I played in the 2010 World Series of Poker, Ladies No-Limit Hold'em Championship, this weekend, finishing somewhere between 525th and 550th place of 1,054 entrants. (When you finish as early as I did, they don't bother to write down your name). Compared to my WSOP debut in 2008, I have definitely improved my game, while managing to achieve some personal benchmarks:

1) I made it past the first break and waded further into the field. I survived about 4.5 hours, just shy of the third break of the afternoon and finished roughly mid-pack after finishing in the bottom 25% in 2008.

2) When the 2005 Ladies Champion, actress Jennifer Tilly, sat down to my left, I didn't throw up (though I did manage to do that later on in the evening). I outlasted her and got the best of her in one pot - so I know I can hold my own against really good players.

3) I learned that I can survive significant runs of bad cards and major hits to my chip stack and fight my way back into contention - rather than circle the toilet of despair (which happened later that evening).

4) I now know that if you're a guy and decide to enter the ladies-only event at the World Series because you think it'll be easy, you will be mocked and ridiculed so brutally, you might as well check your wedding tackle at the door since you won't be needing it when the girls are done with you.

5) I learned that if a blind squirrel plays poker for 16 hours over the course of 3 days, eventually she might stumble onto the nuts and take home a tidy $819 for fourth place in another tournament.

6) I discovered that if this whole poker thing doesn't work out for me, my husband has a future as a competitive eater.

My WSOP weekend started on Friday at 6:45 AM when Pat dropped me off at the airport. My cousin Ross flew in from Baton Rouge to serve as my "walking horse" for the day. Attention seasoned cougars and nubile young ladies: Ross is 27 years old, hard-working, thoughtful, gainfully employed, creative and funny. He lays on some of the driest humor this side of Bob Newhart.

Ross also makes good decisions when my brains self-destruct: Let's get you registered for the tournament, see where your table is and THEN check our bags. Let's check out that buffet, instead of the cafe, Stacy. Let's pre-pay the 15% gratuity instead of 20% for the buffet, since we don't have a choice to make our decision AFTER our meal. You read that right: At the Rio All-Suites Resort in Fabulous Las Vegas, you get to choose how good your service for the buffet will be BEFORE YOU ARE SEATED... and then you have to ask yourself: Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?

Unfortunately Ross couldn't sit at the poker table with me, because it's the LADIES Championship - as 7 unfortunate non-ladies discovered. Commemorating the 30th anniversary of her first WSOP win, Linda Johnson - the "First Lady of Poker" - gave the call to "Shuffle Up and Deal." She recalled how women initially got to play in the basement of the casino for that first event, and looking out over 1,046 women, 7 men and 1 transgender player, Johnson's voice cracked as she spoke about how women have become a force in the game - both in "mixed events" and in their own.

As one who is routinely the only chick at the table, it was really fun to play with so many women - both in the WSOP championship and afterward in other open tournaments, where those who'd washed out ended up. Controversy bubbles within the poker community about what it means to have a "women only" tournament - and I actually debated with Annie Duke about it last year at the WSOP Academy poker school.

In athletic events, men and women do not compete against one another because it has been scientifically proven that men have greater physical capacities than women, resulting in an uneven playing field. Survey the field of any tournament and you'll learn pretty quickly that poker is NOT a game of physical conditioning, but it IS a test of mental acuity. So if you have a women-only event, the argument is that you are insulting the intelligence of half the population.

The distaff side of the argument is that the Ladies Event has been a tradition for 30 years and that its single-sex format is less intimidating and brings more women into the game - almost like a developmental event. Having sat at many a table populated by leering, chauvinist jackasses, I understand this perspective. Frankly, I don't give a damn if a guy is a jerk - his money spends the same when I win it. Then again, I'm comfortable in male-dominated environments (sportswriting, locker rooms, etc), whereas other women may prefer a "friendlier" atmosphere, especially when they walk through the doors at the World Series of Poker (and manage not to throw up). I don't care who you are or what event you're playing - being at the World Series of Poker is intense and intimidating in its own right, and that's before you sit down to your table.

They changed the design of the women's championship bracelet this year, with pink diamonds and what not, so it doesn't look exactly like a standard WSOP champion's bracelet. I hope this might alleviate some of the controversy - satisfying those who say a women's event "doesn't count" (or shouldn't) while acknowledging the efforts of the women who get up the nerve to pony up $1,000 and play. (They did bring the bracelet to our table because the 2005 Ladies Champion, actress Jennifer Tilly, was seated with us, so I got to hold the bracelet [above] - which is about 500 places closer to it than I would have gotten otherwise).

With $1,000 in my pocket, I had six WSOP events from which I could choose. I decided to play the women's event in part because of timing and also because I felt that the pace of the game would be more manageable. The $1,000 events tend to draw a lot of all-in kamikazes who want to build up a big stack early and coast to the money. I simply prefer playing cards over flipping coins.

That said, the competition was brutal, the camaraderie delightful, and the rail stacked three-deep with cheering husbands, boyfriends, lovers, sons, daughters and friends - more fans than any event I've seen except the Main Event. The women's supporters took great pleasure in eviscerating the few male-players within shouting distance, and literally every time a guy busted out, the hall erupted in hoots. Some of the guys said they entered because they lost a bet or dare or because they thought it would be easy or because they wanted to be the Rosa Parks of the Women's World Series, since the Nevada Gaming Commission can't legally prohibit them from entering. 14th Amendment and all that.

So about that relatively weaker field from the weaker sex: Yeah, at my table, we had the 2005 Ladies Champion, Tilly, who has also cashed in a handful of other WSOP bracelet events. We also had a gal from the Texas panhandle whose father's home-game included the legendary Doyle Brunson and Amarillo Slim. She roared back from having only three chips left to owning about a quarter of the chips at our table.

Here's Jennifer Tilly with the gal who felted her - Dawn Nobles, a Realtor from Canada:

So my tournament ended when my Ace-Queen offsuit fell to pocket-Kings, as it should have. I had splashed around all day, surviving one all-in attempt already and never getting the cards to make a run. I was low on chips and needed to make a move with only about 10 big blinds left - in that instance, AQ is a shoving hand. Unfortunately my competitor (who had about 4 times the chips I did) felt she needed to agonize for about a minute over what should have been an insta-call. Really?

That left a bad taste in my mouth - but that's OK because it was quickly overtaken by the acrid flavor of vomit.

Yeah, I should have expected that: The overwhelming build-up of adrenaline, nerves and stress hormones, combined with a very rich dinner of salmon with creamy sauce and mashed potatoes, and shaken with celebratory cocktails via Pat and Ross, resulted in my being curled around the toilet with stomach cramps and vomiting at 2 in the morning.... We can call it bad fish. We can call it bad decisions. All I know is, I felt bad. Real bad.

Once I finally emptied the contents of my stomach, I felt tons better and went on to play again at the Rio in their DeepStack Tournament on Saturday afternoon at 1 PM. I figured as two adult male homo sapiens, Pat and Ross could find some way to entertain themselves in Las Vegas without me. I, meanwhile, had a ball playing next to Mike, the Canadian, and mocking the mouth-breathing Jersey Shore diva who... took... this... long... to... make... a... decision... to... check... her... big... blind...

