baby daddy is so your guess is as good as mine.

Lisa already has an Indian Ringneck Parrot that she's had for about 8 years. Unlike a lot of birds, Waldo has free reign of the house, flying from room to room without a care.




Let me remind you that a Beagle is a hunting dog and whatever little bit of Beagle Stewie has in him is fully conscious of that fact. Yes, it's been an interesting 5 days.

We knew there might be some challenges the first day when Stewie, the high jumper, almost caught Waldo in mid-flight. He did a few days later but I think he was curious more than anything else because Waldo came out of it with a few less feathers and a nervous twitch but she's fine.

I'll keep you posted on how this blended family does.

1 + 1 = 0

Let's talk about this whole cougar phenomenon. I don't know. Is it really a phenomenon? It looks like women have finally caught up to men in the "I look like an idiot dating someone 15 years younger than me" category. I suppose it was inevitable.

We make our own money, we own our own homes, we kill our own spiders. It was just a matter of time before we bought our own boyfriends.

Clarification, please. Do you have to be rich to be a cougah (it's so much more fun to say it that way, isn't it?) or do you just need to be old and horny for young boys?

I'm neither. So I guess I'm not a cougah. There have been two instances where I've dated (and I use the term "dated" very loosely) younger guys. The first one was 21 years old to my 29. He was a bartender at Shooter's Restaurant and he was cute as cute could be. He was a bodybuilder and had lots of tattoos. I'm 5'9, he was maybe 5'5. But did I mention how cute he was? He wasn't very bright, either, and one of my elitist friends said, "What could you possibly see in him? Don't you need intellectual stimulation?" I just laughed and told her that was what I had her for.

The second young'un was 21 years old when I was 34. I met him at a going away party that my friend's co-workers threw for her when she got a new job. He was pretty cute and he had a motorcycle. Well, I had never been on a motorcycle so we wandered outside the bar, took a ride on the bike and then sat down to talk.

Keep in mind: I'm 34, he's 21.

Me: "That was a fun ride. How fast were we going?"

Him: "I don't know, dude. Somewhere around 90 miles an hour."

Me: "Oh my."

chat....chat....chat....

Him: "You have a kick ass body, man!"

Me: "Why, thank you."

Him: "You rock!", pointing both fingers at me. Pow! Pow!

Me: "Thank you, again."

WHY I gave him my phone number is beyond me but I think we met for a drink once and he did call a few times. He was a truck driver and his cargo was usually clothing for the Gap or The Limited. He was sweet enough to offer to steal some clothing for me if I gave him my size but I was torn between telling him my size and reporting him to the authorities.

Needless to say, that relationship didn't work out.

I just can't imagine dating someone that much younger now and I don't understand why women do it. I suppose it's the ego boost. We do it because we can. We don't look like our mothers looked when they were our age. I'm trying to picture what I would look like in one of my mother's housecoats and it's not pretty, although the front snaps would make for easy access.

I can't imagine it's the sex, either. Maybe we just think we look younger standing next to some hot young thing. It's probably what Donald Trump and Bruce Willis think.

I thought I might look younger standing next to someone older so I went out with a 50 year old a few weeks ago. He was very nice, very articulate and very polite. Throughout the course of the night, he alluded to how great it would be to have someone to go to church and/or Bible study with.

Now if you've read at least three of my posts, you've probably figured out that I'm not the girl for him and I told him so. He brushed it off and asked me if I would like to out again. Sure, I say, let's do this again as he kissed me on the cheek.

I almost wanted to take his hands and put them on my boobs. Lively banter, gentlemanly behavior...what kind of dating twilight zone was I in?

A few days later, I got an email from him asking me if I wanted to be friends, what kind of friend I wanted to be, etc. He was completely analyzing something that didn't even exist yet. Um...next. But we saw that coming.

Now don't get me wrong. I haven't lost sight of the fact that I am the common denominator in all of these encounters.

Maybe I'm too picky.

Maybe I'm too set in my ways.

Maybe I have unrealistically high standards.

Maybe it is me.

Ummm....maybe not.

Do black patent leather shoes reflect up?

"I hate patent leather," my sister stated as we walked back to our respective offices after lunch. We work in the same hospital and have lunch together most days.

"I love patent leather. I'm wearing a new pair today." I replied as I glanced down at my shiny black shoes.

"I know. I hate it. I mean, it's okay on you. But I hate it."



