This morning Mr. H shellacked my quaint old Carrie Bradshaw PowerBook with a slick coating of Panther.
“They’re going to run out of cat names soon, huh?” I said. “Jaguar, Panther, what else is ferocious? Puma?”
“Um…Tiger?” said Mr. H. “They already used Puma. I think the next one’s going to be Tiger. And then they could do…what’s that one that’s like a mountain lion but out west?”
Cougar-Mellencamp, dear. I guess there’s always Cheetah and Lion. I would hate to think Apple would have to stoop to something like Tabby or Ocelot.
I hope they go with a solid regimen of dog names for the next incarnation. Dingo, Hyena, Chihuahua, Melvin, Goblin. Or dinosaurs. I’m always partial to the velociraptor.
Then I logged into iChat and found that my usual icon was magically replaced with a pink lipstick smooch on a white background. They did it for me, all for me! How did they know? So I went to the Lisa Frank site for old times’ sake. Yup, still scary.
But even the dastardly Ms. Frank could not have orchestrated the wedding I went to yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I like the happy couple. But I would have fired the DJ on the spot. The guests were each forced to take out a dollar, hand it to their “table captain,” and pass the wad around the table to music. Then the lucky soul left holding it was impelled to dance around the table, passing it to the person in front of them when the music stopped. Finally, the ordeal ended, and the “captain” was awarded the centerpiece (which involved a pumpkin), and all the captains descended en masse to the head table to shove the dollar bills down the bride’s top.