Six hours later, I busted out after Mike's bigger two pair decimated my two pair. It was then that Pat and I decided to leave early, taking the last flight out Sunday so we could see our friends Penny and Dave, whose trip overlapped with our own.

We put Ross on a plane Sunday morning and then set about to find ways to kill time while waiting for Penny and Dave to arrive. We visited Aria at City Center - the newest big development on the Strip. Lo and behold, Aria had a 1 PM poker tournament. An adult homo sapien male, Pat said he'd figure out way to entertain himself while I played... and that involved competitive eating.

At the SkyBox Sports Grill at Aria, they have the fabled Firecracker Burger, featuring the Indian Bhut Jolokia pepper, which the 2007 Guinness Book of World Records named to be the HOTTEST PEPPER IN THE WORLD at over 1 million scoville units. There are rules for ordering this burger:

1) No refunds.
2) No alterations to the burger preparation.
3) Don't touch your eyes while eating or thereafter.
4) Wash your hands before and after you potty.
5) Are you sure you want to eat this?
6) Would you please sign this waiver?

If you finish the whole thing, they will buy you a beer.

Pat ate the whole thing. All 8 ounces of it... in one epic sitting... a half-pound of flaming goodness. I stopped in to check in on him during my break and learned of his heroics from the waitstaff. Apparently several servers had paused to witness his gastronomic odyssey. They may have even taken wagers on him in the adjacent sports and race book. When I went back to my table, the dealer shook his head in awe of Pat's accomplishment saying, "He ate it? The Firecracker? The whole thing? I've seen two grown men reduced to tears trying to finish that thing in the past week. He's insane."

"It was warm," said Pat. I half-expected someone to bring him a prize-fighter's belt or at least a tall glass of milk and some Pepto... but the Aria had other plans for us. With a renewed fire in his belly, Pat proceeded to hit a $500 jackpot on a slot machine, and I took my seat at the final table as the clock passed 7 PM. Penny and David had arrived hours ago, so Pat made the executive decision to change our flights back to Monday morning... and he booked a suite at the Aria.

A sweet suite with a deluxe tout de suite toilet / bidet:

I finished the tournament in fourth place - good for $819 - and a very happy ending to my World Series adventures... and we availed ourselves to the suite - but this time, it was not I who punished the plumbing. I'll spare you the details - just know that Pat has a future on Man vs. Food.

CAMP PENDLETON, Ca. -- Team Limoncello completed the World Famous Marine Corps Mud Run in 1 hour, 56 minutes, 9 seconds on Saturday.

Comprised of Team Captain Stacy "Toes" Bertinelli, Team Athletic Gear Aficionado Jason "I Lost 90 Pounds" Robert, Team Wine Connoisseur Lisa "Mud Bath" Dinsmore, Team Cheerleader Dave "DAVE!" Dinsmore, Team Celebrity Trainer Christopher "I Can't Believe I Made It!" Ross Lane and Team Last-Minute Substitute Juri "My Feet Don't Touch the Bottom in this River" Yamashita, our intrepid harriers finished the Mixed Team division in a hangover-free 176th place of 268 teams.

Or in the words of Team Sherpa / Photographer Patrick "Disabled List" Bertinelli: "Man, y'all suck."

Even though it was the fastest mixed-drink team in its age group, Team Limoncello's less-than-triumphant finish has posed some interesting questions for scientific inquiry into the limits of human endurance...

For each race, the team training table, consisting of coffee-can-sized burritos from Colima's in Oceanside, has held constant.

Clearly, we can see a trend - or at the very least, a physiological paradox - emerging. Hypotheses are many:

1) The Marine Corps timing mechanism must be off.
2) As Stacy approaches 40, the space-time continuum is slowing down and dragging all of her compatriots with her.
3) The more we drink, the better we finish - ergo, alcohol should the energy drink of choice for the elite athlete.

There is, however, one variable that has not yet been explored: Team Sherpa Patrick Bertinelli anchored Team Limoncello in its 2007 and 2008 campaigns (as opposed to his wife who just functions as an anchor around the collective Limoncello ankle). Sadly, due to a severe calf strain, Patrick Bertinelli was forced onto the disabled list, resulting in Yamashita's call up from Triple-A Tempe.

Could it be that Patrick Bertinelli is the key to Team Limoncello success? Unfortunately, we may never find out because he has embraced his role of Team Sherpa so thoroughly. As Team Camp Director Wanda Robert minded our Mobile Headquarters back at the race registration area, Patrick Bertinelli sherpa'd his camera around, finding all sorts of behind-the-scenes images to capture. Here is an example of his artistry, entitled Muddy Butts No. 4.

You can see more of his artistic explorations in our official Team Limoncello 2010 slideshow. There, you can also see vivid demonstrations of the hip, new move all the young people will be doing next year - we call it THE DAVE - it's basically the non-douchey version of the Jersey fist pump and it's used for acknowledgment (I'm still here! Not dead yet!) or exciting celebrations (crossing the finish line).

Suffice it to say, Team Limoncello will both be acknowledging and celebrating Mud Run 2011. If you want to join us (and test out our training hypotheses for yourself), registration opens (and closes) on January 1, 2011. See you there!

If you listen to the wailing on both sides, you would think that SB1070 was written by a blood-thirsty lynch mob of cross-burning Klansmen chasing after a meth-fueled gang of gun-running, home-invading felons. As with anything extruded by the legislative process, the issue is a bit more complex.

So as a former Louisiana voter, a retired "journalist" and a registered lobbyist with the state of Arizona, here's my take on Arizona's "tough stance on immigration reform" or SB on SB 1070, if you will.

So for your reading pleasure, I give you SB1070 and its companion bill, House Bill 2162 - now with 20% less racial profiling!

The first thing you should notice is that the companion bill, HB2162, was added about a week after Governor Jan Brewer signed SB1070 into law. The reason for this trailer (and for much of my dismay) is simple: SB1070 is not a well-written law.

SB1070 basically mirrors federal law in its language of enforcement, but in scope, it's a trainwreck of legislation gone bad.

Originally, SB1070 said that any lawful CONTACT in which an officer has reasonable suspicion to believe you are in the country illegally requires that officer to check your immigration status, or as the kids say, "ask for your papers." As it was written, I could be walking my dogs down the street, and if Officer Friendly waved at us (i.e. made contact), we could be stopped. HB2162 clarified that an immigration status report must occur only within the confines of "ANY LAWFUL STOP, DETENTION OR ARREST."

So, contrary to what civil rights activist Shakira, Middle East peace negotiator Linda Ronstadt, legendary anti-Semite Al Sharpton and former-Mel Gibson-sidekick-turned-defender-of-the-poor Danny Glover may tell you, as SB1070 is now written, you have to be doing something ILLEGAL (besides just being here ILLEGALLY) in order to be asked for your immigration papers. In this regard, it's a lot like a seat belt violation: The cops can't pull you over because they suspect you're not wearing a seat belt (at least they can't in my state) - but they can ticket you for a seat belt violation when they pull you over for speeding... or reckless driving... or a busted tail light.