I've always loved patent leather ever since my mother bought me a pair for my second birthday. Okay, obviously I don't remember that long ago but I'm trying to drive the point that I've liked patent for a long time.

I've never really been one of those "shoe people" you hear about. I don't go crazy for shoe sales and I can pass by a shoe store with nary a glance. I have about 8 pairs of shoes and I don't buy a new pair until my old ones wear out.

I had a pair of patent shoes that I wore until they were so stretched out that I kept walking out of them. I realized I had to replace them when I was running to catch the shuttle bus from the parking garage at work and tumbled down the steps in front of the stopped bus because I had slipped out of one of my shoes.

I quickly shot back up, put my shoe back on and boarded the bus, thanking everyone for stopping for me. I casually sat down so as not to draw any more attention to myself and bit the inside of my cheek to circumvent the excrutiating pain in my ankle.

Maybe I just twisted it, I thought to myself as I made the trek to my office on the opposite side of the campus. It was no use, by the time I got there, my foot and ankle were already starting to swell so I limped back to the opposite side of the campus to have it checked out.

The nurse was very pleasant and pointed out that "fancy shoes" really had no place on the campus since there was so much construction going on. I glanced down at her sensible nun shoes and nodded in agreement that I would certainly take that into consideration in the future.

"We need to be sure you didn't fracture anything so let's send you for an x-ray."

"Okay, no problem," I started to head for the door and asked the nurse for directions to radiology.

"Oh, no. We need to call transport and have them take you there in a wheelchair."

Geez. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had already wasted an hour waiting for the nurse. Now I would have to wait for transport and then make the journey as "patient" through my place of employment.

Luckily, the wait wasn't long and "Dave" knew of all the shortcuts I never would have taken. As we headed down one long hallway, we passed by a woman walking slowly, head down, wearing a black hooded coat. She was singing.

"Nobody knowwwss the trouble I've seen..."

I wanted to yell out, "Amen, Sista!" but I restrained myself.

It turned out I had nothing more than a sprain but it was enough to make things tough to get around for a while. Hence...new shoe shopping so this wouldn't happen again.

I walked into the shoe store last week, one of those self serve types, and started weaving in and out of the aisles, waiting for something to catch my fancy.

Then I saw them. A pair of black patent pumps with a 2" heel and (gasp) a sale sign. It was like a beam of light from heaven was shining down on them and they beckoned me to try them on. I felt like Cinderella as my foot slid into my slippers and I knew we were destined to be together. My Prince Charming was a shoe clerk named Juan who gently wrapped them up and bid us adieu.

I actually think my affinity for patent leather shoes started about the time my love for Shirley Temple hit it's peak. Every week after Sunday school, I would eagerly bound for the car knowing that the Sunday matinee would start on TV soon and it was usually a Shirley Temple flick. I had no concept that this ringlet haired, tap dancing, patent leather shoe wearing sweetie was about 45 in 1973 when I was watching her.

My family didn't share my affection for Bright Eyes and would make me take my lunch on a TV tray into my parent's bedroom to watch the movie. They had a large dresser with a mirror on top and the TV sat on the left hand corner of the dresser. I would sing along to "On the Good Ship Lollipop" and watch myself in the mirror, pretending that I was a star, too. Kind of like what I do now with Mariah Carey songs.

I even drank Shirley Temple's when we would make our bi-monthly trip to the Brown Derby for dinner. A Shirley Temple was a non-alcoholic drink made with ginger ale, grenadine syrup and orange juice and it was garnished with a maraschino cherry and an orange slice on the rim of the glass. Such sophistication for a 7 year old! Thanks, Shirley.

So do black patent leather shoes really reflect up? I sure hope so. I can use all the help I can get.

The joy of cable

My soon to be 80 year old father is the perfect gentleman. He holds doors open, helps a lady on with her coat and respectfully comments on a pretty woman. "She's an attractive gal."

He never makes inappropriate comments or alludes to anything remotely sexual. The reason I'm telling you this is to illustrate for you how funny the events of Monday night were.

I had a late meeting so my father offered to pick up my dog, Bernie, and take her to my parents house until I got home. I pulled into their driveway around 7:30 and was greeted at the door by Bernie and my mother. Mom quickly went about doing what she enjoys the most, catering to her family. She had made me a steak dinner and was arranging it on a fancy placemat at the dining room table.

My father is usually in the family room watching CNN or Jeopardy and he'll turn the TV off to come to chat and ask me how my day was. He didn't do that Monday night. I heard the chatterings of a Spanish speaking commercial and I assumed he was flipping channels between the news and Alex Trebek.

