"Just Because You Can, Doesn't Mean You Should"

A physician shared some very prudent advice when he said
"JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN, DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD."
At the time he was referring to his son's future in-laws who had managed to produce nearly one child per year during the vast majority of their reproductive life cycles.

Although Dr.J stole the saying from "Jurassic Park" its' utility spreads well beyond creating prehistoric carnivorous creatures or family planning for that matter. Many should consider employing this counsel before buying t-shirts emblazoned with "My Mommy's a hottie", hitting the nude beach (sans sunscreen no less), affixing a gold lightning bolt to a front tooth or pursuing competitive hot dog eating as a career path.

The embodiment of snubbing the "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should" guideline is Joyce Mckinney, a North Carolina woman I read about recently on the web. Apparently this former Miss Wyoming (there's your first clue) recently paid over $50,000 to have her pit bull,Booger,cloned not once but four times in South Korea. Apparently she felt the world would be significantly enriched with more Boogers barking, biting and marking their territory.

Sadly the canine cloning isn't the most newsworthy part of the story. Not surprisingly Miss Congeniality has a long history of dubious behavior. It began in 1977 when she allegedly abducted a Mormon missionary in Surrey, England. When he failed to reciprocate her affections she handcuffed him (mink linked I understand) to make him her love slave (That's one way to get a date to the prom). Fearing punishment, Joyce jumped bail and escaped back to the U.S. where she'd been living incognito until recently.

Feeling the financial pinch from the doggie duplicates Miss McKinney again resorted to a life of crime. As opposed to a home equity line of credit or pawning a puppy, she coerced a 15 year old boy to burglarize a home for cash to purchase a prosthetic for her 3 legged horse. At least she'll always have an advocate in PETA if they're willing to overlook the brazen use of mink fur.

Joyce's dream began circling the drain when fame fogged her judgment and she paraded Boogers two through six all over the international media. Despite a very concerted effort at letting herself go, many people, including the British authorities began to recognize this crackpot 30 years later. This quirky cloud has a silver lining however since Joyce has been touting herself as a budding filmmaker. So, when she gets out of the pokey I'm thinking autobiography for her first project. But remember Joyce "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

Thanks to dailymail.co.uk for the "before" picture of Joyce.

Was That My Out Loud Voice?

Nerves do funny things to people. Some giggle, some sweat, some blush. Other nervous Nellies are beleaguered with nail biting, stuttering or are lucky enough to escape with hives. Me? I turn in to the blooper audition from "Last Comic Standing." Honestly, I want to stop (well, most of the time) and I have tried, but with limited success.

I used to think the lack of social interaction affiliated with motherhood caused my mouth to stream perpetual one-liners, but according to friends and family this is not an exclusively post-partum phenomenon. Admittedly even as a small child I had sarcastic comments and other socially marginal observations rattling around in my twisted head. But my recent inability to keep from saying them in my "out loud" voice is starting to take its' toll.

Surprisingly I've never been fired, expelled, divorced or physically removed from a restaurant, movie theatre or other public venue based on my verbal diarrhea. But I am the one who looked at my husband and whispered in a not so quiet voice "I see dead people" when a woman speaking in church sounded hauntingly like Haley Joel Osment in "The Sixth Sense." And, when strangers persistently inquire if my boy/girl twins are identical, I frequently reply "Just until you pull their pants down."

The latest verbal eruption occurred at a bridal shower at my home. I was in fine form that afternoon and had it been the traditional mix of attendees I would have simply been dismissed as the kooky cousin or even better, politely ignored. But the guest list for this little soiree included no less than four women sporting PhD's in psychology and I rose to the occasion by performing at a near manic level. Like most addicts, my recollection of events is hazy at best. But I do vaguely recall saying a neck brace is a hard look to pull off, even in a strapless wedding gown, when the bride discussed a post grad skydiving excursion. Unfortunately that was probably one of the more sedate remarks I spewed during my sorbet and Costco cookie induced tirade.

Based on my errant behavior I'm fairly certain all four shrinks were psychoanalyzing me in the car on their way home. I figure the best case scenario is they've pinned me with low self esteem and an unhealthy need to be the center of attention. Worst case ranges from Tourette's Syndrome to some sort of destructive personality disorder requiring shock therapy and pills whose side effects make shingles look like a spa treatment. On the upside, the food was terrific and I'll probably get a comprehensive diagnosis at the wedding in a few days. That is if I'm still invited.

Look Ma, No Hands!

Since Gilligan and Mary Ann graduated from big wheels to training wheels, keeping up with them in my beaded flip flops proves out of the question. So, I hopped on my new mountain bike (used Specialized Hardrock for those of you keeping score) and tried to pull the old "Look Ma, no hands" trick while straightening my $12 sunglasses. Within milliseconds the handlebars spun around like the possessed girl's head from "The Exorcist."

Cursing the bitter divorcee that sold me the whirling death trap, I blamed equipment malfunction and did the obvious assessments: tire pressure OK, handlebars tightened, field sobriety, check. I gave it another go only after scanning the newly constructed road for railroad spikes, discarded hubcaps and rabid livestock. Horrified, I cleared the original time trial by just a hair. Only after the third rib splitting attempt did I reluctantly admit it might not be the bike.

As a kid I rode hands free for miles, turned corners and cleared the driveway lip while juggling my vat of Mountain Dew flavored Slurpee and a tin of shredded beef jerky. WHAT HAPPENED? Did I spend too much time peering into the microwave or sniff my brother's model glue one time too many? I'd like to blame it on birthing a litter of babies, but truthfully I had a c section and snapped back pretty well after that one despite a teeny encounter with congestive heart failure. And, many friends who've never been pregnant (male and female) have experienced the same cool sapping phenomenon.

Forget the Avian Flu this coordination destroying plague is reaching pandemic proportions. While admiring a family member's award winning road rash, she feebly explained "pogo stick mishap." One friend sideswiped the gas pump twice while nursing her diet coke. Fortunately, it was a company car, two separate gas stations, and she failed to escape since the pump was still firmly tethered to her SUV both times.

Still another pal broke her collarbone running to 1st base during a corporate softball game and later busted her wrist while busting a move to MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" on the President's Club trip. (Yes, she got the promotion but it was contingent upon her promise to forego company athletic events).

Now before you go blaming gender don't forget the 30 something Dad who insisted on test driving his son's new motorized scooter Christmas morning. He made it 5 houses wearing his new sheepskin lined moccasin slippers before laying that bad boy down to the horror of the entire pajama clad neighborhood. He chose a red and green cast.

Advancing age (I'm pushing 40) and lousy genetics are my likely perpetrators considering one brother managed 5 broken arms before he was twelve and another one pureed his hand hang gliding. If a tainted family tree really is the culprit it's not looking too promising for my kids. Not too long ago both of their Grandmas fell into their respective window wells within a few days of each other. One was hauling a roll of carpet and the other one, well it doesn't really matter now does it?