This is not to say we couldn't have a racist Policewoman of Maricopa County going rogue on "lawful stops, detentions or arrests" ... which is why HB2612 had more work to do...

Initially the law said police "may not SOLELY consider race, color or national origin in implementing (the law) except to the extent permitted by the United States or Arizona constitution" ... which raised the question, "If we can't use race or color SOLELY, can we try the daily double? Or do we get more points with the trifecta?" Recognizing that our law enforcement officers would be violating people's civil rights as written, HB2162 struck the word "SOLELY." Now you can't use race, color or national origin at all, except where the constitution permits. Not that anyone - including Governor Jan Brewer - knows exactly what the constitution permits. As she said, "I don't know what an illegal immigrant looks like."

If the commander-in-chief of our great state of Arizona doesn't know what an illegal immigrant looks like, how can we expect our beat officers to do so?

Fortunately, with SB1070, the buck stops with the cities and counties (who don't have a lot of bucks in the bank to begin with): If an officer starts violating people's civil rights and is slapped with a lawsuit, the county or municipal government is required to defend (indemnify) the officer.

But SB1070 gets worse: To prevent left-leaning cities like Tucson and Phoenix to become dreaded "sanctuary cities" where they don't ask about immigration status during lawful stops or bookings, the law says that any concerned citizen or Tea Party activist can sue a county or municipality if they do not believe the law is being enforced properly.

Re-read that statement and consider this: A majority of citizens in Arizona (and several elected officials outside of Arizona - I'm looking at you Former Governor / Homeland Security Secretary Janet "The Border is Secure" Napolitano) admit they have not read SB1070 and do not understand the devilish details. Yet the law gives them power to sue the cities to ensure proper enforcement?

Due to our state's budget crisis, many of our Arizona cities and towns can't afford to keep municipal services open five days a week, and we're asking them to defend against potentially frivolous, time-consuming and costly lawsuits? With SB1070, our police chiefs and municipalities are basically damned if they do and damned if they don't: If their officers enforce the law too well, aka racial profiling, they get sued. If a concerned (but likely uninformed) citizen doesn't think they are enforcing the law well enough, they get sued. This is not good public policy.

Regardless of your position on immigration, SB1070 is not the solution we needed to the very real problems we face in Arizona - and across this nation - so let's get to those, shall we?

1) VISAs - They're everywhere you want to be, especially in this country.
Of the more than 11 million people that are in this country illegally, roughly half are here on expired visas. Let me rephrase that: WE LET THEM INTO THIS COUNTRY AND LOST TRACK OF THEM ONCE THEY GOT HERE. Read the full story and consider this: According to the 9/11 Commission Report, many of the hijackers were in this country on tourist or student visas, or at the very least they'd applied for them. And we're worried about lettuce-pickers, dish-washers and hotel-room maids? Really?

2) Border Crime - Even in Scottsdale.
You may have heard that Phoenix is the Kidnapping Capital of the United States. Many will argue that this type of behavior is only in certain barrios rife with illegal immigrants. Think again.

We are fortunate to live in one of the toniest ZIP codes in Arizona - others in our neighborhood actually consider our street with its three-bedroom / two-bath tract houses to be "ghetto." I don't take offense because, they're right! We actually had a human-smuggling drop house on our street two years ago. Over the long New Years weekend, we witnessed a blue mini-van shuttling to and from a vacant house. Various people of Latino origin went in and out. Call me a racist, but I defaulted to stereotype and assumed they were a landscaping or housekeeping crew getting the house ready for sale. That is, until the Realtor went to check on the property, unlocked the door and was greeted by 22 bare-footed men running out into the desert and freedom. (According to the Scottsdale Police Department, smugglers will steal the immigrants' shoes to discourage them from running away). Apparently they were locked inside this house with no electricity or running water, waiting to be taken to their next locale, which I'm sure smelled lovely after three days. Scottsdale PD said they see this quite frequently because so few residents in the 85255 ZIP code are around during the holidays - or during the summer. Many of the houses in our neighborhood are second homes and "no one would expect that kind of stuff here in Scottsdale." Plus we have ready access to the freeway.

Human smuggling and drug running are two lucrative rackets that profit heavily from a porous border. I never thought I'd be able to speak to that first hand. I'm not afraid of the bare-footed men trying to make a living for themselves or their families... but the people that brought them to that house scare the hell out of me. Both human smuggling and drug running are generated by demand on this side of the border that make it an economically rational option for people on that side of the border to be our suppliers of cheap lettuce.

The kingpins moving this human cargo across our border can just as easily move drugs, guns or more serious threats to our national security. All it takes is money.

3) It's the Economics, Stupid.
Roughly 20% of all people incarcerated in Maricopa County jails are in this country illegally. The statistics are actually pretty frightening - but we're talking about economics, not border security.

When she was governor of Arizona - just 18 months ago - Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano sent a series of invoices to then-President George W. Bush for the cost of incarcerating illegal immigrants. The last invoice was for $350 million. This year, state treasurer (and GOP gubernatorial candidate) Dean Martin (his real name) sent Secretary Napolitano an invoice for the grand total of $1 billion, including interest. Oddly, he got the same response from her that she got from Bush.

She says the border is now secure. Really? What's changed? Her address, according to my Dad.

And that's just the cost of incarceration. The tab doesn't include emergency medical services and education - including English-as-a-second-language classes for their children who didn't ask to be brought here but are automatic citizens if they are born here.

Let's talk economies of scale for just a moment: According to the Wall Street Journal, after oil, remittances to Mexico from citizens living abroad are that country's second-largest source of hard currency, ahead of tourism and manufacturing. In the first nine months of 2009, Mexican emigrants sent home $16.4 BILLION - a decline of 13% from the year before.

When Mexico president Felipe Calderon criticizes SB1070, keep in mind that his second largest source of foreign revenue BEHIND OIL comes in part from this porous border. To keep those remittances coming, his government published a comic book instructing HIS CITIZENS on how to cross our border safely... but illegally.

What would be the economic impact if more of that money remained within our borders because his people had legal ways to enter this country to work and invest their savings? How would the Mexican economy respond if it were not riddled with corruption and people on that side of the border had access to a good education and a living wage?

4) What part of ILLEGAL don't you understand?
For all of Al Sharpton's breathless marching and Phoenix mayor Phil Gordon's flip-flopping (here... and here) and U.S. Rep. Raul Grijalva's back-stabbing grand-standing, SB1070 sponsor Sen. Russell Pearce (R-Mesa) has a Zen-like response: What part of ILLEGAL don't you understand?

I - and many of my fellow Arizonans - recognize that illegal immigrants are just trying to make their way in the world, and we also have to recognize that almost every aspect of our economy is lubricated by their labor. From the roof over your head (construction) to the food on your table (agriculture), the American economy depends on low-skilled workers to run efficiently and cost-effectively. The majority are hard-working people, and I believe they deserve a chance to do jobs that you and I have no interest in pursuing.

This is not a racial issue: It is a law enforcement issue.