One commercial led to another and I peeked my head around the corner to see him leaning back in his recliner.

"Hi. How are ya?"

"Good, Chrissy, how are you?"

"Good." I turned away, puzzled that he had made no attempt to get up.

I sat down in the dining room with my mother.

"Is Dad ok?"

"Oh, yeah", she rolled her eyes, "every night at 7:00, he watches that show."

"What show?" I leaned back in my chair to try to get a glimpse of what he was watching while the din of rolling r's sang from the TV. He still hadn't changed the channel.

"Just wait. You'll see. He's watching those hot mamas.", she leaned in close and whispered.

"Wha??"

By know, the proliferation of commercials had ended and the main feature was once again on the air, a show called "12 Corazones", a dating show on the Spanish channel, Telemundo.

From what I could deduce, since I speak bad French but no Spanish at all, it's a dating show where each contestant is identified by their Zodiac sign. Yeah, I don't get it, either.

By the time I got there, the show was half over, although I'm sure that if I had watched the first half that I wouldn't have been able to tell you what happened anyway. And neither could my father.

"Hey, Dad, whatcha watchin'?"

"Oh, I don't know. Whatever's on."

"Do you understand anything they're saying?"

"Nope"

But he understands how young, hot women in short skirts and low blouses look when they appear to be auditioning for a Charo lookalike contest. I was waiting for one of them to say, "Coochie Coochie Coo!" after they shook their boobies in a contestant's face and starting making out with them.

Hysterical! And more hysterical that my sweet father is so mesmerized by this.

I guess a man is a man is a man.

And women still get jealous. My mother joked and kidded all through dinner about how funny it is that he watches it every night. But once he got up to come and join us and forgot to turn the last 5 minutes of the TV show off...

"Aren't you going to turn that damn thing off?"

"I was going to watch the end."

"What do you need to watch the end for? Girl swallows man's tongue. The end!"

Dad turned the TV off and I just shook my head and chuckled.

Hi, I'm Chrissy. Can I help you?

I don't need to turn on the news to know that we're in a recession. All I have to do is open my checkbook. My personal recession started in 2006, 2 months after I purchased my first home, when I was "downsized" from a job I had been in for only a year. I had been lucky enough to land that job after losing one just one year before when they closed our local branch.

Yep, lost two jobs, two years in a row. I was out of work for almost 7 months when I finally found a job, however it paid about $8,000 less than my prior job. Needless to say, it's been a tough few years trying to dig myself out of a hole.

I've been trying to find a part time job to supplement my income but the only time that I have available to work is the weekends so there aren't many options other than retail. I've perused the local help wanted ads but they're pretty slim so I've started checking out storefronts for "Help Wanted" signs.

On my way to the bank the other day, I noticed two signs, one at McDonald's and one at a small boutique that advertises itself as a "store for lovers". Yes, that's right, they sell adult novelty items. Lingerie, sex toys, games, penis chocolates and nipple tassles. Whatever you might be looking for to spice up your love life. Or keep you in practice if you're flying solo.

At the holidays, they feature a "real couple" in some level of undress on billboards all around town. I'm sorry, I know my average looking neighbors are having sex but I don't want to see them half naked hovering over the freeway. Let's keep the fantasy alive with Barbie and Ken.

I remember when the store first opened about 20 years ago, it was relegated to the back row of a shopping strip and had a seedy looking storefront with metal grids that displayed bras and panties intertwined with feather boas as accents. At the time, they had live models walking around the store who would try on anything you asked them to.

The store wasn't downtown, as you might expect, but in a quiet suburb called Mayfield, the same name as the city that "Beav" from Leave it to Beaver lived in, only this store catered to a different kind of beaver.

I've always considered myself to be pretty open about my sexuality and it's probably because I spent most of my younger years being so repressed. I had to make up for lost time. Thank you, Mother.

Speaking of beavers...about 10 years ago, I hear about this hot new thing called the "Eager Beaver" and I bought one for all of my friends. One broke it from over use, one never took it out of the packaging and one lost it to her golden retriever who thought it was a new toy. I swear. It was the funniest thing.

But that was a long time ago. I sat in the parking wondering if I could really work in a store like that today without giggling each time a customer walked in.

I was in there a few years ago and I was approached by one of their "romance consultants". She happened to stop me as I was passing through the vibrator section. I said, I was passing through....

