velveetaFor a late-night gathering tonight, I’ll be making (among other things) this seemingly vile but confoundingly delicious hot dip, which consists of a block of gummy processed cheese food pasteurized prepared cheese product microwaved in a pool of jarred salsa, served with tortilla chips.

I know, I know! But it’s surprisingly tasty, though my brain protests up until the moment I start shoveling it into my mouth. My mouth is the boss.

I looked up the recipe not to refresh my memory, but to show a friend, and in doing so, I noticed that Kraft Foods graciously accommodates the appetites of health-conscious readers:

Healthy Living
Save 20 calories and 2.5 g of fat per serving by preparing with VELVEETA Made With 2% Milk Reduced Fat Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product.

Dear Velveeta,
This word “healthy”? I think you’re using it wrong.

Thanks for the pasteurized prepared cheese product; it’s awesome.



This is my fourth day with a sore throat and my second with a touch of laryngitis. Today, I realized that one of the gourmet lollipops The Fella brought home last weekend might be just the thing. I select “Blueberry” and pop in in my mouth.
So I’m sitting here checking my email, and noodling around online, and puzzling away at the lollipop’s flavor, which has, yes, a pronounced initial hit of shelf-stable blueberry, but a subtler undertone of something. As I idly lick at the pop, the something else becomes more pronounced, and more pronounced, until I can’t taste blueberry “Blueberry” at all, just the something else. Something familiar.
And I’m so busy wondering what the heck it tastes like that I keep the pop in my mouth, until suddenly my hindbrain chirps out the horrifying answer: “Fratboy body spray!”
Excuse me while I freshen my tea, won’t you?


I’ve been trying a few products and treatments that promise to restore luster and shine to my prematurely gray hair. Most recently, I tried a product I assumed was long extinct, an artifact of the 1970s. But no: you can still pick up a tube of Alberto V05 Conditioning Hairdressing in a drugstore for a few dollars.

So I did, and that night while The Fella and I sat side by side watching a movie, I tried it out. Piercing the tube’s seal, I squeezed onto my fingertip a tiny dab of what appeared to be industrial motor lubricant: thick, oily, grayish-green. I sniffed and recoiled.

“Whew! This smells like old!

The Fella leaned in, sniffed, and nodded. “Yup.”

“This smells like old dude!” I bit my lip. “The reviews said the smell would dissipate quickly.”

A beat.

“I’m trying it.” I spread the dab of goo over my palms and glossed it onto my hair.

Then we waited. Waited. Waited for the smell to diminish.

And in the meantime we talked. Talked about the smell. Among the things we decided it smelled like:
– old dude. Though I’d remarked upon it immediately, we thought it deserved a strong seconding.
– old dude barbershop: a barbershop for old dudes, full of customers.
– the nurse’s office.
– comb sanitizer.
– cheap band-aids from the hospital.
– a clean wrestler.
– old dude, a third time.
– Great-Uncle B., minus the whiskey.