Our federal government - on both sides of the aisle - has fumbled the ball. Ronald Reagan, the patron saint of all conservatives, granted amnesty to an estimated 3 million illegal immigrants back in the 1980s... and then he failed to secure the border. Now we have the same problem, four-fold, and the stakes are higher: If our FEDERAL government can't keep track of the 5.5 million people they allowed into this country through visas, how can they be righteous about the other 5.5 million that are trampling across a fragile desert ecosystem (and absolutely destroying it while endangering their own lives)? If the FEDERAL government isn't willing to secure the border to prevent gun-running, drug-smuggling and human trafficking, how can they keep us safe from a biological or chemical agent that slips across in the dead of night?

The state of Arizona has enough problems, and frankly we are fed up with having to foot the bill for one that is rightfully the responsibility of our federal government. Is SB1070 the best solution? Hell no, but if it nudges the federal government into accepting, enforcing and PAYING FOR its responsibilities, then ultimately, Arizona's "tough new stance on immigration" is a good thing.

********************************************************************************************************

*I picked the felon. In this instance my money is on the felon (or actually, misdemeanor-committer) for the simple, very Republican, reason that economics trumps all motivators. Most people want to improve their lots in life. Hard-working people have flocked to our shores for centuries because our economic and educational system enables most anyone to work hard and better their standard of living for themselves and their children. They will keep coming here without permission until the feds pull their heads out of the sand and figure out a way to make border-crossing a secure, orderly, trackable process.

At 5:30 PM I got the call: "You entered a drawing in January at the movie theater, and we'd like to congratulate you on being a finalist for the Grand Prize. As a finalist, you can choose from five fabulous vacation getaways. Please call to claim your finalist prize and learn more about the upcoming Grand Prize $100,000 drawing."

I called back...

Fuck fuck fuckety fuck.

Now, of course, I was under no obligation to buy, but in order to claim any of the five finalist prizes (cruise to Mexico, Las Vegas weekend, two round-trip tickets on Southwest, San Diego vacation or fabulous ski trip), I'd have to sit through a 90-minute presentation about the cost-effective luxury and ease of owning a time-share, after which I could go into the Grand Prize vault and pull my winning slip... Oh, and I'd have to bring my husband.

Patrick rolled his eyes: "You've got to be fucking kidding me. A time share?"

"Do I have to bring my husband?" I asked.

"Yes, because we want to make sure that all decision-makers are present."

Fuck fuck fuckety fuck. Stupid time shares.

As the day and appointed time crawled near for our exciting "no obligation" catered information session, I realized why I appreciate games of skill (POKER) over games of chance (LOTTERIES) and definitely over shell games (TIME SHARES). We decided we had better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon (upper colonics, bamboo-shoot fingernail insertions, testicular bee swarms) than to listen to spend 90 minutes of a hard-earned Saturday locked-down in a "NO OBLIGATION" discussion about how owning a time-share in Mexico would change my life for the better.

I don't even like Mexico. If I wanted to go to the beach, I'd drive to LA. If I wanted to go to the sweaty interior, I'd go back home to Louisiana. If I wanted to be surrounded by people speaking Spanish... well, I live in Arizona, so I hear my share (and now I'm taking cover so I won't be struck down by a thunder bolt).

And that's when the phone calls started. They left messages on my home and cell phones, hoping we were OK because we'd missed the exciting finalist prize claim / catered information session. All was not lost, we still had a chance to get in on the Grand Prize drawing!

I came back from lunch on Friday to find my cell phone ringing. I knew the number and the drill.

"Hello Stacy, this is Tabitha from Time-Share-Rama. We missed you at the finalist prize claim on Saturday and would like to reschedule so you don't miss out on your opportunity to win the Grand Prize."

"Tabitha, I don't want a time share."

"But Stacy, you're under no obligation to buy - we're merely going to talk to you about the benefits of vacation ownership."

"No, you're not hearing me, Tabitha: I don't like time shares. I don't want to hear about time shares. I don't want to buy a time share. In fact, my favorite episode of South Park is when they talk about how much they hate time shares... so will you please take me off your list?"

She was laughing so hard, I don't think she heard me clearly, but the calls have stopped. Must be my lucky day.

(And feel free to use this line next time you get duped by a time share "contest")

They are not talking about re-engineering the ingredients - MSM (Mechanically Separated Meat aka lips and assholes, snouts and tails), fats (trans, partially hydrogenated, lard) binders (cereals, soy, gluten) and preservatives like sodium nitrite and sodium erythorbate. They are talking about its fundamental essence of hot-dogness.

These are people who should have better things to do with their time and our public discourse, like REASSURE YOU THAT YOUR KID'S RUNNY NOSE IS NOT THE FIRST SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE. Instead, they just want to take all the fun out of food for the rest of us.

"If you were to take the best engineers in the world and try to design the perfect plug for a child's airway, it would be a hot dog," says statement author Gary Smith, (avowed hot-dog hater) and director of the Center for Injury Research and Policy at Nationwide Children's Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. "No parents can watch all of their kids 100% of the time. The best way to protect kids is to design these risks out of existence."

Design these risks out of existence? Are you kidding me? Who do these weenies think they are?

We have enough engineered foods without going after my favorite low-rent meat product. If you really want to tackle a serious societal ill, go after SPAM, and I'm not talking about potted meat. Come to think of it, SPAM too is inherently dangerous: It can be weaponized when hurled at Gary Smith's head! Sadly, projectile SPAM isn't guaranteed to knock some sense into him, and that, my friends, is a design flaw.

Read on... it gets worse, or just stop here and join us for protest hot dogs today at the Roosevelt.

Now I really don't want to make light of death by inefficient hot dog consumption (and I just did), but hot dog deaths don't even rank in the top 10 for accidental deaths for kids - you've got car crashes, poisoning, drowning and choking. Yes, hot dogs are a TINY subset of the larger issue of "choking" deaths. Hot dog events account for roughly 10,000 emergency department visits by children every year - out of the total 6 MILLION ANNUAL EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT VISITS BY CHILDREN FOR UNINTENTIONAL INJURIES (aka accidents).

Let's do the math, shall we? 10,000 / 6 MILLION = 0.167%. Uh, way less than 1 percent.

And these 77 deaths are out of 7 BILLION HOT DOGS CONSUMED BY AMERICANS BETWEEN MEMORIAL DAY AND LABOR DAY (3 months) EACH YEAR and 20 BILLION HOT DOGS CONSUMED BY AMERICANS ANNUALLY, according to the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council. I'm not sure my calculator goes that far, but let's try anyway:

77 / 7,000,000,000 = 0.0000011% (For you engineers out there, that's 1.1 x 10^-8 In scientific notation)
77 / 20,000,000,000 = 0.000000385% (Again, for the engineers, that translates to 3.9 x 10^-9)

Now that we've done the math, let's save some lives and reintroduce common sense into the equation:

Here's a no-cost solution (and maybe a clue) for Gary Smith and those of his helmet-headed ilk: Cut the hot dog in half length-wise, then chop it into pea-sized morsels, then, oh, I don't know, instead of parking that little porker in front of the TV to gorge himself, why don't you HAVE A NICE DINNER WITH YOUR KID and encourage your darling snowflake to have some table manners and chew his food (WITH HIS MOUTH CLOSED) rather than inhale it? Hell, take it a step further and instruct your babysitter on proper hot-dog dissection.