Anyway, she grabbed one of them off the wall and started showing it to me. The back of the packaging was cut out so you could actually feel it. "Go ahead, touch it", she said as she thrust it toward me. Okay, maybe thrust isn't the right word to use but she held it out and I touched it with my fingers. "Oh my...rubbery..." I'm not sure what response she was looking for but I don't think she was amused by me.

No, I chuckled to myself as I thought back to that day. This is not the job for me right now.

Maybe I should just practice saying, "Would you like fries with that?"

Rock a Bye Me

I love to sleep. In fact, I don’t even know if love is a strong enough word for the amount of pleasure that I derive from closing my eyes and drifting off. When I was in my 30's, I used to wake in the middle of the night when there was a loud sound on the street or even if an apartment neighbor’s TV was too loud. Now I sleep like a rock and nothing short of cymbals being crashed together over my head can wake me from my slumber.

I’ve never had trouble falling asleep, either. I’m always saddened for the people who have to take sleep aids like Ambien, although I have to admit some of the odd effects that some people have experienced make me almost curious enough to give it a try. I read about one woman who baked cakes in the middle of the night and couldn’t even remember doing so the next morning. What a fabulous side job that would be! And think of the tax write offs.

The only problem I have is trying to fall asleep before I’m tired. This makes it especially challenging when I have 7AM meetings the next day. My normal body clock wants to stay up until 3AM so going to sleep early is abnormal for me anyway. I lie there in a sensory overload, hearing every car on the street and every breath my dog takes as she lies in her bed on the floor next to mine.

My advanced age has also made me develop an appreciation for a wonderful little thing called "a nap". Wow. I can't believe I avoided these for so many years. I remember a woman I used to work with who would go into our conference room on her lunch hour and take a nap. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever heard of. Now, how I long for a conference room nappy in the middle of a stressful day.

I had relatives in from out of town this weekend and they just left a few hours ago. It's exhausting to be charming and the minute they left, I laid on the couch for a second to "rest my eyes", as my father used to say, and I woke up two hours later.

The only downfall to taking a nap so late in the day is that I'll probably be up all night long now because I'm tired but I'm awake. I feel like this little guy:

Do I smell testosterone?

Apparently I live in one of the Top 20 Manliest Cities in America. The cities were rated based on the number of major league sports teams, popularity of tools and hardware and frequency of monster truck rallies. What? No NASCAR? Those results must be tainted.

The study was commissioned as part of a promotion for Combos. I can't think of a more manly snack than a pretzel filled with Cheez Wiz.

Wiz. That's a funny word.

My curiosity was piqued so I went to the Combos website to see if they had a more in depth analysis of the results. Nope. But they do mention NASCAR since Combos are the official snack! Do I know my manly men or do I know my manly men?

There's nothing I can appreciate more than a finely crafted ad campaign and I'm one of those people who actually likes to watch the commercials. I'm looking forward to this one because I can't imagine how it will translate to television.

They've coined the phrase "Combivore" and have a section on how to hide your Combos so no one knows you're sneaking them. Hide them in your hat..hide them in your recliner...hide them in your tux. I think if you're wearing a tux to a monster truck rally or a NASCAR race that someone catching you sneaking Combos would be the least of your worries. Can you say ass kick?

My favorite part is the Store Locator section. Really? Do people not know where to find Combos?? Now I'm sure it's all very tongue in cheek but you know there are men out there taking the "Are you a Combivore" quiz and sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for the results. And most of them have responded to my personal ad.

And people wonder why I have issues.

Sing it loud, sing it proud

I watched this show called Funniest Commercials of 2008 and this one was hands down, my favorite. It made me laugh so hard, I cried. Enjoy!

Sweet child not o' mine

Every so often, stories appear in the news about puppies being nursed by a cat after their mother dies tragically....



Or an abandoned baby squirrel is taken in by a loving dog as one of her own....



I love these stories.

They are the true embodiment of the wonder of God in all His glory.


But I'm sorry, this story creeps me out on so many levels:

"Salma Hayek Nurses Another Woman’s Baby"

10 More things you never wanted to know about me

1. I have freckles
2. White cake is my favorite
3. I've never been camping
4. I'm afraid of spiders
5. I hate the opera
6. My favorite movie is Miracle on 34th Street
7. I love black licorice
8. I like to whistle
9. I love carnivals-bring on the elephant ears!
10. I still have my tonsils