But if you're still worried, put your special angel's hot dog in a blender with a squirt of mustard, ketchup and relish. Hell, throw the whole damn bun in there too, because we all know that they can make bread-balls out of white bread - and we wouldn't want America's Future to asphyxiate on bread-balls, now would we? (They don't have statistics on bread balls - YET! Hey, Gary, can we get some help over here! I've got a math problem for you!)

But wait, I have another cost-saving idea that doesn't involve a complete waste of intelligent human resources and an audacious infringement on my mechanically separated meat-eating fulfillment, DON'T BUY HOT DOGS. Leave them to the adults who know how to eat (and enjoy) them.

What's that you say, you can't control other people's decisions? Your rotten neighbors feed their dirt-eating heathens hot dogs every day and little Sunshine McPrecious might be exposed to the evils of encased meat-product at their condemned dust-mite sanctuary of a home? Here's a another clue: You can't control everything that comes in contact with Baby Sunshine. Risk is an inherent part of living, and its counterpart, failure, is what makes life interesting. It makes us resilient.

All your rounded corners and outlet protectors and bicycle helmets and BABY ON BOARD signs and antibiotic-free milk bottles and chastity bracelets won't do a damn bit of good when Sunshine McPrecious meets Leroy Von Herpsore in a parking lot after the high school football game. She'll be on her own - and you'll have to hope that she'll have learned to think for herself by then. If you think re-engineering the hot dog is going to save her, I hope you start re-investing her college fund in bail bonds... or just get used to the idea of being a 40-year-old grandparent.

If you want to control every outcome for your children, here's another cost-saving clue: DON'T HAVE THEM.

It's not rocket science... and that's essentially the problem: You want to transform a simple parenting problem into a grand engineering problem, which makes it a societal problem for the 299,999,923 Americans that didn't choke on hot dogs last year. Why not just legislate the common sense right out of us? A few people clearly can't think for themselves; a few others have been victims of random, tragic ACCIDENTS and still others probably shouldn't have had children in the first place, and so all of us are punished under the well-meaning but ultimately nefarious guise of "THINK OF THE CHILDREN!"

At what point does personal responsibility come into account?

If you want to put the best minds of our time to the task of THINKING OF THE CHILDREN, I've got two challenges for you that are bigger than a hot dog:

One in seven low-income preschool aged children are obese. This preventable condition - obesity - puts children at greater risk for cardiovascular disease, asthma (hello, airway obstruction), sleep apnea (ditto), Type 2 diabetes, according to the Centers for Disease Control. Why don't you chew on that for a while - oh wait, obesity can't be engineered. It's behavioral and it's hard to change behavior: NO SHIT, ASSHOLES.

Speaking of assholes: If you really wanted to prevent needless childhood deaths, go after Jenny McCarthy and her anti-childhood vaccination campaign. More than 400 children die EVERY DAY worldwide from measles, according to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. In fact, do the world a favor and shove a non-organic, black-box labeled hot dog down her throat and rid us all of her crystal-rubbing, magical-thinking, downright genocidal "vaccines cause autism" bullshit.

Celebrate your freedom to think and live for yourself. Join my husband and me in our new political action committee: CHOKE - Chewing on Hotdog Obstruction in Kids Everywhere. Our inaugural meeting is at the Roosevelt Tavern today where we will order the best hot dog you've ever tasted. I might even buy you a beer to chase it... let's drink them while we still can.

After spending 2009 overdosing on Vitamin B (for Bacon), Team Limoncello decided to kick the new year off right with some good, old-fashioned Vitamin D (sunshine) and Vitamin E (exercise): Bike-N-Hike 2010.

The plan: Depart from the Pat and Stacy World Headquarters (elev 593) at 11 AM - riding our bikes 5 miles straight uphill on Happy Valley to the Pinnacle Peak Trail Head (elev 779 feet). Dismount our bikes, lock them up, change shoes and hike to the summit of Pinnacle Peak (elev 2889 feet). After working up a sweat and a good appetite, we would roll down the road (0.4 miles) to Blu Burger Grill (elev 765) where we would enjoy tasty gourmet burgers and their full bar. Suitably sated, we'd roll back downhill to the Pat and Stacy World Headquarters. (Because we don't like to exert ourselves after we make pigs of ourselves).

As usual, things didn't always turn out as planned - but that didn't mean we didn't have a good time!

Rendezvousing with us at the Pat and Stacy World Headquarters were Jason Robert, Gina Canzonetta and the Balthazor Clan - Team Limoncello official Bike-N-Hike photographer Kelly, her husband Steven and two sons, Drivin' Drew and Can't Quit Kyle. At ages 16 and 11 respectively, Drew and Kyle are our youngest Team Limoncello members - and they more than earned their stripes as we rolled out, eastbound on Happy Valley Road.

Though it's named for the bucolic home of Penn State University, Happy Valley was a bit of a misnomer for the Limoncellites: It was the Unhappy Uphill of Unrelenting Ugliness. Into a slight headwind. Behold, our misery:

The photo doesn't quite do justice to the lung- and leg-burning angst generated by this insidious incline. What you need to know: Drivin' Drew scaled its heights on possibly the hardest gears on his mountain bike. Stomping the pedals halfway up the hill, Drivin' Drew managed to catch Pat and Jason who were locked in their own battle of wills to be "King of the Mountain" ... or at least King of the 180-foot Elevation Change.

Despite having legs about half the length of everyone but Gina, wearing jeans, battling a leaky CamelBak and being in the hardest gears on his bike - for his inaugural voyage on said bike - Can't Quit Kyle ground up the grueling hill, pausing only at Gina's insistence to take a water-break and let his Dad make some mechanical adjustments.

Here we are at the summit of Unhappy Uphill ... gasping for air / gulping water / posing for photos ... glad that we were no longer being bombarded by passing (speeding) cars:

At this point, Kyle was worse for wear and tear, but it didn't take much to motivate him onward ... and further upward: After all, he couldn't let his brother beat him up the mountain. So we rolled out for the penultimate ascent, from Alma School Road to the Pinnacle Peak trailhead - you can see the mountain to the left (the hike portion of the Bike-N-Hike):

Because the Bike-N-Hike isn't exactly a sanctioned event, logistics posed an intellectual challenge to complement our physical exertions. First, we had to lock up the bikes - which involved Team Sherpa / Photographer Kelly loading a big chain and combo-lock into her truck. With that and Jason's fabulous pink bike lock, we saddled our horses and re-shod our hooves in our hiking shoes and set off up the mountain.

At this point, some non-bikers joined the Bike-N-Hike - namely Team Photographer Kelly, Pat's sister Valerie, her boyfriend Tom and his son Dominic. Here Kelly leads her family as they gamely complete the second-half of our adventure:

We battled a crowded mountain of tourists in town for the Fiesta Bowl (TCU vs Boise State) and snowbirds enjoying a day without side-walk shoveling, winter boots or engine-block heaters. We summited at 12:13 PM - just in time to hike back down and roll over to our 12:30 reservations at Blu Burger.

Sadly, after a jaunty roll down the hill, we discovered that Blu Burger really was blue... or rather red, as in "In the Red" - for their doors were padlocked and their windows displayed the telltale notice of bankruptcy that is the bane of commercial real estate throughout Arizona. (It wouldn't be a Team Limoncello Adventure if we didn't have some kind of mishap befall us - GAH!).

Fortunately, the iconic Arizona outdoor eatery - Greasewood Flats - was right around the corner (and up another short, quarter-mile hill. Thus we were able to fortify ourselves with more Vitamin B - as in Bacon Green Chile Cheeseburgers, grilled chicken sandwiches, cold beer, nachos, more cold beer, enough root beer to raze an old-growth forest and Ruffles potato chips - for the long, 5-mile roll home.

Suffice it to say, it took us 49 minutes to ride up the hill and about half that time to roll down it - and the descent was a lot more decent than the ascent. Just ask Can't Quit Kyle and Drivin' Drew.

Now you can add getting a spray-on tan to that list.

Not being one to partake in paid grooming services all that often, I was a little skeptical when the ride operator asked me to put a plastic bag over my head, spread lotion on my palms, disrobe completely, step into the doorless cylindrical booth, press the green button, close my eyes and follow the broadcast instructions.

Fearing the fate of over-tanned orange douchebags everywhere, I closed my eyes – but not too tightly to avoid unfortunate creases – and pressed the green button.

ASSUME POSITION ONE, commanded the tinny recorded voice from above. Palms facing back, elbows out to the side, I tried not to scowl wrinkles into my cheeks as a blast of cool mist rippled past the plastic bag on my head, across my face and down to my toes.

ASSUME POSITION TWO, FACING RIGHT. The pose resembles “Walk like an Egyptian” (The Bangles, Different Light, 1986) – one arm up in front, the other down and back, legs split, facing right.

ASSUME POSITION THREE, FACING LEFT. Same song and dance. Same cold blast of brown wetness.

ASSUME POSITION FOUR. Face the wall, legs spread, arms out. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to look like a leather-skinned personal injury attorney, you have the right to wash this shit off in five days, but first you'll go the next five hours without a shower.

REMAIN IN POSITION FOUR. THE DRYING CYCLE WILL NOW COMMENCE. Except that it’s not the warm blast of air you’re anticipating. It’s cold and it starts at your ankles and moves its way up to the plastic bag over your head.

PLEASE TURN AROUND; ASSUME POSITION ONE TO COMPLETE THE DRYING CYCLE. And I can assure you, this is actually colder.

THANK YOU FOR GETTING YOUR MAGIC TAN. EXIT TO THE LEFT. GRASP BOTH HANDLES TO AVOID SLIPPAGE. PLEASE DRY YOUR FEET UPON EXITING.

According to the ride operator, I am not orange – I’M GOLDEN. Actually I’m sticky and speckled and I smell like teriyaki, which makes me either an orange chicken or a sweet-and-sour porker. I have five hours before I can shower. I’m wearing a pink fuzzy twin-set – and I can feel each fiber affixing to my paint job.

The good news is, when I met a client after work for a drink, she looked at me and says, “Wow! Did you just get back from vacation? You look so refreshed and tan!”

I did not pay her to say that, as I was busy furrowing my eyebrows (and tan lines) in trying to figure out why the tips of my thumbs turned brown when my palms did not (uneven application of prophylactic lotion).

I made it home at the six-hour mark and started up the shower. Ever the observant husband, Pat noted that though I was golden brown like the Colonel's New Recipe Un-fried Chicken, the White Stripes are more than just a rock and roll band: They're also the illusive zones that your spray-on tan can't reach - aka, the creases in your knuckles and your buttcrack.

As the luscious brownness washed down the drain like a good day of muddy mountain biking or two-day old Chinese takeaway, I was wistful that the ride operator did not instruct me on White Stripe prevention because the tan looked pretty authentic except for my neglected natal cleft. Based on personal experience (Bare As You Dare 5K, 1997), I can say with absolute certainty that your buttcrack will burn with prolonged exposure to the sun.

So the prize for this contest is a weekend spa vacation - and fortunately for me (and the Spray-On Tan Industry) - it is not a clothing-optional retreat. Will let you know if I win.

Burning through $3,361 of the house's money in just under two weeks: Priceless.

Guess I gotta get back to work now.

*When I joined the board of Local First, I told our executive director Kimber that I'd give her a 10% stake in all my winnings. Prior to the Ladies State Poker Championship, my contributions amounted to $6 here, $30 there and a whopping $1.20 on one memorable occasion. It was quite a treat to count out $331 at the last board meeting, and one of our new members actually made a motion to send me to Vegas for a fundraiser. The Nays carried.

That would be me doing snow angels on my bed in the $3,361 that I won for finishing seventh at the Fourth Annual Arizona State Ladies Poker Championship on Saturday at Casino Arizona.

I played poker for ten-and-a-half hours on Saturday. Two days removed, I can say with some certitude that my brains still resemble mashed potatoes both in content and consistency.

From a card player's perspective, the Ladies' State Championship was solid. Not mind-numbingly frustrating with suck-outs on out-of-position Jack-2 offsuits. Not witheringly aggressive like the World Series of Poker. Just fundamentally sound No Limit Texas Hold'em, if plodding and deliberate. The gals weren't in it unless they had the cards - which is unfortunate when you make a modest pre-flop raise with pocket-Aces and NO ONE CALLS.

On my final hand, I re-raised all-in from the big blind with Ace-8 of spades. I had only about four big blinds left, and at that point, any Ace warrants a push. I suspected correctly that the initial raiser was making a positional move to take the blinds and antes ($44,000). She turned over a King-4 offsuit... I got all my money in with the best hand! (HOORAY!) ... Then the flop came King-4-9 (AAAIIIEEE!) ... and the turn came a King (GAH!) ... And that, as they say, is why we play the game.

Even so, I take pride in knowing that Annie would not have berated me for busting out when I did. I may not be the best, but I'm happy with seventh-best. Plus I also outlasted a real professional player, Cyndy Violette, who went out in 12th place.

Without a doubt, everything I learned this spring at the World Series of Poker Academy helped me finish where I did - this is not a paid endorsement, unless you interpret winning $3,361 as consideration.

So after all my female friends sign up for the WSOP Academy, I will strongly encourage them to play in the Arizona Ladies State Championship at Casino Arizona next year because 1) the entry fee will be less than this year's $300, and 2) the field will be larger, and of course 3) regardless of how you finish, you will be treated like a QUEEN! Don't believe me? Consider:

- All 250 players received a darling pink baseball cap as a souvenir - you may interpret that as being a $300 baseball cap, but all my $1,500 bought at the World Series was a receipt, a players' club card, a green paper bracelet and a bad case of indigestion.

- After the second potty break, the remaining 160-something players that were wearing their ball caps received $50 cash.

- Potty breaks were 20 minutes long, rather than the standard 12 minutes. If you're a woman, this is reason enough to enter.

- The "First Finisher" - aka the first to bust out - received her $300 entry back!

- The "Bubble Girl" - aka the gal who finished 31st and out of the money - received her money back.

- Dave, the friendly Tournament Director, plied us with free beer and wine coupons all afternoon. In no state to drink after seven hours of play with only a handful of almonds and two Jenny Craig bars on a butterfly stomach, I gave my drink cards to Pat when he showed up to sweat me in. Dave then sprinkled some more love on Pat and the assembled 20 or so spectators watching the final table.

- As we ground through the Top 20 to get to the final table, one of the gals started feeling a little puny (see above butterfly stomach). Because we wouldn't get a break until the final table, the floor man ran to the snack bar and bought all the peanut M&Ms they had, splitting six bags between the two tables. How's that for service?

- After the final table was set, they gave another $100 cash to all us girls wearing our hats. I had to borrow a competitor's cap because I'd exchanged mine for my cowboy hat in a feeble attempt to change my luck earlier in the day! (At the next break, I dutifully retrieved my ballcap from the trunk of my car and wore it proudly - I can follow directions).

So the best part of the day was Pat coming out to cheer me on after I made it into the money. I wasn't sure how long I would last after that (3 hours) - but with 30th to 21st places paying $680, he was excited that I'd be able to buy a new iPhone with my winnings and get my money back (Plus, the free drinks weren't bad either). With 20th to 11th places paying $790, I figured I'd be able to get a new iPhone, a laptop battery replacement and get my money back. From there, our imaginations got a little crazy - especially since the winner took home $20,000 and a trophy and a bracelet. I know, I know: Next year, next year.

Pat and I sent text messages to friends and fellow players from my monthly Girls Home Game, updating them on my progress. I wasn't allowed to have my phone turned on at the table, so at every break, I was greeted by a deluge of "You go girl! We're cheering for you! Keep it up! We're so proud of you!" The girls (and their husbands) played on Saturday night, and I told them to blind me in, even though I hoped to be very late. When I finally arrived, I walked in the door to a standing ovation, and I took a great deal of pleasure in sweetening their pot with a clean crisp $100 bill. Pat has enjoyed my saying, "I'll give you a hundred bucks if you'll fix me a drink."

And yes, I have already spent roughly 85% of the money: What can I say? The patio furniture was on sale! Guess I'll just have to come back next year, especially if I want the matching umbrella and dining set! And yes, next year I'll wear my World Series of Poker Academy patch... AND MY PINK BASEBALL CAP.

I ask because I'm the same person that registered for the wrong physics class at Scottsdale Community College this semester, resulting in my transforming from an Artichoke into a Community College Drop-out in the span of about four days. Did I mention I graduated magma comes loudly my first time out of the chute in the academic rodeo?

Didn't think so - but it's still a good story.

Introduction to Physics and General Physics are held on the same days at the same times in rooms right next door to each other. I found this out when the lecture started on the first day of school. I also found out that General Physics was full.

I contacted the instructor to beg for a coveted forced-entry into his class. Dr. General Physics expressed some concern about the level of math (calculus, trigonometry, discrete self-flagellation) required to master the coursework so I agreed to take a placement exam on Wednesday before class. Did I mention this was Tuesday? Did I mention I made a C in college Calculus 15 years ago? Did I mention that I wouldn't have had to have taken this test if I'd just registered for the correct class in the first place? Again, not the person you want diagnosing your diverticulitis.

Just so you know - there are 5,330,000 hits on Google for "help with Calculus" - none are designed to reboot your brain in less than 24 hours.

So, I got a good night's sleep, ate a well-balanced breakfast, went to work for 8 hours and took my No. 2 pencil and calculator to the testing center. I had 45 minutes to answer 25 questions. The first six were a piece of cake. The rest? Well, that's why God made multiple choice. If I reasoned my way to an answer that was in the ballpark of A, B, C or D, I'd go with that. If I had no clue, I chose C. I made a 77 - good enough for college trigonometry, one point shy of college calculus.

I took my answer page to Dr. General Physics' office to plead my case. He looked over the assessment, furrowed his brow and sighed. "How did you feel about this test? How comfortable were you with the math?"

"Honestly, it was the hardest test I've ever taken," I said, straightening up in my chair and putting on my best salesperson smile. "But I thought Chemistry 116 was hard too and I worked my ass off, went to class every day, got help when I had problems and ground my way to an A - and I'll do the same in your class. Actually I think I did pretty well considering I hadn't cracked open a Calculus book in 15 years."

"You haven't taken Calculus in 15 years?"

"No sir."

"Well, you're in. You can definitely do the math required. It's going to be hard for you, but I think you could pass. Let's go to the registrar's office."

He filled out the paperwork and left me in line. With six people in front of me and five minutes before the bell, I bailed and went to class, figuring I'd finish the force tomorrow. No need to miss anymore lecture time than I already had.

Which, as it turns out, was a good thing.

A momentary diversion: I've been told now by three college professors that they dread teaching pre-med students because these bright, young minds grind them incessantly for every half-point correction or extra-credit fluff in order to buff and polish their academic resumes. For physics, it's worse because these little darlings don't quite understand what the sweet science has to do with retinal detachment, ruptured cornual pregnancies and impacted bowels.

One such medical prodigy was arguing his case before a preeminent physicist, when the instructor finally decided he'd had enough.

"Clearly, young man, you don't know who you're talking to," the physicist said. "You obviously don't know how many lives I've saved through my work."

"How many lives you've saved? You teach physics!"

"You're right, and it's my job to I keep people like you out of medical school."

After spending an 75 minutes in Dr. General Physics' class, I know exactly what he meant. Math is the language of physics. Want to find out how old the universe is? Do the math. Want to accelerate a particle and swallow up Geneva? Do the math. Want to experience gravity? Drop an apple on your head, but if want to understand why it happens? Do the math.

Dr. General Physics would ask a question and sketch out a problem on the board. My classmates would pound on their calculators like they were text-messaging their BFFs, OMG! I, meanwhile, could not figure out how to make my calculator do that. (LOL)

"You might want to make sure you're solving in vector rather than radian," he said. But of course! It's so obvious.

It was like visiting interior Mexico after having taken two years of high school Spanish. You're sitting outdoors in a bar, and you are thrilled because you hear words that you remember: Bathroom! Pencil! Necktie! But you have no idea how these words are being used. Benign? "I left my pencil in the bathroom. Damn, this necktie is tight!" Malign? "Let's take this pencil-neck to the bathroom, tie him up, steal his wallet and give him a swirlie."

Vector! Cosine! Tangent! I recognized the words: A vector is a disease carrier. Cosine is the act of assuming partial responsibility for a loan. Tangent is where I just went off. I figured out how Dr. General Physics solved the problem just about three minutes after he had solved it and moved on. My necktie now a noose, I swirled down into the toilet of dismay, my vector pointing straight to hell.

"Let's take a 10-minute break and then we'll come back and work some more problems in lab."

Lab was scheduled from 7:15 to 10 PM - or 2 hours, 45 minutes of misery. Not wanting to do to my classmates what Baby Mama Lab Partner had done to me, I shouldered my laptop bag, hung my head and headed for the door. I caught Dr. General Physics on the way out.

"I just want to thank you for your willingness to force me into this class - but you're right, I'm not ready for it. I will barely be able to keep my head above water, and I don't want to take up space if there's a smarter kid that needs this class. So I'll polish up on my math this semester and see you in January."

"Are you sure?" he said. "I hope I haven't frightened you away from physics... Your math scores do tell me you are capable of learning quickly, so I hope you will return after you feel more confident and have had some time to review."

As scores of future hernias heave a sigh of relief and the violins swell on Frankie Avalon's Beauty School Dropout, I take solace in the knowledge that I aspire to be neither a cosmetologist or a cosmologist. Physics will not be the death of my academic aspirations - nor was it the death of my Dad's: He went on to become a mechanical engineer. I just need to brush up on my math (which I'll start on this weekend at the Arizona Women's State Poker Championship). Either way, I now have a semester to go off on this mathematical tangent and get back on track for physics... and organic chemistry... and biology.

Know of any math whiz kids that might need some extra cash? Ability to work a scientific calculator is a plus.

(And yes, I could hear you through the computer saying, "Finally, she's come to her senses!")

OK, seriously, I'll be taking physics this fall at SCC instead of at the second-largest public university in the country. Why, you ask? Well, I know I'm not very good at math (and was almost rejected by SCC because I didn't quite meet the criteria for Physics 101 as I had not taken Math 096. Granted, I took Calculus for Math Majors and made a C... but we eventually got it figured out. Magna Comes Loudly also comes in handy sometimes.

That said, let's do a little math:

Tuition at ASU for one semester of General Physics for me (and 200 of my closest friends): $2,290
Tuition at SCC for one semester of General Physics for me: $314

Um, yeah - the entire semester at SCC is exactly 13.7% of the costs of an entire semester at ASU. Taking that one step further, the entire semester at SCC costs $195 LESS than one credit hour (for me) at ASU. You will recall that I have the distinct pleasure of paying GRADUATE STUDENT RATES for lowly undergraduate weed-out classes. My tax (and tuition) dollars at work. Suffice it to say, this semester we decided to put my salary dollars at work as well, serving as a bigger hedge against economic uncertainty.

In July, Pat dodged the THIRD round of layoffs at the paper, and frankly the axe swung a little to close to the throat. We both felt it'd be better to save those two house payments, parlay the difference into my poker career and invest a smaller, more manageable amount in a quality community college education; therefore, I am an Artichoke this year.

Yes, the Scottsdale Community College mascot is the noble Artichoke - I cannot WAIT to get to the bookstore and buy my T-shirt! Let me know if you want me to score one for you as well!

Several people have asked me if I'm disappointed not to be going back to ASU this fall - especially since I was scheduled to take ... wait for it ... ORGANIC CHEMISTRY!!! But my initial disappointment was much offset by the price tag - organic chemistry will always be there, and my adventures at SCC will enable me to touch all the bases of academic achievement during this, my second lap around the educational track. Plus, I'm certain it will provide me with LOTS more material - as if I didn't have enough to complain about at ASU.

This way, I get some breathing room financially. After all, if I make it to med school, we'll be taking on enough debt to finance... wait for it... THE FEDERAL DEBT!!! Why go into the hole before I get there? And besides, if I phail physics at SCC, you should be THRILLED that they won't let the likes of me into medical school, ergo my becoming an Artichoke might just be the best thing that ever happened to your appendix.

"You know, I thought your post-op instructions were awesome - I mean, there's no misunderstanding involved at all with: DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA. I thought that was hilarious."

"Well, it's not a joke. You'd think when we told people not to have sex or use tampons for two weeks that they would have figured it out, but no, we had a woman who did some damage with a really large dildo. So we had to be very clear."

Ergo, anything.

"So what's the strangest thing you've ever found in a vagina?"

"Me?" she looked up from the modesty drape and thought for a moment. "Toothpaste."

"Toothpaste," I said. "Guess she was going for that minty fresh feel."

"I had no idea. I couldn't figure that one out - toothpaste."

She must've had a really bad cavity.

(Be sure to tip your waiters and waitresses - we'll be here all week. Hat-tip to Pat for that one.)

I'm having gynecological surgery, an in-office procedure to remove a benign polyp from my uterus. No, it is NOT a fetus - come on now, settle down. I'm not that bad - close, but not there yet.

To ensure I was comfortable with and prepared for my procedure, my doctor discussed in person and then mailed a hard copy of the pre- and post-op directions. They included the Most Important Safety Tip EVER.

Post-Op Directions: Avoid strenuous activity for one week... You may return to work the following day... PLEASE DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA FOR TWO WEEKS.

Most... Important... Safety Tip... EVER.

Let's just repeat its elegant simplicity and ponder the awesome clarity of this powerful directive:

DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA.

Penises? No. Feminine hygiene products? No. Battery operated personal appliances? No. Feet? No. Bananas? No. Door knobs? No. Torque wrenches? No. What part of ANYTHING don't you understand?

DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA. ANYTHING!

If only life came with such straightforward instructions. We would have world peace and universal prosperity. Hell, we'd be well on our way to universal healthcare because we'd be cutting out some of the most expensive procedures in the hospital repertoire (birthing babies) as well as some of the nastier side effects of putting things in your vagina (sexually transmitted infections).

We'd eliminate the need for abortions... and then we'd have no need for Sarah Palin. Hell, if her daughter would have taken this simple advice, Bristol "Do what I say, not what I did" Palin wouldn't grace the cover of People magazine in order to tell young teenagers to "do what I say, not what I did."

Some facts: Only one-third of teen mothers get their high school diploma (Good job, Bristol!) 80% of teen mothers will rely on welfare at some point (Through July 27, Bristol's accommodations are in part provided by Alaska taxpayers - the irony!) Boys born to teenage mothers are 13% more likely to end up in jail; girls born to teenage mothers are 22% more likely to become teen mothers themselves! This is just the statistical way of saying, putting things in your vagina creates problems for us all.

But if these kids, and many adults, would just heed the important safety tip - DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA - a lot of these problems would be solved. Now I can hear my more mature readers (and you're not that mature if you're reading this) saying they're old enough to decide what they and their partners will and will not put in their vaginas. In fact, my sweet husband Pat frowned when I read the instructions - but the post-op directive doesn't say EVER... it just says DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA FOR TWO WEEKS.

For teenagers, the Vagina Rule should start with DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA UNTIL YOU'RE 21. When they're old enough to drink - and therefore legally old enough to make bad decisions - the two-week amendment will apply. Think of all the bad decisions that would be averted if the two-week amendment were in play: If you waited two weeks before putting anything in your vagina, your buzz would wear off, you'd realize he was a douchebag (another thing you can't insert in your vagina post-op) and you would pat yourself on the back for a crisis averted. If you waited two weeks, you could save up enough money to buy the Hitachi Magic Wand, rather than put it on your credit card. If you waited two weeks, many an awkward emergency room visit could be avoided.

DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA is a lot like asking "What Would Jesus Do?" with the understanding that Jesus never had to confront vodka. Sure He could make His own Cabernet from high-quality H2O, but I can say with some certainty that Jesus probably never asked a woman to put anything in her vagina. In fact, His Holy Mother didn't put anything in her vagina and what came out? Eternal salvation.

Yes, I know I am going to hell on a full scholarship - you were warned - but you can avoid a similar fate. You can save yourself and take this sound medical advice to heart: DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN YOUR VAGINA.

(Sources: Healthcommunities.com; Planned Parenthood)